Gas or Ass (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 1)(4)

By: Eden Connor

He was attractive in a throwback, Elvis sort of way, minus the sneer. His polo shirt had a logo embroidered on the left chest. A rippling pair of black-and-white checkered flags crossed under gold letters. I had to squint to read the words. Ridenhour Race Team. He settled the matching cap back on his head.

The trickle of unease swelled to a river. I looked back to my mother. “But—”

“Macy, let me.” He squeezed Mom’s hand. A matching band glinted from his third finger.

She tipped her face to his. The trademark ‘helpless’ smile she only used around men made me want to hurl. “Please.”

He turned the full force of those eyes on me. The pleading look only put me more on guard. “Shelby, the minute I stopped to help a stranded motorist and laid eyes on your mama, I knew she was the woman I’d been waitin’ for all my life.”

“And this revelation happened... when?” I couldn’t help my tart tone.

“Four weeks ago today.”

Even Macy Roberts, hopeless romantic and single mother, wouldn’t marry a guy she’d only known a month. Not after all the times she’d been burned. I burst out laughing and got to my feet.

“Good one, Mom. You really had me going for a minute. Seriously, I gotta go. Can’t be late again or Sam’ll fire me. Can you just enter the card number on that application and hit ‘send’ after you drive me to work? You guys can laugh after I’m gone.”

I hustled to the door and yanked it open, only to come to a complete halt. Four long, interlocked legs criss-crossed the small stoop. Two legs were clad in faded denim, complete with ripped-out knees. Gray sweats clung to the other set. I drew up short and looked from one side of the porch to the other. A mannequin leaned on each railing—male, but too good-looking to be anything but life-sized plaster figurines.

The one on my left was the spitting image of the man on the couch, except the eyes that raked me were black. The tips of the other’s close-cropped hair glowed nearly white in the fading sunlight, but he appraised me with blue eyes identical to Dale’s. Same dimple in his chin.

“Gotta love a redhead. You Shelby?” the blond demanded.

My mouth went dry and my ovaries shouted, Holy hotness! Pewter hair dusted his pecs and trailed his centerline, disappearing underneath the elastic waistband of his baggy sweatpants—sweatpants that barely clung to slim hips. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ropes of muscle outlining his hipbones. Is he wearing an athletic cup? He had the look of a football player. God, how I hate jocks.

He shoved his fingers into the waistband. Is he touching himself?

I jerked my eyes to his face, cursing my pale complexion. He smirked when heat swept my cheeks. “Y-yes.”

“Hey, girl. I’m Colt.” He tipped his head toward the silent one. “That’s Caine. Guess we’re all movin’ in together.” His lips twisted in amusement.

A heavy sigh dragged my attention to the dark-haired brother. His red T-shirt had been cropped in a ragged line just below the arms, but the front bore a large version of the racing logo his father wore. Or the top half of it, anyway. He lifted his shoulders and raked his palm up and down... was that four pairs of lovely bulges? “Parents. What’cha gon’ do?”

Either Mom had dragged a pair exotic dancers along as props for her joke, or—

“We used to beg Dad for a little sister.” When I jerked my gaze toward Colt to see if he was being sarcastic, he grinned and dragged a thumbnail down a jaw gleaming with golden scruff. “That’s been so long ago, I reckon he forgot the ‘little’ part.”

I dragged the edges of my sweater across my chest, hoping to hide the way my nipples beaded. And how small my breasts were.

Caine interlaced his fingers and stretched his arms, cracking his knuckles. His act dragged my attention to the dark happy trail and eight-pack—yes, that’s definitely an eight-pack. “They ready for us to get the boxes out of the trailer? We’re burning daylight.”

He gestured toward yet another matching pickup idling behind the cars parked in front of our building. A long black trailer hitched to the rear bumper blocked the neighbor’s vehicles.

Mom had lost her mind if she thought she could spring this bogus marriage shit on me and move us out of our place all in the same day. “And where do you think we’re going?”

“Concord.” He named a small city about an hour away from our home on the south side of Charlotte. “But not in the city limits. I’d say it’s....”—he tipped his head and frowned, like he was thinking, and that took effort—“’bout, fifteen minutes past the racetrack.”

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