“Where to now, Tex?”
“Another Mexican dig,” I said without missing a beat.
“Another pie?” His eyes flared in mock horror. “You’re putting me through this again?”
“Sure am. Until you admit Frito pies are the best thing to happen to humanity since agriculture and language.”
“Frito pies are the best thing to happen to humanity since agriculture and language,” he deadpanned.
I laughed. “Nice try.”
We got out of the restaurant and walked into the one next to it. He didn’t like the Frito pie there either. After the third one I made him try, he got up from his seat and shook his head.
“No more Frito pies. It’s against my human rights.”
“C’mon, don’t be so narrow-minded,” I teased, catching his steps. My face hurt from laughing, and I wondered if it was because we’d had that much fun, or because I wasn’t used to laughing anymore. “We were just warmin’ up.”
“I’m vetoing the pie.” He shook his head, flipping his keys around his index.
“Maine,” I whined.
“Texas.”
I jerked his hand, but he didn’t budge, soldiering toward his Ducati.
“Pretty please with a cherry on top,” my purr turned flirty—raspy, even—as sixteen-year-old Grace took the reins over my mouth.
“Of course there’d be a cherry on top. You put everything else into this pie.”
My heart, bloated with glee and soaked with laughter, began to deflate. It was nearing late afternoon. Truth was, I wasn’t too hot on another Frito pie either. I just didn’t want to leave. To go back to Sheridan. Let the West and Grace bubble burst. I wanted to continue being careless and happy. To feel beautiful—or at least not hideous—for a few more hours.
West stopped by the Ducati, handing me my helmet. I quickly changed from my cap to the helmet, shoving both my ball caps into the bag I was given by the salesman.
We rode back to Sheridan in silence, my hair whipping my neck and shoulders. When we reached Sheridan limits, West took a turn toward downtown, to Main Street.
“It’s my birthday today,” he said out of nowhere.
“What?!” I shrieked into his ear. My voice was muffled by the wind and helmet. “It is?”
He grunted, “Yeah.”
“How old?”
“Twenty-two years young.”
“Holy shit.”
“Way to make me feel good about it, Tex.”
“You bought me a gift on your birthday. This is all wrong. Stop. Stop right now.”
He stopped by the Albertsons grocery store. I ran inside without taking off my helmet, then came back out with a bottle of tequila wrapped in a brown paper bag and some birthday candles. They were the cheapest kind, but better than nothing at all. I hopped back on, wrapping my arms around him.
“To Sheridan Plaza,” I instructed.
“Have you started drinking without me? Why would I do that?” He whipped his head around, his stormy eyes zeroing in on mine through his helmet.
“I’ve never been there,” I admitted hoarsely.
He tore his helmet from his head, the engine still running, and scowled. I was lucky I still had my helmet on, because West St. Claire’s face so close to mine, his lips a breath away from my mouth, was the definition of seduction. A film of sweat made his tousled, gold-brown hair stick to his temples and forehead and his carved cheekbones glow under the sun.
“You’re shitting me.”
I shook my head.
“You grew up in Sheridan and never been to the Plaza?”
I nodded.
“Fine. But you’re not allowed to go there by yourself. Promise me.”
“No promises.” I wiggled my eyebrows, throwing his rule back in his face. “Tit for tat. Why don’t you want me to go there?”
“The place is a cum dumpster.”
“Isn’t that where you hook up with all your lady friends?” I kept my tone light.
“Hence why it’s a cum dumpster. It’s no place for a lady.” He pushed his helmet back on and kicked his foot forward, getting back on the road.
When we reached Sheridan Plaza, West parked at the back, leading me inside. The ground floor was empty, save for a few soggy mattresses, cigarette butts, and red Solo cups strewn about. We took the concrete stairs up to the second floor. The left wing, which was probably meant to be a food court, was vast and empty. There were gym mats scattered around, framed by crates and boxes to create a ring, with enough space around it to contain at least a hundred people. The right wing of the floor consisted of small rooms that were supposed to be the stores, where there were yet more mattresses in each small alcove. Like filthy individual motel rooms. No wonder people liked coming here. The place was a makeshift brothel.
West showed me around quickly, clasping my hand in a punishing grip, like the vibes in this place could suck my tender soul straight into hell. He held the paper bag with the tequila bottle in his free hand.
“That’s basically it. Third floor is management. It’s where our offices are,” he said, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. I snorted.