Page 5 of Egg Me On (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #1)

Aiden

The rumble of Cash's Harley died beneath me as we pulled into my driveway, my arms still wrapped around his waist, fingers splayed across the hard plane of his stomach.

Despite acting grumpy about the rides, he’d shown up day after day, always there to pick me up, though I’d texted him more than once that Mira and I could figure out how to share her car.

He’d responded curtly, saying it was fine, and then let me know when to be ready.

My car sat neglected in the driveway, waiting for me to work up the courage—and the funds—to take it into a shop.

And the thrill of riding on the back of Cash’s bike, pressed against his muscular body, wasn’t really motivating me to hurry up the repairs.

Because, despite his obvious personality defects, I was enjoying the rides.

After a week on the back of his motorcycle, my body knew the drill—knew when to lean with him, move with him, when to try not to pop a boner pressed against his back.

That last one was impossible, because Cash was a walking sex god, tall and handsome, with thick muscles rippling under glistening warm brown skin.

But if I angled my hips right, I was pretty sure he couldn’t feel how horny squishing myself against his back made me.

At first, I’d told myself I’d take the Subaru into the shop when I got tired of riding on the bike, or when I’d saved up a little more money, but the thrill of it still hadn't faded, and money, was, well… always tight. So here I was, back on his bike again, kinda wishing I’d asked him to take me for a longer ride so I could spend a little more time with him.

There was no good excuse for that, though, so I reluctantly peeled myself away, swinging my leg over the seat, way less awkwardly than my first few attempts at dismounting the bike, one of which had resulted in a caught shoelace and me on my face on the pavement.

"Thanks for the ride," I said, removing my helmet and running a hand through my hair. The late afternoon sun accented Cash’s high cheekbones as he stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing.

Silas had been right — Cash was a man of few words. Almost none, really.

He grunted, and instead of backing out of my driveway, he dismounted, swinging his leg over the bike with a grace I found stupidly hot. For a minute, I wondered if he had to pee, but his gaze shifted to my piece-of-shit Subaru, which somehow looked sadder by the day.

"We're fixing that," he announced, the words not a question but a statement of fact. I wasn’t sure Cash knew how to ask questions.

I blinked. "We're what now?"

"Your car." His jaw tightened as he stared at my rusted baby. "It's a fucking embarrassment."

"Hey now," I protested, feeling oddly defensive of my vehicular disaster child. "She may not be pretty, but—"

"Where’s your garage?”

I pointed to the small detached garage at the edge of our property, a structure nearly as ancient as the bungalow itself. Usually, Mira parked in the garage, because her car was nicer, but it was empty now.

“Open it.”

I unlocked my car and reached for the visor, pushing the opener button and watching the garage door slowly rise. “But how do we get it in there?”

Cash ignored me and strode over to my car, grabbing the keys from my hand and opening the door. When he looked like he was about to climb in, I dove in front of him.

"Hold on," I said, hurrying ahead of him.

"Let me just..." I frantically gathered the fast food wrappers, orphaned napkins, and random receipts littering the front seat, stuffing them into an old grocery bag I found in the back.

"Sorry about the mess." I was meticulous about my kitchen, but somehow, everywhere else in life, the messes got away from me.

Cash watched me with something between amusement and judgment. "You live like this?"

"Not all of us can be meticulous gearheads," I shot back. "Some of us embrace the chaos."

His expression softened imperceptibly. "Open the hood."

I reached in and pulled the hood release, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the interior of my car. The hood popped with a sad little creak, and Cash raised it the rest of the way, propping it open.

But instead of immediately diving into the engine, he returned to the driver's side and waited for me to get out, then slid into the seat and connected something to a wire under my steering wheel. It was a small electronic device with a screen that lit up when he turned the key partway.

“What’s that?”

His eyes fixed on the screen as numbers and codes flashed across it. "Diagnostic codes."

I leaned against the garage doorframe, trying not to stare at the way his broad shoulders filled the space of my driver's seat, or how his large hands looked wrapped around my steering wheel. Why was that so fucking hot? A guy's hands on a steering wheel? I was losing it.

"So," I ventured, "did Silas put you up to this?"

Cash's eyes flicked to me briefly, but he didn’t answer. His attention returned to the device. "Your transmission's fucked. PCM’s throwing a bunch of codes.” He rattled off a bunch of numbers I didn’t understand. “When's the last time you changed the fluid?"

"Uh... what fluid?"

Cash closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for patience. "Transmission fluid."

"Oh. That." I shuffled my feet. "Never?"

"Jesus." He shook his head, then continued reading codes, then typing them into something in his phone. After a moment, he pocketed his phone and disconnected the diagnostic tool, standing.

“Is that like a universal tool thingy and it works on motorcycles and Subarus, or what?”

He didn’t answer. “There are a few other problems. Possible vacuum leak. Running lean.”

We’d been riding to work together for over a week, and this was more than he’d said to me in all that time.

Too bad I only understood about ten percent of it.

His knowledge was weirdly sexy, though, the way he innately understood something that was too complicated for me to even imagine the workings of.

I stood awkwardly by as he leaned over the engine, poking something.

"It's been a great week at the shop," I said, trying to fill the silence. "We've been selling out by two most days. Turns out bikers really love breakfast burritos."

Cash grunted, which I'd come to recognize as his version of acknowledgment.

"The members are actually really cool," I continued. "Not what I expected at all. There's this older lady, rides a vintage Honda, she comes by every morning for French toast. And the group that works on customs on Thursdays? They pre-order like twenty sandwiches. Tipped me fifty bucks yesterday."

"Mmm," Cash responded, checking something on his phone again, cross-referencing the codes, maybe.

"And Dylan keeps trying to set me up with his cousin, which is sweet but awkward. I'm pretty sure his cousin is straight, anyway."

At this, Cash's head snapped up. "What?"

I shrugged. "Yeah, he thinks I need to 'make time for some fun.' His words. Says I work too much."

Something flickered across Cash's face. It was gone before I could decipher it, and I told myself it was my imagination. I always read too much into people and situations. Mira was always telling me that.

"Your O2 sensor's shot too," he announced, moving to the front of the car. "This thing's a fucking death trap."

He leaned over the engine, and I was treated to the magnificent view of his ass in those worn jeans. The fabric stretched tight across his backside as he bent forward. My mouth went dry.

I forced myself to look away, remembering how he'd stiffened when I'd touched his arm that first day. Straight guys didn't generally appreciate being ogled by gay dudes.

"What?" Cash muttered without looking up.

"Just... wondering why you're helping me. You don't seem to like me much."

His hands paused on the engine. "I don't dislike you."

"High praise," I laughed. "But seriously, you've been driving me to and from work all week, and now you're fixing my car. I'm not complaining, but... why?"

Cash straightened, wiping his hands on a rag he'd pulled from his back pocket. His eyes met mine, dark and unreadable, but he said nothing. Didn’t answer my question at all.

I didn’t know what to do with that.

He turned back to the engine, reaching in to check something. "You need a new PCV valve. And an air filter. Transmission rebuild. And about fifty other things."

I winced. "Sounds expensive."

"I can get parts at cost," he said, still not looking at me. "Labor's free." He slammed the hood and locked the door. “Tow will be here in an hour.”

My heart did a stupid little flip that I immediately suppressed. He wasn't being nice because he liked me. He was being nice because he was friends with Silas and Marcus, and I was their new pet project or something.

"I really appreciate it," I said earnestly. "But you don't have to—"

"Aiden," he cut me off. "Shut up."

I grinned at his gruffness, finding it more endearing than intimidating after a week of his silent protection.

Because that's what it felt like—protection.

The way he waited until I was inside to ride off, and always scanned the parking lot before he let me walk to my food truck.

The coffee that mysteriously appeared at my food truck window every morning.

"I don’t need a ride tomorrow. I need to do grocery shopping," I said, changing the subject. "For the truck. I can just Uber to the store and pay the driver to wait..."

Cash sighed deeply, like I'd just suggested we rob a bank together. "What time?"

“I need more than your motorcycle can carry.”

He eyed me as if I were an idiot, his lips twitching, like he was about to laugh.

"You have a car? This whole week of motorcycle rides, and you have a car?"

He finally looked up, a hint of amusement tugging at his lips. "Truck."

"Of course," I laughed. "Let me guess. It’s vintage, runs perfectly, and you restored it yourself?"

"1982 F150," he said, with the first hint of genuine pride I'd heard in his voice.

"I'd love to see it," I said, too enthusiastically. Then, trying to sound more casual: "For the grocery run, I mean. But also, you don’t have to drive me, I can just get a rideshare. Or borrow Mira’s Jeep before she leaves for school.

" I eyed Mira’s empty parking space, wondering if she was staying over with a friend tonight.

Cash turned back to the engine, but not before I caught the smallest quirk of his lips. "Seven okay?"

"Yeah, but are you sure?"

He rolled his eyes. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“Fine. Seven.”