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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gray

“Got a call for a tow!” Holden called from the office.

I slid out from under a 2018 Nissan Rogue, where I was helping Bailey out with a brake job while he worked on a larger transmission replacement. “Okay, give me two minutes to wash my hands.”

“Aw, c’mon!” Bailey protested. “With Jose out sick, I need a second pair of hands. Can’t you do it, Holden?”

“Not unless someone else is going to get our books ready for a call with Gray’s boyfriend in the next ten minutes.”

My stomach flipped. “Very funny.”

Holden grinned. “I thought so. It’s not like you’re fooling any of us. You’ve got a crush.”

I went to the sink and pumped Grip Clean soap into my hands, the back of my neck heating. “Go work on your precious books.” I paused. “But you’re not cooking them, are you? I don’t want Emory getting in any trouble.”

Holden pointed at me. “I’m gonna let that go because I know you’re just trying to change the subject.”

“He’s so got a crush,” Bailey said, smirking.

The little shit had been feeling himself ever since he came out over dinner two nights ago. I couldn’t really blame him, though. Shedding secrecy and fear was exhilarating.

“But to answer your question, no, I’m not fucking cooking the books,” Holden said. “They were a mess when I took over, though, so I’ve been putting them into order so they make sense to your lover boy.”

I picked up the keys to the tow truck and started toward the open garage door when five bikes rolled up: three Harley models, one Indian Scout, and a very sweet vintage Triumph cruiser.

“Whoa. Is that a whole damn biker gang?” Bailey asked.

I grinned and tossed the keys at Holden. “Better find someone else to go on that tow job.”

Holden didn’t look too disappointed. But then, this was what we’d been working toward. We’d made the rounds at the pool hall, placed online ads, made calls to biker event organizers.

I went outside to greet the bikers. “Heya. How can I help you?”

They cut the engines and pulled off their helmets. The Harley guys were older, grizzled, with unwieldy beards full of salt and pepper. The Triumph rider was a neatly groomed man of forty-something. I figured this was his midlife crisis because that bike wouldn’t come cheap, being so rare. The owner of the Indian Scout was the only woman in the bunch, and judging by her leathery face, she’d done her share of riding without a helmet back in the day.

“We heard you guys were doing bikes now,” one of the Harley guys said. “We’re heading out to Sturgis next week.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sturgis was the largest motorcycle rally in the US—and it took place only one state away in South Dakota. “That sounds like a hell of a lot of fun. Wish I could be going with you.”

“You ride?”

“Got a Harley V-Rod. It’s parked over by the house.”

“Sweet ride. A little tough on a long haul, but you should come for a cruise with us sometime. There’s some great scenic rides around here.”

“I might take you up on that. Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Always glad to meet another Harley man.” He extended his beefy hand, and I shook it. “I’m Hopper. This old coot is Rod, and that’s his brother, Clint.” He introduced the rest of the group to me, Sean on the Triumph and Ashley on the Indian.

“So, can you help us out?” Ashley asked. “We missed the rally last year, and we really want to make it up there this time around, but I know it’s short notice.”

“Just tune-ups? Oil changes? What do you need?”

“The Triumph keeps stalling during stops,” Sean volunteered. “Don’t really want to take it up to the rally and have it die on me. I get enough crap from these old-timers about being a yuppy poser.”

I chuckled. “I’ll make sure you’re not embarrassed then. It’s probably your carburetor or a problem with the clutch. I can diagnose it, then give you a call about the repair.”

Sean shook my hand. “Appreciate it.”

“Just standard servicing for me,” Hopper said. “I take care of my bike.”

“Me and Clint too,” Rod said.

Ashley glared. “Yeah, well, not all of us are perfect like these old men with nothing better to do. I work full-time, so I haven’t had a chance to get my bike in for a while. I have no idea what you’ll find when you poke around, but it’s burning through oil, and there’s been a knocking in the engine. Sometimes it’s a hard start.”

Crap. That sounded like bad pistons, and it was one of the more time-consuming fixes. But it wasn’t like I could afford to turn away their business.

I clapped my hands together. “Okay, well, it sounds like I better get started so you all can make that rally. When are you leaving?”

“We’re leaving two days ahead so we have some time to enjoy the trip before it gets crazy.”

So that gave me less than a week, then. My face must have given away my thoughts because Rod looked concerned. “If this is too much, we can head up to the garage we use in Omaha. We just figured we’d rather stay local.”

“No problem. I’ve got it covered.” Even if it meant working around the clock, I would get these bikes done. With a new loan payment coming soon, we could use the cash flow—and if I impressed these riders, it might bring in a lot more business in the future too. I couldn’t afford to pass that up.

Bailey emerged from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. “I’ll take down some information so we have it on file.”

“Do you all need a ride somewhere?” I asked. “We could give you a lift.”

“Nah, my wife is on her way in the Jeep Cherokee,” Sean said. “We’ll be fine.”

We spent a few minutes shooting the shit while they waited for their ride, and then Bailey helped me wheel the bikes into the garage. Five bikes—and only one me.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

“Can you really swing it?” Bailey asked.

“He better,” Holden said, emerging from the office. “Just got off the phone with Emory about the loan. We’ve still got to process some paperwork, but it’s a go.”

“I’ll get to work, then.”

I grabbed my toolbox—which included some specialized tools for bikes’ smaller parts—and crouched down next to the Indian. Might as well get the hardest job done first.

I disassembled the Indian’s engine and removed the cylinder head and cylinder covers to inspect the damage, losing track of time as I examined, measured, and cleaned parts to prepare for a piston repair.

Of course, I had to get some new pistons in to make that happen, so once I verified the parts I needed, I moved on to the next bike, starting with changing the oil before moving on to checking filters, brake fluid, and tire pressure.

I lost track of time, and before I knew it, Axel was shaking my shoulder. “Hey, man. You need to eat something.”

I blinked bleary eyes up at him. “What time is it?”

“It’s past seven, man. Time to call it a night.”

I straightened up, my back popping three times, and I groaned. “I feel like an old man.”

“You’ve spent half the day bent over, and not even for fun,” Axel teased. “You should take a hot shower and get that pretty boy over here to blow you.”

I scowled. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“Like what? A casual hookup?”

I cocked my head. “You know, Bailey came out at dinner, and it seemed like a big deal. But no one’s said anything about you.”

“So?”

“So, you’re clearly batting for more than one team.”

He shrugged. “I get around. Doesn’t really matter to me what’s in someone’s pants.”

“You know that’s a sexuality, right? As valid as being gay.”

Axel avoided my eye. “I just like sex a lot. So I have it with lots of people. It doesn’t have to mean anything. I’m just a manwhore.”

“Well, that’s a crappy way to see yourself,” I said. “It sounds like you’re pansexual. Maybe you like sex and have it a lot, but don’t deny your sexuality, okay? Manwhore is not an identity.”

He smirked. “Is this your way of telling me to keep my paws off Emory?”

“No. I’ll tell you straight up, keep your grabby hands off my guy.”

“Your guy, huh?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Uh-huh. I think I’m not the only one in denial.”

“Fuck off,” I said with a laugh.

Axel walked me back to the house and made my tired ass a sandwich, which was the nicest thing he’d ever done for me. “Where’s Hold and Bails?” I asked between big bites.

Now that there was ham and cheese in my mouth, my body remembered it was fucking starving.

Axel threw a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on the table, and I ripped into them, even though I hated that flavor.

“Bailey went out with some friends. Holden is probably binging Netflix in his room.” He paused. “Unless he’s watching porn. Do you think Holden watches porn?”

I met his gaze, flummoxed. “I…have no idea.”

“It’s hard to picture,” Axel said.

“Has he ever…”

“Been with someone? Not as far as I know.”

“But he’s twenty-nine,” I said. “There’s no way he’s still a virgin, right?”

Axel dropped into the seat across from me. “I’d like to say no, but man, I don’t know. You know how he is about being touched.”

“Yeah.” My heart twinged.

Holden was badly abused as a child, but it was easy to forget. He was so strong, so take-charge, so confident. Aside from that awful little detail, that touch aversion, we might not notice.

He had physical scars, of course. He had cigarette burns he’d covered with tattoos. Fine lines crisscrossed his back from whippings so bad that his skin split and re-healed dozens of times.

I pushed away my plate, my hunger suddenly gone. “Shit, man. We got lucky.”

Axel nodded. “We sure as hell did.”

My parents died when I was six, and as much as that hurt, I couldn’t even imagine the damage the hate and rage of Holden’s parents had done. Not just to his body but to his soul.

I cleaned up my trash and took a long, hot shower. By the time I climbed into bed, I was already half-asleep.

Then I got up and did it all over again the next day and the next, doing little more than showering, eating, working, and sleeping. I ordered parts, cleaned dirty carburetors, replaced spark plugs, put in new pistons, and rebuilt that damn Indian engine.

I was too busy to meet up with Emory, but we texted here and there.

He messaged me the morning after the bike job came in.

Emory:

Congrats! The paperwork is done. The loan is official. You saved your business.

Gray:

We couldn’t have done it without you.

He texted again the next day, and I didn’t find it until evening.

Emory:

You should let me make you dinner this weekend. To celebrate, I mean.

Gray:

I wish I could. Got a big bike job keeping me super busy. Sorry I missed your text earlier.

Emory:

It’s okay. Just let me know when you have time.

Gray:

It might be a while. I’m falling into bed each night exhausted. I’m sorry, golden boy.

Emory hadn’t answered for a few hours, and my stomach had turned with unease. What if he thought I was blowing him off? Worse, what if he thought I was too much trouble to bother with?

Finally, as I was getting into bed for the night, he responded.

Emory:

Don’t apologize. Making the shop a success is important.

So are you , I typed out. I hesitated, then deleted the text. It was probably too soon to tell him how important he was, but the thought of him moving on while I was buried in bike parts sucked balls.

Gray:

I have a little time now. How about you tell me what you’re wearing.

Emory:

Are you serious? I’m in my boxer briefs and a T-shirt. Sorry to disappoint.

I hit video call, and Emory answered, looking adorably tousled.

“Who says I’m disappointed?” I said. “Although, you could take off that shirt for me.”

His eyes widened. “Are you—” He bit his bottom lip, his eyes closing briefly as color seeped into his cheeks. He cleared his throat. “You’re not pranking me, right? You want phone sex?”

“Consider it one more sexual experience to explore,” I said. “I hate that I don’t have time for us to meet up.”

“Well, I understand. You don’t owe me anything, Gray.”

“This isn’t about owing you, sweetheart. I want to see you touch yourself while you think about me.”

He exhaled noisily. “Fuck. I guess that could be…” He swallowed hard. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

“Good. Take off your shirt.”

Emory propped his phone on a table, providing me with a nice frontal view of him, and pulled off his T-shirt. “You too. Want to see your ink.”

“Such a slut for my tattoos,” I teased.

His gaze roved over my chest and arms after I’d tossed my shirt aside. He licked his lips. “What now?”

“Hmm. Why don’t you give those perfect pink nipples a pinch for me?”

He blushed harder, but Emory took each of his nipples between his fingers and squeezed.

“Good. Do it harder.”

He twisted, gasping, then tugged them out from his body until he groaned.

“Very good.” I pushed my underwear down and grabbed my cock, giving it a slow stroke. “Now, throw back the blankets and let me see how hard you are.”

Emory played along, following my directions. He’d been so assertive our last time together, but this seemed a little out of his comfort zone. I waited until he’d complied, mouth watering at the sight of his gorgeous cock curving up over his abs, wet at the tip.

“I wish I was there to suck you,” I murmured.

He let out a breath. “Wish you were too. Your mouth is so good.”

“It sure is. Stroke yourself while you think about just how good it feels.”

He started up a slow rhythm, eyes slipping shut. I waited for a few minutes, learning what I could about the way Emory liked to be touched. The way he lifted his left hand to tweak his nipple every three tugs to his cock. The way he stopped to roll his balls. I noted each and every way he played with his body.

“Want to get more adventurous?” I asked.

“H-how?”

“Suck your finger until it’s wet, then push it inside your ass.”

His chest heaved, his nipples red from the twisting and tugging, and his lips red too from the way he’d been biting them in pleasure. Damn, but I wanted to soothe them with my tongue, taste his mouth, his cock, his ass. I wanted all of him.

I jerked my cock faster, groaning as I tormented myself with all the things I couldn’t have right then.

Emory’s gaze locked on mine as he pressed a finger into his mouth and sucked it. Ah god. I wasn’t gonna last much longer. “Hurry,” I urged. “Fuck yourself.”

He lowered his hand. I couldn’t actually see what he was doing, but his face went tense, then slack, and the tenor of his moan told me it came from deep within.

“Want to fuck you, golden boy,” I murmured. “Would you let me dick you down?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “God, please.”

“I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up.”

He cried out, arching, his cock shooting streamers of cum across his stomach. Fucking beautiful. I came with a harsh breath, spilling over my knuckles.

I doubted I made nearly as pretty a picture as Emory. With his gold hair flopping into his eyes, his face flushed red from arousal, and cum streaking across his pale skin, he was the very image of a debauched angel.

And me? I was just the devil who was corrupting him.