Jesse's Girl
Page 15
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“That’s really nice of you,” I reply, not wanting to ruin his sudden about-face in attitude.
“Let me just get ready real quick.”
He starts to jog up the stairs, giving me this great view of his Celtic tattoo, but stops and turns to smirk.
“Wait. Did you want to shadow me while I shower?”
Teach Your Children
Jesse comes back down the rear staircase, spinning a beige cowboy hat on his finger and wearing a plain white T-shirt and ripped jeans. Patches of tan skin peek through the holes.
“Those red cowboy boots,” I say, shaking my head.
He looks down at them. “Most of the groupies think they’re sexy.”
Yes, they are. “They’re not bad.”
I’m fixing to stand up from my seat at the kitchen table when a ball of white fur lands on my lap from out of nowhere.
“Oh, hello,” I murmur, petting the pretty white cat. “You must be Casper. Aren’t you beautiful?” I scratch her ears, and she stretches her neck so I can get under her chin too. “Good girl,” I whisper.
When I look up from petting the cat, Jesse is staring at me with his mouth slightly opened. He shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then asks, “Ready to go?”
I nod. He gently picks up the cat from my lap, kisses her head before setting her on the floor, and leads me out to the garage.
The garage totally baffles me. It has six spaces, but only two are filled. I stare at a truck—a rusted ancient white Dodge, probably from the seventies—and a motorcycle, a black Harley-Davidson with orange flames licking its sides. He truly is a country boy.
“Where’re the rest of your cars?”
“This is it,” he replies, jingling his keys. “We taking the truck or the bike?”
Even though I’m wearing my black dress, I say, “The Harley, obviously!” Humming, I drag my hand across the leather seat, squatting down to check out the rear fender. “Love the dual exhaust.”
“You like bikes?”
“Oh yeah. My Poppy—my grandfather—has an Indian.”
“Big-time,” Jesse says. “I’d love to see it. You ride it a lot?”
“He lets me take it out every time Halley’s Comet flies by.”
“So never?”
I stand up, dusting off my hands. “Last spring, I bought a ’95 Suzuki 750 down at the junkyard for fifty dollars. Some guys at the shop helped me fix it up. That’s what I ride.”
“You fixed it up?”
I lean over to check out his transmission. Six-speed. “Well, I needed help, but I did a lot of it myself. A few years ago, my dad started running Caldwell Auto Parts in Franklin, and I work there as a receptionist part time. Sometimes I get to do oil changes, which is a lot more exciting than running a cash register.”
“You like cars?”
“Love them. But not as much as guitars and bikes.”
I tell Jesse about how when I was little, I’d hang out with Dad and Sam while they were tinkering around under the hood. Even before he quit his job driving a semi and started working at Caldwell’s so he could spend more time with our family, Dad always loved fixing junk cars and bikes in his spare time and turning them for a profit. At first, I was interested in cars and bikes because it was a way to hang out with my dad when he wasn’t on the road, but over time, I really started loving them. In a way, engines, carburetors, and transmissions are like individual guitar strings: each plays a part in creating a beautiful sound.
“So you’re close with your family?” Jesse asks.
“Yeah. I mean, they drive me nuts, and we have nothing in common, but I love them.”
Jesse goes silent for a long moment, seeming to forget where he is, then grabs two helmets from a workbench.
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He just takes his cowboy hat off and passes it to me. “You gotta hold my lucky hat while we ride.”
Next thing I know, I’m wrapping my arms around his waist and locking my hips into his. I hold on to his hat, praying it doesn’t blow away. Jesse fires up the Harley and steers it out of his garage and past the gates, immediately kicking it into high gear—probably because the paparazzi are already following us. Are they taking my picture?!
I close my eyes, and the wind whips around my body, freeing all the bad thoughts about the past week. It’s a little weird having my arms and legs wrapped around this sexy guy who gets on my nerves. While wearing a short skirt. While on my way to a music studio, a place I’ve only dreamed of visiting. Holy shit! I, Maya Henry, am going to a music studio! Jesse speeds up to fifty miles an hour, and I feel like I’m taking off in a plane.
“Let me just get ready real quick.”
He starts to jog up the stairs, giving me this great view of his Celtic tattoo, but stops and turns to smirk.
“Wait. Did you want to shadow me while I shower?”
Teach Your Children
Jesse comes back down the rear staircase, spinning a beige cowboy hat on his finger and wearing a plain white T-shirt and ripped jeans. Patches of tan skin peek through the holes.
“Those red cowboy boots,” I say, shaking my head.
He looks down at them. “Most of the groupies think they’re sexy.”
Yes, they are. “They’re not bad.”
I’m fixing to stand up from my seat at the kitchen table when a ball of white fur lands on my lap from out of nowhere.
“Oh, hello,” I murmur, petting the pretty white cat. “You must be Casper. Aren’t you beautiful?” I scratch her ears, and she stretches her neck so I can get under her chin too. “Good girl,” I whisper.
When I look up from petting the cat, Jesse is staring at me with his mouth slightly opened. He shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts, then asks, “Ready to go?”
I nod. He gently picks up the cat from my lap, kisses her head before setting her on the floor, and leads me out to the garage.
The garage totally baffles me. It has six spaces, but only two are filled. I stare at a truck—a rusted ancient white Dodge, probably from the seventies—and a motorcycle, a black Harley-Davidson with orange flames licking its sides. He truly is a country boy.
“Where’re the rest of your cars?”
“This is it,” he replies, jingling his keys. “We taking the truck or the bike?”
Even though I’m wearing my black dress, I say, “The Harley, obviously!” Humming, I drag my hand across the leather seat, squatting down to check out the rear fender. “Love the dual exhaust.”
“You like bikes?”
“Oh yeah. My Poppy—my grandfather—has an Indian.”
“Big-time,” Jesse says. “I’d love to see it. You ride it a lot?”
“He lets me take it out every time Halley’s Comet flies by.”
“So never?”
I stand up, dusting off my hands. “Last spring, I bought a ’95 Suzuki 750 down at the junkyard for fifty dollars. Some guys at the shop helped me fix it up. That’s what I ride.”
“You fixed it up?”
I lean over to check out his transmission. Six-speed. “Well, I needed help, but I did a lot of it myself. A few years ago, my dad started running Caldwell Auto Parts in Franklin, and I work there as a receptionist part time. Sometimes I get to do oil changes, which is a lot more exciting than running a cash register.”
“You like cars?”
“Love them. But not as much as guitars and bikes.”
I tell Jesse about how when I was little, I’d hang out with Dad and Sam while they were tinkering around under the hood. Even before he quit his job driving a semi and started working at Caldwell’s so he could spend more time with our family, Dad always loved fixing junk cars and bikes in his spare time and turning them for a profit. At first, I was interested in cars and bikes because it was a way to hang out with my dad when he wasn’t on the road, but over time, I really started loving them. In a way, engines, carburetors, and transmissions are like individual guitar strings: each plays a part in creating a beautiful sound.
“So you’re close with your family?” Jesse asks.
“Yeah. I mean, they drive me nuts, and we have nothing in common, but I love them.”
Jesse goes silent for a long moment, seeming to forget where he is, then grabs two helmets from a workbench.
“You okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. He just takes his cowboy hat off and passes it to me. “You gotta hold my lucky hat while we ride.”
Next thing I know, I’m wrapping my arms around his waist and locking my hips into his. I hold on to his hat, praying it doesn’t blow away. Jesse fires up the Harley and steers it out of his garage and past the gates, immediately kicking it into high gear—probably because the paparazzi are already following us. Are they taking my picture?!
I close my eyes, and the wind whips around my body, freeing all the bad thoughts about the past week. It’s a little weird having my arms and legs wrapped around this sexy guy who gets on my nerves. While wearing a short skirt. While on my way to a music studio, a place I’ve only dreamed of visiting. Holy shit! I, Maya Henry, am going to a music studio! Jesse speeds up to fifty miles an hour, and I feel like I’m taking off in a plane.
