Page 121

Ezra
I walk into Priest’s shop around noon two weeks after demanding Emily stick to our arrangement, my jaw aching from clenched teeth, my head pounding with frustration.
Where we stand now isn’t much better than where we started out, except instead of Emily being the only one to resent me, Damon has joined the list, his bullshit temper getting worse because he blames me for Emily’s emotional distance.
He’s not wrong to blame me, though. I’ve been striking out at that girl every chance I get, each well-aimed barb and cutting comment rolling off my lips so coldly that my tongue is practically dripping with ice.
Hey. I never claimed to be the smartest man or the most mature. I have a chip on my shoulder the size of Texas, and I’m striking out because I can’t help myself.
All because I can’t push past the hurt of what Emily did in high school. All because I’m such a bastard that I’m clinging on to a broken promise so hard that the pieces are crumbling in my hands.
I’m taking a bad situation and making it worse. And I don’t need all the bullshit psychobabble andlove and lightcounseling to make me realize it.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
I know it’s not helping matters.
And I’m doing it anyway.
Hell, I’m fuckingowningit, and can’t be bothered with Emily’s scowling reactions or Damon’s threats.
Does any of this make sense?
Fuck no.
Yet I’m doing it anyway.
My life is a shitshow, and I have no problem dragging everybody through it.
All because I’m a jaded bastard.
Which is why I’m walking into Priest’s shop to talk to him and Shane. Well, also because my bike is making a weird noise, and I need one of them to take a look at it, but mostly to talk to them because these two assholes are the only ones who might sympathize with what I’m going through.
As usual, the high-pitched sound of power tools assaults my ears first, followed by the crack of a welder and the blinding flash that follows. I bang my fist against the door and whistle loudly to be heard over the familiar chorus of the garage.
One of his other mechanics peeks around the front end of a junked-out Chevy pickup that looks to be from the 1940s and turns his head to shout over the noise to get Shane’s attention.
With a nudge of his chin to acknowledge my presence, Shane turns to shout as well, Priest’s head popping up at the noise, a black welding helmet concealing his face. He flips me off in hello, and I laugh while making my way to the office to wait for them.
After stealing a cold soda out of the mini fridge, I drop my weight onto a ragged chair and kick my feet up onto a scuffed, wooden table.
Shane walks in first, grease covering his hands that he only smears with the rag he’s using to wipe it off.
“My bike is making a noise,” I say without waiting for him to ask questions.
“Squealing or-“
“Grinding. I think the gears might be junked up.”
His brows crash together in confusion because he adjusted them not too long ago.
“Fuck. I’ll go take a look.”
Priest walks in just as Shane leaves, his mouth quirked in a twisted grin.
“Shouldn’t you be suited up and playing lawyer somewhere? How the hell do you get anything done when you’re never at the office?”
It’s a fair question.