Page 8 of Fire Me Up (Front Range Motorcycle Collective #2)

Gael

T he last day of motorcycle maintenance class ended with a whimper, not a bang.

I’d learned how to change oil, replace brake pads, and clean a carburetor.

Plus, Dylan had gone on several long tangents about random motorcycle facts, so I was pretty sure I knew more about motorcycles than most casual riders.

Too bad I still hadn’t figured out how to ask if he wanted to kiss me again.

Because I really wanted to kiss again.

It had been five days, and I was worried he might be upset with me for the way I’d kissed him. It was nothing like the flirtations I’d had with women I’d dated. There were no meaningful glances, no brushing of hands while passing tools, no stolen moments while the others were distracted.

I was starting to wonder if I’d imagined everything—if I was the only one obsessing over the way his body felt pressed against mine, the way his tongue had taken control of my mouth, his fingers buried in my hair, forcing me into the position he wanted me in.

Maybe for him it had just been a favor, a pity kiss for the confused firefighter with the annoying cat.

The thought stung more than I wanted to admit. At work, I always knew my place, always had a purpose. Here, all I had was uncertainty and too much time to think.

“Good job, everyone!” Dylan clapped his hands, his purple-tipped hair falling across his forehead. My fingers itched to brush it back. “You’ve officially graduated from Motorcycle Maintenance 101. You all know enough now to be dangerous.”

Lena laughed, wiping her hands on a shop rag. “Now I can convince my grandson to let me have one of those motorcycles with three wheels. Very safe!”

“That’s the spirit.” Dylan’s grin was lethal, his charisma filling the room like it always did. He thrived on moments like this—on being the spark in the group.

I hung back while everyone gathered their things, pretending to be fascinated by the tools I was putting away. My shoulder ached from the day’s work, but it was a good ache—the kind that meant I was healing, getting stronger. Only two weeks until I’d likely be cleared to return to active duty.

Why didn’t that thought make me happy? Firefighting was my life, but the idea of going back to it suddenly felt less like coming home and more like losing something I hadn’t even figured out how to hold yet.

Lucas called out to me, startling me. “You coming to get coffee with us? Lena says her grandson will give us a discount at the food truck.”

“Sure, why not? But I need to get Bacon first,” I said, nodding toward the cat enclosure where my orange menace was curled up in a tight ball, sound asleep in his hammock.

Lucas nodded and joined the others as they filed out, leaving me alone with Dylan, who was scribbling something on a clipboard, lips moving like he was talking himself through it. Hyper-focused. He could go from scattered to absorbed in a heartbeat, and I found both sides of him magnetic.

I squatted in front of the enclosure, peering in at Bacon. “Hey buddy, time to go.” I clicked my tongue, wiggling my fingers. Bacon opened one eye, gave me a look that clearly said fuck off, and went back to sleep.

I glanced over my shoulder at Dylan, who was bent over his toolbox, tongue peeking out slightly as he concentrated. My chest tightened. Why hadn’t he kissed me again? Had I been too clumsy, too eager? Or not enough? Maybe he’d realized I wasn’t worth the effort.

“Come on, Bacon,” I tried again, making kissy noises that would’ve gotten me roasted at the firehouse. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Bacon stretched, yawned extravagantly, and curled even tighter.

I stuck out my tongue at him. “Traitor.”

The truth was, I didn’t want to leave—not while Dylan was still here. My chest felt heavy at the thought of walking out like nothing had happened between us.

I reached into the enclosure, determined to haul my cat out if necessary. Bacon narrowed his eyes, tail flicking in warning.

“Need some help?” Dylan’s voice came from right behind me. When had he moved closer?

“No, I—” I looked up to find him standing over me, his expression unreadable. “He seems to like it in there too much.”

Dylan crouched beside me, our shoulders nearly touching. This close, I could smell him—motor oil and soap, sharp and warm. My pulse quickened.

“Cats, man.” He shook his head, voice low and amused.

I nodded, hyperaware of his proximity. This was the closest we’d been since that kiss, and my heart was hammering like I was back inside a burning building. Except here, I had no idea what I was supposed to save.

“So,” Dylan said, not looking at me as he wiggled his fingers at Bacon. “You ever been to Under Colfax?”

“What’s that?”

“Gay bar. Okay music, decent drinks.” He glanced at me, quick and bright, then looked away again. “I was thinking you might want to check it out. You know, if you’re still trying to explore that side of yourself. Um, after the kiss, I mean.”

Hope flared in my chest. Was he asking me on a date? “With you?”

“Not with me specifically. I mean, I’d take you, but I’d just be there to show you around. You should definitely meet some guys. Get comfortable with the scene. It’s intimidating at first, but once you get used to it, it’s chill.”

“Oh.” My heart sank. Not a date. A field trip. Babysitting duty.

“I think it would be good for you,” Dylan said, his words tumbling faster now, nervous energy bleeding through his usual charm. “Dance a little, flirt, get comfortable with the vibe. No pressure. Most of the bartenders are friends of mine, so they’ll look out for you.”

That was Dylan—covering his vulnerability with generosity, always making fun the armor for how much he cared.

I stood, needing distance before I did something reckless like kiss him first. “Okay.” I shoved my hands in my pockets, then folded my arms instead, trying to look casual. “Sure. That sounds fun.”

Dylan looked up, then rose to his feet in one fluid move. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Something electric passed between us, strong enough that I almost swayed toward him. His gaze flicked to my mouth for half a second, and I was sure—absolutely sure—he was going to kiss me again. I leaned in just a little.

Bacon launched himself out of the enclosure like an orange missile, tail high as he bolted for the classroom door.

“Shit!” I lunged, pain ripping through my healing shoulder as I slammed into a desk.

Too late. He was already gone, and Dylan was sprinting after him, yelling at someone in the hall to close a door.

I followed, clutching my throbbing shoulder. Fucking cat. Fucking gunshot wound. Fucking hormones making me chase after a guy who probably thought of me as a project.

Bacon tore around a corner, Dylan close behind. I heard a crash and Dylan’s sharp curse: “Sorry! Cat emergency!”

I rounded the corner to find Dylan helping a startled woman pick up the papers Bacon had scattered. No cat in sight.

“Where’d he go?” I asked.

Dylan pointed. “Parts room.”

We burst inside, rows of shelves and boxes making a maze of hiding spots.

“Bacon,” I called, trying to sound stern instead of desperate.

A clatter answered me. Dylan lunged, but Bacon darted past his legs like a streak of orange lightning. I twisted fast, pain lancing my shoulder, but ignored it. The hero instinct was impossible to shake—even when it was just a damn cat.

“You okay?” Dylan asked.

“Fine,” I gritted out. Always fine. Always steady. “He’s probably just scared.”

Back in the hall, we spotted Bacon stalking toward an open office. Dylan whispered, “Cut him off. I’ll flush him to you.”

We closed in from both sides, moving like a practiced team. Bacon sprang again—onto a water fountain, over my head, into the office. I nearly collided with a man coming out.

“Cat,” I explained, pointing.

“Under the desk.”

We dropped to our knees together, shoulder to shoulder. Bacon lounged under the desk, licking his paw like none of this mattered.

“Come on, buddy,” Dylan coaxed, his voice soft and sweet. “Don’t you want to come out?”

“Lunch if we go home,” I added, crawling closer.

Bacon flopped onto his side, yawned.

“Easy,” Dylan murmured. “Don’t let him fool you.”

I lunged, scooping him up against my chest. “Gotcha.” Relief flooded me, even as Bacon purred smugly.

“Leash?” Dylan asked.

“Pocket.” His fingers brushed my stomach as he pulled it out, and I nearly forgot how to breathe.

With Bacon secured, I finally laughed, tension breaking. “Holy shit. I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? That was the most fun I’ve had all week.” His cheeks were flushed, hair mussed, eyes bright. He looked edible.

The words were out before I could stop them. “Can I have another practice kiss?”

Dylan blinked, then smirked. “Need more practice, huh?”

I swallowed. “Since you’re showing me the ropes and all.”

“Sure.” He stepped closer, hands finding my hips, pushing me back against the counter. “Always happy to help a friend improve his technique.”

Friend. But then his mouth was on mine, hot and demanding, and the word stopped mattering. I kissed him back hungrily, sliding my free hand into his hair, while Bacon’s leash dangled uselessly from my wrist.

Dylan tasted like coffee and adrenaline. His tongue teased mine, confident and thorough, and when I pressed closer, I felt him hard against me. The realization sent fire racing through my veins. I’d done that. Me.

I ground into him, desperate for more. His hands slid under my shirt, tracing the muscles of my back, and I bit back a sound—half-whimper, half-groan.

Then Bacon tugged sharply on the leash, letting out a plaintive meow, and we broke apart, laughing breathlessly.

“I think your cat is jealous,” Dylan said.

I nipped his bottom lip, unable to resist. “Nah. He likes you.”

Dylan stepped back, discreetly adjusting himself, and the sight made me ache. “So… tonight?”

“Tonight?” My brain was foggy with want.

“The club.” He grinned. “Nine. I’ll text you the address. Your number’s the one on registration, right?”

“Yeah,” I said quickly. “That’s it.”

“Good.” His grin turned wicked as he backed toward the door. “Wear something sexy. And leave the cat at home.”

Then he was gone, leaving me in a stranger’s office with an annoyed cat, a throbbing shoulder, and a hard-on that wasn’t going away anytime soon. I stared at my reflection in the window—hair a mess, lips swollen, looking wrecked. Wanting more. Always more.