Wicked Grind (Stark World #1)(71)

"So?"

"So let me help you believe it. You work for me and you'll be cutting loose by definition. I mean, it may be art, but you're still going to take your clothes off."

I laugh. "Gee. You're so convincing."

"And you get to dance. And you get the money. All that's good, right?"

I nod, then frown as something else occurs to me. "You really didn't know why we left town? You didn't hear about the fire?"

"Not a thing. I left for Boston soon after, but I'm not sure I would have heard even if I stayed. The house didn't burn, right?"

"No. Griffin bore it all."

"That's part of it, then. It probably made the news, but I didn't bother reading the papers. And that wasn't a neighborhood that would have been on my radar."



       
         
       
        

"Nobody mentioned it at the club?"

"Not that I heard, but I mostly kept to myself. And I only went back a couple of times after you dropped off the planet."

"I really am so sorry."

He stands, then reaches a hand down. I take it, then laugh when he pulls me up so quickly I end up pressed against him, his arm around my waist.

"How sorry are you?" he asks, his voice rumbling through me.

"Wyatt . . ." His name is a protest. It's also the only sound I can manage. Because I'm desperately fighting the urge to lean into him and let him close his arms around me and simply hold me tight.

"I'm just saying that if you think you owe me, you can always offer compensation by way of doing my show."

Immediately, I relax. And when I tilt my head up to look at him, I see him looking back with equal amusement.

"It's true that I tend to be highly motivated by guilt," I admit. "But I'm also working hard to fight that impulse."

"Don't fight it," he says as he takes a step back. "Listen to your brother. He seems like a smart guy. Go a little wild, Ms. Draper. Cut loose. Take a risk."

"Is that what you are? A risk?"

"Risk, reward. I'm pretty sure the two are tied together."

I grimace, but mostly because I don't have a snappy comeback.

"Seriously," he says. "You're just going to ignore your little brother's advice? Your poor brother Griffin?"

Now, I laugh. "You're terrible. You know that, right?"

"Terrible, but also brilliant. Give me your purse."

"What? No."

"Fine. Then just give me your keys."

"Wyatt . . ."

He holds his hand out, palm up. "Come on. Hand them over."

"Why?"

"I think you know why." He wiggles his fingers. "Come on, Kelsey. Snails move faster than this. Just give me the keys."

I do. I have no idea why, but I do.

"All right," he says, dangling them from his fingers as he grabs my hand with his free one. "Let's go."





22


It's about a forty-five minute drive from Valencia over the winding San Francisquito Canyon Road to the Antelope Valley, but I'm pretty sure that with Wyatt behind the wheel, we're going to make it there in under half an hour.

Blue's top is down, and the wind on my face is invigorating. We're on a two-lane road that winds like a ribbon through brown hills dotted green with scrubby native plants. We're heading into the western portion of the Mojave Desert, and the world outside the car has a raw, sparse beauty. 

"Nobody but me and Griff has ever driven Blue," I point out as he takes a curve marked forty at over fifty-five.

"And yet here I am behind the wheel. I wonder why that is?"

Since that's not a question I want to examine too closely, I change the subject. "Where are we going?"

"Isn't the drive enough for you?"

He's teasing me, but I consider the question seriously. "You know what? It is." And I mean it. I haven't gotten in Blue and hit the road in a long time-actually, not ever. I'm a destination kind of girl. I like to know where I'm going and how I'm getting there, because otherwise I feel twitchy and out of sorts.

But today, with Wyatt, I feel free.

I lean back in my seat, then kick off my shoes and put my bare feet on Blue's dashboard. My hair is still in a ponytail and I reach back and pull off the elastic. I'll have to deal with the knots later, but I want to feel the wind in my hair.

After a moment, I turn on the stereo and plug in my phone. For the most part, Griff restored the car to its classic condition. Her blue paint was an exception for me-according to Griffin, the shade, called Tropical Turquoise, really belongs in 1965.

The radio is also pure Griff. He loves music, and the idea of a radio that was almost fifty years old just wasn't going to hack it. Which explains why my little Blue has an awesome sound system.