Fighting for Flight JB Salsbury (room on the broom read aloud .TXT) 📖

past me. “Don’t forget, I have a show that night. Sound check’s at seven. Ghost Bar. We can all head over to the club after the game.”

“You guys want me to bring the Wii?” Caleb puts on his gloves, his eyes darting from dickhead to dickhead, overlooking me.

“No. No fucking Wii.” What started as watching a game at my house has turned into a party, and knowing these guys, they’ll stay all weekend.

“Oh come on, Vajonah.” Blake’s cocky smile makes me clench my fist. “You worried we might dirty your kitchen?” He lifts one eyebrow.

I spear him with a glare. As if one douche bag giving me shit isn’t enough, I don’t need the group giving me a hard time.

“All right, fine. But no pizza. I’ll throw something on the grill. I can’t eat that shit this close to the fight.” Defeated and pissed as hell, I strap on my gloves.

“If you’re going to grill, I’ll bring Nikki. She can whip up some healthy shit in the kitchen and sit by the pool.”

Owen’s wife Nikki is a nutritionist and kicks all kinds of ass in the kitchen. That alone makes this worth it.

“Sounds like a plan. I’ll bring some girls so Nik will have chicks to hang out with.” The group goes still, staring at Blake. “What?”

Everyone knows the kind of girls Blake keeps company with. I’m not interested in having a bunch of jock-sniffing groupies around, and Blake travels with a fucking harem.

Owen looks at Blake, a grin pulling at his lips. “This should be interesting.”

Blake glares at Owen. “That was a long time ago, man. You two weren’t married yet.”

“Nah, but Nikki sure didn’t appreciate your bitches rubbing up on my shit.” Owen laughs and shrugs.

“How can you laugh?” Blake throws his arms out to his sides. “Nik broke that chick’s nose.”

Owen’s laughter answers Blake’s question.

I cross my arms at my chest. “I don’t want a house full of your knob polishers.”

“Hey, a player needs lovin’ too.”

“No more than two, Blake. I’m serious,” I warn.

“Yeah, I got it.” He dismisses me with a wave of his hand.

He doesn’t get it.

I tilt my head, feeling the side of my lip curl into a smile. “Say it, Blake. Say, ‘I promise, Jonah, I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque’.”

Blake’s eyes narrow. “Are you fucking serious? I said I got it.”

“Say it.”

“Shit. Fine. I won’t bring more than two chicks to your barbeque.” Blake’s jaw is so tight I’m surprised he doesn’t bust a tooth. This guy is so easy to mess with.

“You forgot, ‘I promise, Jonah’.”

Umpf!

My breath is knocked from my lungs as Blake tries to take me down to the mat . . . unsuccessfully.

Four

Raven

It’s day three working on the Impala: seventeen hours and thirty-eight minutes to be exact. I keep track of the hours spent at Jonah’s for my time card, not because I mark every minute with him, committing it to memory so that when my work here is done I have something to remind me of our time together.

I’ve got the engine out and apart. Going through it piece by piece, I set aside the things that can be salvaged while Jonah disassembles the inside. Perched at a workbench, I sort through the motor brackets.

Out of the few restorations I’ve done over the years, this one is by far the best: high-end tools at my disposal, clean working environment, great company . . . and the view. Like the one I have right now.

Jonah is lying on his back across the front seat of the car, his head underneath the dashboard. His t-shirt slid up, exposing a few inches of his firm stomach. A strip of dark hair trails from his belly button and disappears beneath his saggy jeans. His strong legs are open in a V to brace his weight against the floor.

“Ouch, gosh dang it!” I grab my bloody finger, more worried about bleeding on Jonah’s stuff than the extent of my injury.

“You okay?” Jonah rises from his sexy pose and stands across the workbench from me, worry etched on his perfect face.

“Yeah, it’s fine. Stupid rusty bracket.” I move to stick my finger in my mouth when he grabs my hand.

“No, don’t do that. Germs.”

Heat rises up my neck and into my face. “Oh, you’re right.” I rub my forehead, hoping that I can cover my embarrassment with my free hand. “Mouths are dirty.”

He lifts his gaze from my wound, but I avoid his eyes. “Not germs from your mouth. Germs from your hand. Who knows what kind of shit is living on that thing.” He motions to the offending bracket. I peek up at him and watch a smile tug at his lips. “From what I can tell, you have a very clean mouth.” He flashes one dimple, before his gaze drops to my lips.

I roll them together, wetting them with my tongue. My chest rises and falls in erratic bursts and heat floods my body.

“I’ve got something for that.” The deep timbre of his voice draws me closer until I’m leaning toward him over the workbench.

I swear the man could bed any woman with one look. He releases my hand to walk to the nearby cabinets. I slump forward, bolstering myself against the tabletop to keep upright.

I’m no idiot when it comes to lust. I’ve seen it in men before. But I’ve never felt it: The burning need pushing against my chest; the building tension that coils in my belly; my blood racing in my veins, flooding my head with visions of his hands on my body. Desire fires my skin, flushing my cheeks. I look around for something to use to fan myself.

“Here ya go.” His voice is right at my side, and I push back the urge to rub up against him as Dog does when I’m holding his food.

He lifts my hand sending delicious tingles down my arm. With a quick squeeze of ointment, he wraps my finger in a Band-Aid. His hands