Page 19 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Aiden flopped onto his back beside me, our shoulders touching, skin cooling in the aftermath.

His breathing had almost returned to normal, but I could feel tension rebuilding in the slight distance he'd put between us.

My body still hummed with satisfaction, but my mind was already racing ahead to all the ways I might fuck this up.

When his finger started tracing patterns on my chest, connecting the dots of my tattoos like constellations, I knew questions were coming.

Questions I didn't have good answers for.

"Why don't you talk to me?" he whispered, finger pausing over my heart.

The question hung between us, deceptively simple yet impossibly complex.

I'd known it was coming—had seen it in his eyes that morning in the hallway, had felt it in the desperate way he'd kissed me minutes ago.

I'd come here tonight to fix things, but words were still trapped inside me, tangled and useless.

I sighed, pulling him closer until his head rested on my shoulder.

His hair tickled my chin, and I buried my nose in it, buying time as I breathed in the scent of him, wishing I could find the words to explain it, but a cold sense of dread clamped down on my vocal chords. What if I said the wrong thing?

What if he didn’t want me like I wanted him?

His finger resumed its path across my chest, gentle but persistent, like he was trying to decode me through touch. "You seem to do okay talking to customers. With Silas. Maybe not with strangers, but why am I hard to talk to? I don’t get it."

I chewed on my bottom lip, staring at him, willing the words to come out, but they were frozen there, stuck the way they got sometimes, when something really mattered.

He said nothing for a long moment, just continued tracing patterns on my skin. I counted his breaths, trying to gauge his thoughts from the rhythm of his chest rising and falling against mine. Ten slow inhales, ten measured exhales, then he lifted his head to study my face.

"I suppose the sex is good enough that I’ll take it even without the talking. Want to see something?" he asked, already tapping at the screen.

The abrupt change of subject left me disoriented but relieved. I nodded, watching as he pulled up social media and navigated to a hashtag search.

"People are shipping us," he announced, turning the screen toward me. "Someone caught a photo of me riding with you. It's kind of sexy."

The picture showed us from behind at a stoplight—me on the Harley, Aiden pressed against my back, his arms wrapped around my waist. The angle was such that our faces weren't visible, just the distinctive outline of my bike and Aiden's glittery black helmet with its rainbow stripe.

A dozen comments filled the space below, speculating about "Spotted @MotoCash the hot motorcycle mechanic and a mystery passenger. Boyfriends?"

My entire body tensed. I knew that hashtag.

Knew who followed it. I’d started the account to help the shop, but somehow it had taken a life of its own, and I’d been stupid enough to play into the whole thirst trap thing.

Hell, I’d enjoyed it, even done a few shoots with guys at the shop, hoping to blow it up more.

But I’d started toning it down since my family had found it. My brother Leo religiously tracked all my social media activity, constantly looking for evidence that my "motorcycle phase" was just that—a temporary detour before I came to my senses and returned to Kansas to join the family business.

"What's wrong?" Aiden asked, shifting to see my face better. "You look like you're about to throw my phone through the wall."

I scrubbed a hand over my face, trying to relax muscles that had suddenly gone wire-tight.

Aiden's eyes narrowed. "You went from zero to pissed in half a second." He pulled back slightly, studying me. "Are you embarrassed? To be seen with me?"

"No," the word ripped from my lips before my brain could stop it.

"Then what?" His voice had an edge now, the playfulness evaporating. "What's so wrong with people shipping us? I mean, we’re kinda… not that you’re my boyfriend, but…”

Heat crawled up my neck as I struggled to articulate the complicated tangle of family history, expectations, and my own inadequacies. My brother's voice echoed in my head—"Just a phase, Cassius. You'll get tired of playing with bikes and come home where you belong."

“I don’t know what to do, Cash,” he whispered. “Sometimes, it’s so intense with us, but then you shut down. I'm starting to think this whole 'I'm not good at talking' thing is just a convenient excuse."

The accusation stung, partly because there was a grain of truth to it.

It wasn’t intentional, but words failed me when I needed them most. They had always failed me when someone needed something from me, from the time I was a kid trying to explain to my father why I'd rather be in the garage than learn the family business.

And Aiden was so vibrant, so full of life and great at communicating and at noticing people. He deserved someone who could give him the words he needed. But I was greedy and I hugged him close anyway, my hand sliding up and down his back until he relaxed, soothed by my touch.

“Is the way you touch me your attempt to communicate something?” he whispered, and the hope in his voice almost broke me.

I nodded, throat too tight for words. My hand found his between us, fingers lacing together in a grip that conveyed what I couldn't say: I'm trying. I want this. Please be patient with me.