Page 3 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Cash

I gunned the Harley's engine harder than necessary as I pulled into the food truck guy’s short driveway.

I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was hoping to irritate his neighbors.

He lived in Congress Park, an older neighborhood not too far from downtown, filled with modest one-story homes that probably cost way more than they looked like they cost. I wondered if the food truck business was that lucrative, or if he had roommates.

Silas’s adorable breakfast chef had only been in the FRMC’s parking lot for a week, and already several of the guys were addicted to his food, which was why I was picking him up.

I was definitely not picking the kid up because of the cute, cheerful smiles he gave me every morning when I stopped by for a bagel. Or because of those freckles on the bridge of his nose.

Nope. That would be insane.

I was just doing the kid a favor because I hoped it’d keep the peace in the shop. No one wanted to see Liv or Silas hangry.

Besides, he only lived four blocks from Colfax, just a little ways down from where I rented a loft. It was practically on my way.

The Harley wasn't my usual commuter bike. My café racer was sleeker, faster, more my style—but it didn't have a passenger seat, and today I needed one of those. Fucking Silas and his fucking obsession with breakfast food.

I silently wished I hadn’t looked at my text messages this morning. Like I didn't have engines to rebuild, custom jobs piling up. But here I was, rolling up behind the most pathetic Subaru I’d ever seen. And Denver had a lot of Subarus.

No wonder this guy needed a ride. The car was more rust than metal, with a dent in the rear quarter that had probably been there since before Aiden could drive.

I cut the Harley's engine and swung my leg over, boots hitting the pavement with a satisfying thud, wondering how this guy could run such a successful food truck when he couldn't even maintain his car.

I checked the address on my phone again. Yep, this was it. Small brick bungalow, weathered but tidy, with a sad attempt at a garden out front. Grandma chic, complete with those lace curtains in the windows. Not what I'd pictured for Aiden, who was almost aggressively cheerful and upbeat.

One week of parking his truck at Front Range Motorcycle Collective, and everyone was drooling over him—or his food, anyway. I didn’t get what the big deal was. I mean, sure, his bagel sandwiches had a perfectly cooked egg, but that wasn’t that hard, was it?

Before I could knock, the front door swung open, and a petite blonde in yoga pants wandered out.

She was staring at the phone in her hand, not paying attention to where she was going.

I cleared my throat before she could collide with me, and she startled, fumbled her phone, and backed up like I was there to rob her.

Which, on one hand, I mean yeah, maybe it was a bit intimidating to find a huge guy dressed in leather on your front porch.

"Who are you?" she demanded, her slightly overdone eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "If you're selling something, we're not interested."

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm here for Aiden."

Her eyes widened further, darting from my face to my tattoos to the Harley at the curb. "Why? What did he do?"

Jesus Christ. "Um, I'm his ride."

"His ride?" She clutched her phone tighter, eying my motorcycle, and possibly calculating whether she needed to call 911. "To where exactly?"

I exhaled slowly through my nose, counting to five in my head. "To the motorcycle shop. Someone said his car's fucked, so I came to get him."

"Mira, it's fine!" Aiden appeared in the doorway behind her, looking flustered.

He was wearing a tight blue t-shirt with SUNNY SIDE UP across the chest and jeans that hugged every curve.

Not that I was looking. He looked up at me and froze for a beat, possibly long enough for his sister to notice.

“Oh, hey! Er, Cash, right?” he said, voice full of false cheer.

“You don’t even know his name?” the girl yelped.

“It’s not a big deal. Just a ride to work. And you’re going to be late to class if you don’t leave right now.”

The blonde—Mira, apparently—whipped her head around, pocketing her phone and planting her hands on her hips. "Aiden, you can take a day off if the car trouble is that bad. Or I can drive you in after class.”

“Yeah, but then I’ll miss the breakfast rush, and my ingredients will go bad, and it’ll all snowball. Then who would pay your college tuition?”

I huffed out a breath, trying to show my impatience with their arguing, but neither one of them noticed.

“I don’t think one missed morning is going to bankrupt us,” she protested. “Besides, if it does, I can take student loans.”

He grinned and kissed the girl on her cheek. “It’s fine, Mira. I want you to get started on the right foot. It’s just a few more years of hard work.”

“But… but… this is your ride? A motorcycle? With a complete stranger?"

"He's not a stranger, he’s a regular customer. Likes his bagel sandwiches with avocado and runny eggs, and takes his coffee with two sugars.” Something about the fact that he almost forgot my name, but knew my exact order, made me smile.

On the inside. I didn’t like to smile on the outside.

“He works at the shop. Doing motorcycle things.”

She whirled back to me, eyes narrowed. "You work at the motorcycle shop?"

"Yeah." I shifted my weight, already tired of this conversation.

“What motorcycle things?”

“Mechanic,” I said.

Aiden was eyeing me, an apologetic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His hair was slightly damp, like he'd just showered, curling at the temples in a boyish way that was kind of cute. I looked away.

"Sorry, my sister's a little protective," Aiden explained, edging past Mira onto the porch and planting himself in front of me.

He was short enough that I could see over his head.

Or rest my chin on his head, but I liked that he thought he could defend me from the terrifying girl.

"Mira, this is Cash. Cash, my younger sister, Mira. "

Sister. That made sense, and I supposed they did have the same pretty hazel eyes, though Mira’s were scary fierce while Aiden’s were warm and kind. The sort of eyes I could stare into for hours, examining the play of green and gray around his irises.

Not that I planned on staring into Aiden’s eyes. That would be weird.

Mira crossed her arms, mirroring my stance. "Do you know how many motorcycle accidents happen every year? Especially in states without helmet laws? And how many are caused by cars not seeing motorcycles? I’m in pre-law, Aiden. I know how to do research—"

I cleared my throat and held up the spare helmet I’d brought.

"Mira, please." Aiden sighed, stepping fully onto the porch. "My car's dead, and I need to get to the FRMC. I bought a ton of ingredients yesterday, and they’re sitting in the truck, and they’ll go to waste if I don’t open. Besides, Cash drove all the way here to do me a favor."

I grunted. "Silas sent me."

Aiden's face fell slightly, and I felt a twinge of... something. Not guilt. I don't do guilt. But whatever it was, I didn't like it.

Mira didn't look convinced. "Why can't you just call an Uber?"

"Because it's rush hour, and it would take forever, and we're broke, remember?" Aiden's voice had an edge to it now.

She rolled her eyes, then met mine over Aiden’s head. "Fine. But if you let him die, I’ll never forgive you. He’s my only family. Understood?"

I nodded.

"I won’t die." He turned to face me as if the problem was solved, his usual megawatt smile returning. "Sorry about that, Cash. Thank you so much for picking me up! Let me just grab my jacket."

He ducked past his sister and darted back inside, leaving me alone with the human embodiment of helicopter parenting. Mira gave me a once-over that felt like a TSA pat-down.

"So you're a mechanic?" she asked, as if confirming my cover story. “But you’re not his friend. Why pick him up?

I shrugged, not really in the mood to explain myself. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d ever been in the mood to explain myself.

“Have you ever crashed a motorcycle?”

“Not recently.”

She was not a fan of that answer at all, but Aiden chose that moment to reappear wearing a denim jacket that looked about as effective as tissue paper for motorcycle riding. He had a small leather messenger bag slung across his body and was nervously fidgeting with the strap.

"Ready!" he announced, with forced cheerfulness.

“Bag,” I said, holding out a hand, and he handed it to me, eying me nervously.

I opened one of the Harley's saddlebags and shoved his bag in, then handed him the helmet. It was matte black, no frills, just something I kept around in case I wanted to impress a Tinder hookup. I tossed it to him, and he caught it with surprising deftness.

"Put that on." I waited as he fumbled with the straps. "Tighter." I demonstrated, grabbing his chin and cinching the strap down. It didn’t fit perfectly, but it would have to do for now.

"I've never been on a motorcycle before," he admitted.

"No shit."

Mira stepped forward, car keys in hand. "Are you sure about this? What if—"

"Mira. Go. You’re already late for class. I'll text you when I get there."

Aiden's tone left no room for argument. She finally retreated, climbing into a Jeep that was only in slightly better shape than Aiden’s car.

I swung my leg over the Harley and settled into the seat, kickstand up. "Get on."

Aiden approached like he was facing a wild animal. "Just... climb up?"

"Yep." I revved the engine once, partly to hurry him along and partly because I knew it would annoy the nagging sister, who was eying us as she loaded up her own car.