WILD RIDE Read Free Page B

a barely-there
invitation.
    “Climb on in,” the blond cowboy said, his voice deep
and resonant yet edged with friendliness.  “You need a hand with that bag?”
    “No, thank you.  I’m fine.”  Beyond grateful that these
god-like Mustang-driving quarterbacks had shown up exactly when I’d needed them,
I threw my bag into the back seat and climbed aboard.  Even if they turned out
to be murderous psychopaths, the ride itself was worth the uncertainty.  The cool,
plush, soft leather seat felt like heaven on earth.
    “Who’s that?” the blond man said, flicking his thumb at
the Pontiac, which was now pulling back out onto the highway.  The Pontiac driver
glared at me, clear disappointment written all over his pale, doughy face.
    “Some extremely creepy guy whose car I really didn’t
want to get into,” I said, adding, “Thank you so much.  Really.  I appreciate
the ride more than I can say.  If you hadn’t turned up when you did, I just
don’t know …”  This was some crazy sort of day.  I realized I was tearing up
with gratitude, with relief, with something that might have been happiness.  Or
a very mellow near-drunkenness spiked with hope.  And a warmth that hummed
within me that was new.  I couldn’t define it and I didn’t want to.  Maybe it
was Texas.  Maybe this was what life in Texas felt like.  I decided I
liked Texas.  “Anyway, thank you for stopping.”
    The blond man looked mildly disarmed by my tears.  He
took off his sunglasses and his expression was riveted and concerned.  With his
blond, white-tipped hair and his dark-skinned, blue-eyed look, he was
absolutely stunning.  All I could do was stare at the rugged, golden beauty of
him with rapt wonder.  He reached out to touch my arm with his warm palm in a
soothing, calming touch that fed the slow burn in my low stomach.  The whiskey,
maybe, taking effect.  “Hey, it’s all right.  We’ll take you wherever you need
to go.  Don’t worry about anything.  We’ll stop at a garage and get your car
towed.”
    I couldn’t help smiling at him.  For some reason, I
wanted to reassure him, to erase that concern and replace it with his sunny
smile.  I took off my sunglasses, wiping my tears with the back of my hand.  “I
won’t be needing a tow truck.  I think that car has found its final resting
place.  To tell you the truth, I’m glad to be rid of it.”  If anyone did follow
me, or trace my path, they would have no further clues than a useless, empty
pile of rust and forgotten, wind-dusted memories.
    With that, Nate pulled out onto the road, saying
nothing.  But our gazes met in the rear-view mirror for a split-second and it
was a look charged with too many layers to name.  This dark cowboy, I guessed,
aside from his ridiculously-sculpted build and aloof silence, was a complex
character.  I found myself looking forward to some time on the road with him,
to see what he might say.  And to see if our eyes might meet again, to spark
that Texas warmth that was simmering its slow heat within me just a little more
insistently.
    The blond man’s palm was still on my skin, and he
removed it, only to hold his hand out to me, as an introduction.  “The name’s
Riley.  Riley Walker.  This is my cousin, Nate Walker.”
    I took Riley’s hand, grasping it lightly.  “It’s very
nice to meet you Riley.  And Nate.  I’m Lacey.  Lacey Callihan.”
    “Lacey.  That’s a very pretty name,” Riley said.  His
grasp was strong, but gentle.  It made me picture Riley as a boy, being taught
by a strapping blond football coach father how to shake hands with conviction,
with strength.  This was the handshake of a young, upright American man with
the edge of a wildchild.  The football-mad father would have had some trouble
with this one; Riley, at sixteen, would have shown up on time for football
practice – it would have been sacrilegious not to – but would have snuck out
the window after dark to party until dawn