Page 4 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)

Gael

B y the end of Wednesday’s class, I was obsessed. Not with motorcycles, but with my teacher.

I couldn’t stop staring at Dylan’s hands as he adjusted something inside the carburetor. His fingers moved with such precision and confidence, like he could take apart the entire motorcycle and put it back together blindfolded.

My brain kept jumping between trying to follow his instructions and noticing how his purple-tipped hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward, or how his t-shirt rode up just enough to expose a sliver of skin when he reached for a tool.

I’d been hopelessly distracted all day, retaining approximately zero information about motorcycle maintenance while developing an encyclopedic knowledge of Dylan Kim’s every movement.

“And that’s how you clean the carburetor jets,” Dylan said, holding up a tiny metal piece between his thumb and forefinger. “Questions before we wrap up for today?”

I blinked, realizing I’d missed his entire explanation. Again. This was becoming a pattern. Dylan would show us something, and I’d get so caught up watching his hands or his face or the way he moved that I’d completely space out on the actual content.

Lucas raised his hand like the overachiever he was. “What if the jets are corroded beyond cleaning?”

Dylan launched into an explanation about replacement parts while I scanned the workbench for Bacon. He’d been curled up in a patch of sunlight last I checked, but the spot was now empty. Shit. Not again.

I casually glanced around the shop, trying not to panic or interrupt Dylan’s lesson. No sign of my cat. Double shit.

Lena caught my eye from across the room and pointed discreetly toward the far corner, where I spotted an orange tail disappearing behind a stack of tires.

I gave her a grateful nod and slowly edged away from the group, trying to be stealthy.As I walked, I rolled and stretched my shoulder, trying to shake the persistent ache from my injury.

I’d spent the morning doing physical therapy before class, and the therapist had pushed me harder than ever.

My fault for telling her I was eager to get back to work.

“Okay, that’s it for today,” Dylan announced as I was mid-creep. “Tomorrow we’ll move on to brake maintenance, which is crucial for

A loud crash from the back of the shop cut him off. Every head turned toward the sound, then toward me, as I froze mid-step.

“Sorry,” I said, heat crawling up my neck. “That would be Bacon.”

Dylan’s mouth twitched. “Go rescue your cat, man. We’ll wait.”

I hurried toward the noise, finding Bacon batting happily at a fallen spring like it was the world’s best cat toy. He looked up at me with zero remorse in his amber eyes.

“You’re a menace,” I hissed, reaching for him.

He darted away, slipping between my fingers with feline precision.

I lunged after him, knocking my shoulder against a shelf and wincing as pain shot through my healing gunshot wound.

Bacon took advantage of my momentary distraction to leap onto a workbench, sending a container of washers scattering across the floor like metallic confetti.

“Fuck.” I dropped to my knees to gather them up. My face burned, knowing everyone was watching my catastrophe unfold in real time.

This was exactly why I couldn’t focus in class.

My brain kept wandering, and my ridiculous crush on Dylan, and I was a disaster.

I’d spent most of yesterday’s class trying to make sense of the Honda’s engine layout while sneaking glances at Dylan’s ass when he bent over to demonstrate something.

Today was even worse—I’d been so distracted by the way he bit his lower lip when concentrating that I’d put an oil filter on backward. Twice.

And it wasn’t just his looks that got to me, though those were plenty distracting.

It was the way he patiently explained concepts without being condescending, how he remembered everyone’s names and learning styles, the casual confidence in how he handled tools.

The man was so comfortable in his own skin it made me ache.

“Need some help?”

I looked up to find Dylan standing over me, amusement dancing in his eyes. Before I could answer, he made a quick movement, and suddenly Bacon was in his arms, purring loudly like the traitor he was.

“How did you do that?” I asked, still on my knees surrounded by washers. “He never lets strangers pick him up.”

Dylan shrugged, scratching behind Bacon’s ears. “I’ve got magic hands.”

The moment the words left his mouth, my brain short-circuited with images of those magic hands on me instead of my cat. “I bet you do,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

Fuck. Did I really just say that out loud?

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up, and a slow smile spread across his face. I wanted to melt into the floor or spontaneously combust—either option seemed preferable to facing him after that comment.

“I mean, with tools and stuff,” I backpedaled, scrambling to my feet and nearly slipping on a washer. “You’re great with your hands. At fixing things! Motorcycles! You fix motorcycles with your hands.”

Each word made it worse. I clamped my mouth shut before I could dig the hole any deeper.

Dylan’s smile widened as he handed Bacon back to me. “Thanks. I try to be good with my hands in all contexts.”

Was he flirting back? I couldn’t tell if that was innuendo or if my horny brain was interpreting everything through a crush filter.

“Well, you definitely showed me how to lube the—the chain,” I stuttered, then immediately wanted to die. What was wrong with me? I was twenty-eight years old, not some awkward teenager.

“Happy to demonstrate proper lubrication techniques anytime,” Dylan said, eyes twinkling.

Okay, that was definitely flirting. Right? Unless he was just making fun of me. Fuck, I was so bad at this.

I tucked Bacon under my good arm, using him as a furry shield. “I should, uh, put him back in his carrier before he causes more damage.”

Dylan nodded, then bent down to help me gather the remaining washers. I tried not to stare as his t-shirt rode up, revealing a strip of smooth skin and the edge of what looked like a tattoo disappearing into his waistband. Jesus, even the glimpse of a tattoo had me sweating.

This competence kink was going to be the death of me.

Watching him take apart the engine today, explaining each component with such casual expertise, had been like foreplay.

The way he handled tools with the same easy confidence someone might handle a lover.

.. I’d spent half the class imagining those skilled fingers on my body instead of on motorcycle parts.

“You coming tomorrow?” Dylan asked as he dropped the last of the washers into the container.

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” I said, meaning it more than he knew. I might not be learning much about motorcycles, but I wasn’t about to give up the chance to see him every day.

I gathered my things as the rest of the class filtered out, deliberately taking my time.

Lucas was deep in conversation with Lena about something to do with engine thermodynamics.

Lennox was helping Jerry put away the tools.

Dylan moved around the shop, straightening things and making notes on a clipboard.

“Sorry about the chaos,” I said as I passed him on my way out, Bacon safely ensconced in his carrier.

Dylan looked up from his clipboard, a crooked smile on his face. “Don’t worry about it. Makes things interesting.”

“I’m usually better at following instructions,” I said, then immediately regretted the opening I’d given him.

His eyes darkened slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I nearly walked into the doorframe.

I found Liv in the FRMC’s front office, sorting through a stack of invoices with the intense focus she brought to everything.

She didn’t look up when I entered, just held up one finger in the universal sign for “wait a minute.” Bacon shifted restlessly in his carrier, probably plotting his next shop demolition.

My thoughts drifted back to Dylan and how close I’d come to straight-up propositioning him with that “magic hands” comment.

Jesus, what was wrong with me? I’d never been this awkward around anyone before—not even Cassie Martin in sixth grade, when I’d tried to impress her by eating six hot peppers and ended up with a nosebleed.

“What’s up?” Liv finally looked up, her expression shifting from concentration to concern. “You look weird. Did something happen in class?”

“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “I mean, Bacon knocked over some stuff again, but that’s normal.”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it. “Uh-huh.”

“Want to grab lunch?” I asked, desperate to change the subject. “I thought we could try the food trucks. Lena’s is out there, right? It’s All Greek to Me?”

“I could eat.”

“Lena is in my group in class, and we’ve been talking. She’s cool.”

“Cool. Isn’t she like eighty?”

“That’s agism, Liv.”

Liv grinned, grabbing her jacket. “Fine, let’s go. I’m craving me some Egg Me On.”

We headed outside, the October air crisp and refreshing after hours in the shop. I let Bacon out of his carrier, and he trotted beside us on his leash, investigating every patch of grass with intense feline scrutiny.

“I really like Lena,” I said as we walked toward the loading dock area where the food trucks were parked. “She reminds me of Abuela, you know? There’s something about having that... I don’t know, grandmotherly energy around.”

Liv nodded, her expression softening. “Yeah, I get that. She’s adopted half the people at the Collective already. Always bringing in cookies and telling everyone they’re too skinny.”

“It just made me realize...” I hesitated, not sure how to articulate the feeling that had been growing since I’d met Lena. “We don’t have that anymore, do we? That older generation looking out for us. Since Mom and Dad died, and then Abuela last year... It’s just the three of us now.”