Chapter 3
Brody
Two hours into the drive, Justice needed to use the restroom. I’m standing outside of the car, teeth gritted. The air conditioner kicked out. I drop my head downward to the cracked pavement. Wit am I doing here? Why did I really meddle in Chevelle’s business like an old lass? I feel staring, look up, and Justice’s sauntering over. Her thick thighs sway gently, coming to a stop.
“What are you . . .” Her nose scrunches. It’s cute—if ye’re the type of lad to fall on yer head over trivial stuff like a female’s hesitation. Clearing her throat, she leans on a hip. I don’t know which makes my dick harder, the innocence and her attempt to deny me or this new defiance.
“I’m not moving fast enough?” She smirks.
“If ye must know, the AC kicked it in this piece o’ crap car.”
“My piece of crap car. You were ungrateful. Uber back to California.”
“That’s not my point.” I gesture at her head. “How’d ya get it through yer skull that ye’re safe driving up and down the US of fecking A, huh? How? With the nugget holding a grudge. I can’t wrap me heid around it!” My accent thickens. And then I find myself doing something Leith does with Chevelle—alternating to Gaelic. Why do I care?
Justice is nothing to me. All soft, gorgeous curves that I’ll admit needs a bit of worshipping. But wit’s one piece of treasure to a lad who can conquer any woman? Justice Flowers is attractive, aye. Disposable, feck ya.
She runs a hand along her forearm, finally responding to my question. “You’re right, Brody. It was irresponsible of me. Nevertheless, I’ve spent years trying to survive. I already told you what Marcus did to my father. I’ve met good cops and bad, but where I’m from, the authorities have more pertinent issues. Are you driving, riding shot gun, or . . .?”
I swagger to the passenger door and hold it open for her. My eyes scour Justice’s arse while she slides inside. I’m around the car in seconds. This time the wide-open road is before us before Justice speaks.
“What do you do when not flirting or bossing women around?”
“This.” I gesture toward the steering wheel and road. “I’m a truck driver. Clan Mackenzie owns a company.”
“Is that how you know about Marcus? All the travel? He’s not a popular guy.”
I lift a brow, glancing over at her. “Yeah.”
Her gaze narrows keenly. “Hmmm, while I’ve hopped from city to city, I’ve seen a few things. You must haul some expensive merchandise.”
Though she’s spot on, I shrug. I’ll not share my family’s illegal dealings.
“Okay, I’m sensing that I’m being too nosey,” Justice murmurs. “You’re aware I’m a bartender. I’m twenty-six, a Cancer. My top four hobbies include mixing drinks, poetry night, meditation, and people watching.”
With a grunt, I focus on the road. She’s a few years younger than me. But at the rate I’m driving, with us a ways from Flagstaff, we’ll not get to Lakewood, California till nightfall.
“Your four hobbies?”
“Och, we’re doing this?” I ease my steel-toe boot down on the gas—nae slack. The car won’t accelerate.
“Yes, Brody.”
“Nae. I’m gonna turn the radio back on.”
“Four hobbies first. My car, remember? You weren’t grateful. I’m keeping it.”
“Okay,” I submit through gritted teeth. I tick off my fingers, listing, “Fecking, fecking, getting my beard groomed, fecking. Och, and fecking. Ye said four. That’s five. I’m an ambitious lad.”
“You are five times the asshole than anyone I’ve ever encountered in any city or town I’ve lived in.”
“Aye, an arsehole—that’s intuitive, but we were discussing hobbies.”
“Okay, so you’re good at sex.”
“Pure brilliant at fecking. Shall I pull over?” While I drive, my eyes lock onto Justice’s. An eternity sifts by. She breaks eye contact first. A flush crawls over her mahogany skin.
“Brody.” She measures the two syllables in my name, and it’s got my dick saluting her. “First, I like your style. If I were a no-holds-barred type of woman, I’d use you to fulfill fantasies—”