Page 5 of From the Wreckage

Everett

Three days pass without seeing the angelic brunette.

I tell myself it’s a good thing. That it gives me time to focus on fixing the porch railing, sealing the shed roof, and unpacking the last of the boxes I’d shoved into the corner.

But by mid-morning on the third day, I’m restless. The kind of restlessness that has nothing to do with unfinished work and everything to do with something—or someone—I shouldn’t be thinking about.

I roll my Harley out of the garage and fire it up. The low rumble settles in my chest like an old habit.

A ride into town will burn off the edge.

I hope.

As I ride down the street, Silverpine is as quiet as ever. There are a few people casually strolling down the sidewalks, going in and out of the buildings lining the street, or heading to their vehicles.

I casually cruise toward the main intersection when I spot the girl I’ve been searching for the past few days.

She steps out of the post office, sunlight turning the reddish streaks of her chestnut hair fiery. She’s holding a small package, her purse strap sliding off her shoulder. She looks up, and her eyes connect with mine.

I slow for the light, staring at her. Though she can’t see my face because of the helmet, I can clearly see her. She doesn’t look away, and neither do I.

For a second, the rest of the world fades—the cars, the storefronts, the people. All I can see is her, illuminated by the sun.

I don’t think about the fact that I shouldn’t be staring at someone I’ve never met and don’t even know.

The light turns green, and a horn blows behind me. I break the connection, twist the throttle, and roll on, lecturing myself for the insane way I’m acting.

You’re here for solitude and peace. Not a beautiful brunette with hazel eyes that burn into your dark soul.

I’m halfway down the block when I hear a faint rattle cutting through the steady rumble of the Harley’s engine. I frown, cruise a little farther, but the sound only worsens. There’s a sharp, metallic edge to it now.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.

I make a slow turn, scanning the street until I spot the sign for Kincaid’s Custom Motorcycle Repair & Restoration .

I pull up to the front and cut the engine. The large garage door is rolled up.

Removing my helmet, I head inside. The air is thick with the scent of motor oil and grease. A man in his early to mid-forties looks up from the bike he’s working on and wipes his hands on a rag. “Can I help you?” he asks.

“Yeah. Picked up a noise on the ride in.”

He looks out at my bike and then nods toward the lift. “Bring it in.”

I do as he asks, then swing my leg over it and stand beside him. “I appreciate this.”

“No problem.”

He’s efficient, checking the bike without asking a dozen questions or trying to sell me things I don’t need.

“New in town?” he asks, glancing at me over the handlebars.

I tense, then nod. “Yeah.”

“Welcome to Silverpine.” He tightens a bolt, straightens, and smiles. “We should go for a ride sometime. Maybe hit Timberline. Best wings in town.”

My first instinct is to say no. To keep my distance.

But for some reason, I find myself nodding and saying, “Okay. Sounds great.”

We make a loose plan for the weekend before he goes back to work. The easy way he talks, no prying, no pressure, I can’t remember the last time I met someone like him.

Maybe Silverpine won’t be as lonesome as I thought.