Page 16 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Aiden

I should have been thrilled to be back home in my own bed, but I hadn't slept.

Not really. Just tossed in sweat-damp sheets, replaying every touch, every kiss, every moment Cash's body had pressed against mine in the darkness of our tent.

Three days of hot sex, riding motorcycles, and cooking food for his friends.

And not much else. Certainly no talking.

No whispered confessions in the dark about how I made him feel, about how much he wanted me to be his.

I was so damn confused by the strangely possessive silent act he’d been giving me.

The ride home had been as beautiful as the ride up, but he’d been stiffer. Marcus had teased us, called us boyfriends, and maybe that was why. Maybe he didn’t want to be my boyfriend.

Cash hadn’t said anything as he’d dropped me off, either. He'd revved his engine and disappeared down my street without looking back.

I’d kind of expected that he wanted to crawl into my bed and fuck me again. Why hadn’t I asked? Maybe he would have if I’d asked.

Around 4am, I gave up on sleep entirely, showered away the phantom scent of his skin, and made coffee strong enough to burn through the hollow ache in my chest.

And I got ready early, determined to drive myself to work. I was on the road before six, dropping by a store to pick up some supplies before heading to Front Range Motorcycle Collective. The road was empty this early, and I missed arriving on his bike.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat, forcing myself to loosen my death grip before I snapped the fucking wheel off.

"Just another day," I muttered to myself, the words ringing false even to my own ears. "Nothing happened."

But everything had happened. Cash's hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise as he pushed inside me. His voice, rough with desire, whispering filthy promises against my neck. The surprising tenderness of his fingers washing my body in the shower.

Then nothing. Radio silence. Not even a text checking if I'd had a good night’s sleep. Or if I wanted a ride to work today.

I waited for at least two minutes before I checked my phone again, disappointed to see that the screen was still blank, with no new notifications.

Should I text him? Maybe he was waiting for me to beg him to come over and drill me hard.

My sweaty palm left a smudge on the glass as I tossed it onto the passenger seat.

Pathetic. I was twenty-six years old and pining like a goddamn teenager over a weekend hookup.

The parking lot at FRMC was deserted when I pulled in, my headlights sweeping across the empty asphalt. The morning breakfast rush didn’t usually hit until around eight, and I had more time than usual to prep.

I told myself it was because I needed to catch up after the campout, but if I was being honest with myself, I’d have admitted that it was because I was afraid Cash wasn’t going to show up to give me a ride on his motorcycle.

Afraid that his absence would crush me.

So I drove my own car. He’d fixed it, after all… and the engine had never run smoother.

The food truck sat in its usual spot, a familiar beacon in the dim morning light.

I grabbed my prep list, supply bag, and phone, fumbling with the door handle before practically falling out of the car in my haste.

The morning air bit through my thin jacket, raising goosebumps along my arms that had nothing to do with the temperature.

My hands shook as I unlocked the food truck, the key scratching against the metal before finding its mark. Inside, the familiar space calmed me slightly. There was the grill, the compact prep area, and all the other equipment I'd spent years saving for. This, at least, was within my control.

I started unpacking supplies, the routine movements soothing my frayed nerves. Until I dropped a carton of farm-fresh eggs, watching in horror as they splattered across the floor in an explosion of yellow and translucent white.

"Fuck!" I hissed, grabbing paper towels. My eyes burned with tears that had nothing to do with broken eggs. Get it together, Lockhart. Cleaning them up took more time than it should have as I gave in and let myself cry, just a little.

"Morning, man."

I jerked upright, cracking my head on the underside of the counter.

“Oh fuck, that hurt,” I groaned, hoping it excused the tears still in my eyes.

I stood and found Dylan in the doorway of the food truck, two steaming mugs of coffee in hand, eyebrows raised at the mess of paper towels. His expression was casual, but something in his eyes made my stomach drop.

"Jesus, Dylan. Make some noise next time." I gathered up the egg-covered paper towels, feeling grumpy.

"Didn't expect to see you here so early." He leaned against the doorframe, extending one of the coffee cups like a peace offering. "I was making coffee, so when I saw you were here, I thought I’d come with a peace offering… and see what the specials were."

I took the coffee. "Just thought I'd get a head start today," I explained too quickly. "Busy weekend, lots to catch up on."

Dylan's gaze was steady, assessing. He didn't believe me for a second.

"Camping was good," he said, taking a careful sip from his cup. "Food was great."

"Thanks." I busied myself with the egg cleanup, willing my face not to betray me. "It was fun. Haven't done much camping before."

"Seemed like you enjoyed it." His voice held an undercurrent I couldn't quite place. "You and Cash seemed pretty tight out there."

My hands froze, egg yolk seeping into the paper towels. "Yeah, well. He was nice enough to give me a ride." I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears.

Dylan watched me struggle for a moment longer before his expression softened. "Cash is... complicated. I think there’s more going on under the surface than he’s able to get out. Not sure why."

"Nothing complicated about it." I tossed the soiled towels into the trash with more force than necessary. "Just two guys who had some fun. No big deal."

Dylan opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the distinctive rumble of a motorcycle engine. My head snapped up, heart lurching painfully against my ribs. I knew that sound.

“You know, it’s funny he didn’t ride his cafe racer to work, if you didn’t need a ride,” Dylan said. “You did tell him you didn’t need a ride, right?”

I frowned, trying to think back to what Cash used to ride to work, but I couldn’t quite remember. “What do you mean? Cafe racer?”

“He has a bike he likes for city commuting. Usually saves the bigger Harleys for longer rides. Or, lately, when he needs a seat for you.”

I swallowed. Hard. Had he stopped by my house? Why hadn’t he texted when he’d found out I’d already left?

I moved to the food truck window, unable to stop myself from looking.

Cash pulled into the lot, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the rising sun.

He wore the same leather jacket from the weekend, his helmet the matte black one that matched the glittery one he'd bought for me. My throat tightened.

He cut the engine, swinging his leg over the bike with that fluid grace that still made my mouth go dry.

For a brief moment, he glanced toward the food truck, his eyes meeting mine across the parking lot.

Something flickered across his face—too quick to identify—before his expression shuttered closed.

Dylan had moved beside me, watching the exchange with interest. "Huh," he said quietly.

“Do you think he’s upset?” I whispered. “Like, I mean, if he came by my house and I wasn’t there.”

Cash removed his helmet, tucking it under his arm as he strode toward the shop entrance. His steps were purposeful, shoulders rigid with tension. Not once did he look back at the food truck.

"He's not great at talking," Dylan offered, though his tone suggested he didn't believe it either.

"Right," I agreed, turning back to my prep area with forced nonchalance. "But it’s not like we had anything to talk about, anyway."

Dylan's skeptical expression said he wasn't buying what I was selling. He finished his coffee in one long swallow, then set the empty cup on my counter.

"Breakfast sandwich when you're up and running?" he asked, changing the subject with merciful tact.

"Sure thing. The usual?"

He nodded, moving toward the door. Then paused, glancing back at me with an uncharacteristically gentle expression.

"For what it's worth, I've known Cash for years. Never seen him share his tent before. Or let anyone within a million miles of his bike. He rides alone, does everything alone. It’s kind of nice to see someone break through. "

Before I could formulate a response, Dylan was gone, the food truck door swinging shut behind him. I stood frozen, spatula gripped in my fist, his words echoing in my head.

I turned back to my grill, focusing on the familiar routine of heating it to the perfect temperature. I wouldn't cry. Not here. Not now. Not over a man who couldn't even look me in the eye after fucking me senseless all weekend.

But as I cracked fresh eggs into the sizzling pan, I couldn't help glancing toward the shop, hoping for a glimpse of tattoos and amber eyes that had seen me at my most vulnerable—and walked away.

The morning rush hit like a tsunami. Mondays were like that sometimes, and the line stretched across the parking lot by eight-thirty.

I threw myself into the rhythm of cooking with manic energy, cracking eggs with enough force to make yolks explode, chopping vegetables like they'd personally offended me.

"Careful there, chef." A regular customer—older guy with a gray beard who always ordered the Western with extra hot sauce—nodded toward the grill where my omelet was starting to smoke.

"Shit, sorry." I flipped the ruined eggs onto a plate and started fresh. "Head's not in the game today."

"Don’t blame you. I’m tired after the campout, too," he said, grinning. “Good times.”