Fighting for Flight by JB Salsbury (easy readers TXT) 📕

Not giving me a moment to soak in the contact, he turns and walks out the door. I’m not used to being touched, especially by someone like him, and it takes me a second to find my legs. I stumble once, thankful to catch myself before he notices.

We pass through his huge backyard. I see a pool in my peripheral vision. I would look directly at it, but I’m unable to drag my eyes away from our clasped hands. His hand is huge. Mine seems so small in comparison. His touch is strong and gentle at the same time. He could crush my bones with a flex of his fingers, but there’s a security in his hold that feels safe. I’m smiling like an idiot. Great.

We stop at a large building off to the side of his house.

“Here we are.” He swings open the door and leads me in.

There’s no light, but the smell has my eyes roaming the dark. He drops my hand. I pout at the loss of his touch until he flicks on the lights.

I suck air on a quick gasp. “Oh my goodness, Jonah.”

Three

Raven

My mouth hangs open. I breathe in deep. The familiar smells of gasoline, oil, and rubber calm my nervous stomach. I’m in my sanctuary.

Jonah’s garage looks like something out of Car and Driver magazine: The diamond-plated chrome and black metal cabinetry polished to a shine. Rows upon rows of drawers in different widths probably hold every tool imaginable. The floors are covered in a slick, gray coating that is so clean I could eat off it. He wasn’t kidding when he said I’d have all the tools I need. There’s even a BendPak hydraulic car lift.

“This is amazing,” I whisper to myself, feeling completely relaxed and at ease. “Why do you have all this stuff?” My eyes continue to take in the surroundings.

“Hobby. I like fast cars, like to fuck around in here. Problem is I don’t have time to learn the ins and outs.”

“I could teach you.” The words fly on a knee-jerk reaction. I scrunch up my face and sink into my shoulders, fighting my chagrin. I glance over my shoulder and find him staring at me.

His answering grin sends my gaze across the garage. I can’t look at him when he’s smiling at me like that.

It’s then that I notice the truck he drove to the shop yesterday. I take a closer look. Walking around it, I study each component from the Pro Comp forty-inch tires to the RBP custom grille. I swear the thing looks like it’ll growl.

Stepping deeper into what’s at least a ten car garage, I see a gunmetal gray beast that makes my heart rate kick double time.

“That’s a ’68 Camaro.” I tell the car. Jonah steps to my side from behind me.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he nods. “I didn’t fix her up. Bought her from a guy in Arizona.”

I walk around, trailing my finger along her flawless gray paint. “What’s she running?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and his eyes are dark in a way that I feel deep in my belly. “572 big block.”

I whistle low. “That’s freaking spectacular.” I’d do almost anything to get under the hood and fire this baby up. I bet she roars like—

Something sinister demands my attention. My arm shoots towards it, my finger pointing in accusation. “Harley Blackline!” My voice echoes through the space, allowing me to hear the embarrassing high pitch of my outburst. I’d care if I weren’t so utterly beside myself with Jonah’s collection.

“You into bikes too?”

“I’m into Harleys. I don’t know how to ride them, but the power behind these babies deserves anyone’s admiration.”

He chuckles and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I’ll take you for a ride sometime.”

Go for a ride on the back of a Harley with Jonah Slade? His magnificent body between my knees, hands resting against his six-pack abs?

Yes, please. “Okay.”

He hits me with his megawatt smile that has me fighting to breathe. “Come on. The Impala’s over here.”

I follow behind Jonah, my eyes firmly planted on the way his jeans move with every stride of his long legs as he leads me to the back of the garage. He stops and I almost slam into his back.

I step around him and there she is: the ’61 Impala. Her classic blue paint still shimmers in places, like an old woman who insists on wearing her red lipstick. This old girl isn’t going down without a fight. I study every inch of her frame, and assess how much work needs to be done. There’s surprisingly very little bodywork outside of a couple rust spots and a dent.

“Oh, Jonah, she’s beautiful.” I check out the wheel wells, notice the window rubbers all need to be replaced, and make a note to order new taillight covers.

I pop the hood and lean in to take a peek. The engine needs new motor mounts, all new belts, and a good cleaning. It could be replaced with something bigger, but this isn’t a muscle car. This car is for cruising. I need to take it apart piece by piece to see what can be salvaged and rebuilt. A moan from behind me cuts through my thoughts.

With a twist, I squint over my shoulder at Jonah standing a few feet from my back. My position, bent beneath the hood and reaching into the back, has my bottom out and up and right in Jonah’s line of sight. His eyes are firmly planted and my face ignites.

With a speed I didn’t know I was capable of, I straighten up and look to the floor, hoping to hide my embarrassment. Being in this place, my mind focused on the project, I almost forgot he was there. Almost.

“Sorry, I um . . .” I have no words. The heat from my cheeks crawls down my neck.

“Do you like rap?” He turns to nearby countertop.

“Huh?”

“Music.” Jonah plugs his iPod to a space-age-looking dock