The Perfect Stroke (Lucas Brothers #1)(3)

“So you’re admitting there’s a chance?”

“It’s getting slimmer.”

“I can work with that,” he says while I’m busy ignoring the way he smells. It’s good. Not all cologne; there’s something else, something deeply male that makes my insides quiver. Maybe I will go for it and end my long dry spell. It’s just one night, right? It doesn’t matter if he is too perfect. That doesn’t mean I’m repeating history. I’d never have to see him again.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he whispers against my ear as we’re swaying to the music.

“I was listening to the music,” I lie. “Is your name really Gray?”

“Is that so strange?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met one, so yeah. Though, my old man was named Banger, so…”

“You’re shitting me? Banger?”

“I think that was his road name, but if he had a different one, he changed it years ago.”

“I think I like him.”

“He was a great man,” I agree with a smile, feeling the familiar ache of sadness at the memory of what I lost.

“What happened?”

“Cancer,” I whisper, hating that damn word.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

Everyone always says that, and I hate it just as much when this guy says it. It’s fake. They might be sorry, but they don’t truly understand. Very few do.

“So… the name?” I prompt him.

“My mother thought it would be cool to name her kids after colors.”

“Colors?”

“Mmm-hmm. So, I’m Gray, short for Grayson.”

“Well, hey, that’s a good name. Much better than… Green?”

“That’d be my brother.”

I pull away to look at him. “You’re lying.”

“Not even a little bit. I have five brothers and each one is named after a different color.”

“That’s not possible. There aren’t six colors that would make…”

“Gray, Green, Black, Blue, White, and Cyan.”

I figure my mouth drops open. I can’t stop it as I digest the fact that five other men are out there with names like that. When I notice he’s watching me, I smile at him and give a small pat on his shoulder, like I’m trying to make him feel better. “Well, hey, at least you got the better of the names.”

“You won’t hear me argue. Especially when it comes to Black and Blue. They’re twins, by the way.”

I snort in laughter and can’t stop it. “Oh my God, you have to be making this up.”

“Afraid not, so see, I’ll need you to help me.”

“Help you?”

“The way I have it figured, if you say my name enough in your beautiful southern drawl, I’ll learn to love my name. Heck, it will make being called a member of the Crayola gang all worth it.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. “Crayola gang? Ouch.”

“It’s okay. I had it better than my brothers.”

“Name-wise again, you mean?”

“Well, that and the fact that my crayon is one of those thick, fat ones that—”

“Oh good lord…”

This time, he laughs… and it’s a really good laugh. It’s a laugh that takes away resistance. Not that that was a difficult job.

“My name is CC,” I tell him as I slide back into his hold.

“CC?”

“Yeah. In case, you know, you want to scream it out a lot tonight.”

His grin widens. “I’ll definitely make sure to do that. Often.”

Goodbye dry spell… and good riddance.





“Did you enjoy your weekend off?” Jackson asks.

Jackson is my main man at the garage. The two of us do everything. We could use someone else working with us, but there never seems to be enough money to stretch. I pay Jackson really good though—probably double what anyone else would cost me. He’s worth it, though. He’s the best there is… next to me. Banger told me that, and it is something I always remember with pride. Banger always taught me that if you were going to do anything, you had to give a hundred and fifty percent. Him saying I was the best at something means I did something to make him proud. Jackson has a similar code to Banger, and that reason alone makes him worth the money.

I think back over my wicked weekend with Grayson and can’t stop the grin that blooms on my face nor the way my body heats up with the memory.

“I’d say that was a yes,” Jackson says.

“Bite me,” I tell him. Shit, I’m still grinning.

“I am hungry,” Jackson says, “but you’re way too salty for my tastes. Speaking of which, what are we doing for lunch?”

“Well, I need to drop the oil pan off that baby there,” I tell him, pointing to the old Ford that’s in bay number one.

“That means I’m going to be delivery boy today?” Jackson asks.

“Like every other day. You know you only do it so you can go flirt with Mary Ann at the diner.”

“That woman can bake a mighty fine apple pie,” he says, already walking towards the door.