Page 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SAWYER

T he following afternoon, I pull my truck up alongside an industrial-style building.

Ezra looks across at me, kind of shocked. Despite it being only a ten-minute drive from my place, the area is different, and the streets are pretty intimidating, even in broad daylight.

“Is this where Collins lives? You told me she lived in a house like ours,” he asks, one brow lifted.

“Ah, yeah, ’bout that …” I pull off my sunglasses and rest a forearm over the steering wheel, preparing for a dressing-down from my son, but also smiling because this place is so Collins.

Across the street, a red overhead garage door starts moving, and slowly, Collins comes into view, distracting Ezra’s attention and saving me from another awkward explanation. Wearing tight black leather pants, her usual black boots, and a different rock T-shirt from the ones I’ve seen on her Instagram profile, I silently remind my dick that getting a hard-on right now—in front of my son and the girl who evidently finds me borderline insufferable—is not the best idea.

Since she’s barely five-four—my best guess—she clings on to a black cord above her head, her shoulder-length pink hair blowing in the fall breeze.

She motions with her other hand for us to join her, and Ezra is out of his seat belt and the truck in a split second, racing across the road in the process.

I seize the opportunity and give myself a second to gain some control.

“She isn’t interested in you.” At this point, I don’t know if I’m talking to the guy downstairs or myself. “She’s passionate about motorcycles and not the thought of another night with you. You’re here for Ezra, and that’s it. No funny business and definitely do not check her ass out in those pants.”

On a final exhale, I swing my truck door open and head across the street to join them.

“We get to wax it?! All right!” Ezra sounds like a kid on Christmas morning when he catches a yellow microfiber cloth midair.

I fight to look anywhere but at Collins as she bends down to grab something from one of the tool chests stored at the back of the garage.

This isn’t the place she films in—which looks more like a professional garage with a painted gray floor and bright lighting. This garage has exposed brick walls with motorcycle wheels hanging from them. The lighting is softer with industrial-style bulbs and a smooth, unpainted concrete floor sporadically stained with oil. A red neon sign, lit on the back wall, reads BikerCollins .

“Waxing helps to preserve the paintwork.” Collins’s voice draws me back to reality. “Once it dries with a hazy appearance, we can remove the wax with a detailer.”

She tosses me another microfiber cloth, and I catch it with my left hand.

“You can start on the saddlebag, and we’ll work on the wheel arch.”

Just as Collins is showing Ezra what to do, I apply some of the wax and move the cloth in rhythmic circles, reminding me of the way I worked her clit until she came in my mouth.

Your son is here.

I clear my throat, desperate to distract my mind. “Do you live in this building?”

Crouching next to Ezra, Collins shakes her head, her eyes briefly finding mine before falling back to the bike. “The apartments above this garage are all rented out. I live across the street in a one-bedroom place. Originally, I had a garage on the other side of town—which was a pain in the ass to get to. Then, when I was about to relinquish the lease on my apartment, this garage came up. It’s not cheap, but it’s way better than what I had.”

I circle my cloth a couple more times, something in what she just said making me feel uneasy. “I remember you saying you’re on a rolling lease now.”

Her brown eyes flick to me again, surprise in them. Perhaps she didn’t expect me to remember details from the night we spent together. Truthfully, I remember it all. “Yes, that’s right. I prefer it this way since it gives me flexibility to leave when I want.”

She falls quiet for a brief second.

“Do you plan on leaving New York?” Ezra asks, sounding kind of worried—and a similar feeling constricts my chest.

There is absolutely no logical reason why I should feel any kind of way over the thought of Collins leaving town. But I do. And it’s getting harder to ignore. It’s frustrating and building all the time.

When she got in my Lamborghini that night, we both knew that I wasn’t driving her home. I didn’t even ask for an address as I pulled out of the parking lot and drove back to my place in virtual silence. For her, I knew it was about sex, scratching an itch that had been intensifying since we’d met that first night. For me, I was horny and wanted her so damn badly, but I can’t deny that when I put my hands on her, there was more at stake than just a fuck.

Maybe she worked that out; maybe she saw it in my eyes when she told me she didn’t kiss. Maybe she had considered more than a one-time thing when I palmed her ass at Lloyd’s.

Whatever she thought back then, clearly, nothing has changed since she walked out of my place at the ass crack of dawn. If anything, her determination to keep me at arm’s length has only gotten stronger.

Conversely, I feel like I’m moving in the opposite direction. Talk of her moving out of town, maybe to a different state, pulls at me in ways I shouldn’t let it.

This girl is a free bird, a whirlwind, a fucking tornado—knocking people off their feet as she passes through for a brief time—and her effect is so damn difficult to forget long after she’s gone.

Joanne, my housekeeper, has washed my sheets every week since Collins slept in my bed, but somehow, I can still smell her on my pillows—a rich amber scent that drives me to the point of insanity.

Collins thinks I ignored her existence when the press asked me about her, and that pissed her off. The fact is, her response satisfied me in some way; it encouraged me to think she was bothered about us on some kind of level.

But the thing is, I think if she knew the real truth about how I feel, she’d be way more pissed, maybe even freaked out.

I’m growing obsessed with her. She’s given me nothing to go on, only tiny crumbs, partial smiles, fleeting looks. And despite my best efforts to keep a lid on my feelings, I’m failing.

And now, as I watch the way she lights up my boy, there’s a real part of me that worries if she does leave—unlike a tornado, where you can rebuild and recover from its destruction—moving on from her impact might not be as easy, and perhaps not just for me, but for Ezra too.

* * *

“Okay, we shouldn’t be more than five minutes,” Collins says, finding a spare helmet and trying it on Ezra for size. She watches me closely as she secures the strap under his chin. “This was one I had a few years back; it’s older, but still good.”

Collins looks at Ezra, who climbs on the back, following instructions as she talks him through how to sit correctly on a bike. Dressed in full black leathers that unsurprisingly fit my son since he’s around the same height as her, he listens intently.

Finishing up, she knocks his helmet with a glove-covered fist. “I was worried we might have to go a size down with this but you have a big head, so it fits perfectly.”

His shoulders drop in jest. “Ha-ha, hilarious.”

Pulling on her helmet, she checks Ezra’s all good and cranks the engine, filling the garage with a roar and pulling a shriek of delight from him.

Thump, thump goes my heart.

When she shifts into gear and flicks back the kickstand, her usual defensive gaze mellows a fraction, letting me know she’ll take good care of him.

I nod once as she carefully pulls out onto the street and increases speed slowly. Ezra’s elated screams are unmistakable and fade the farther away they get.

It’s just me and the garage for the next few minutes, and I find myself heading toward the row of drawers set across the back wall.

I always considered myself a closed book, especially after Sophie died. Getting close to people was a surefire way to get hurt, purely because their fate—and my own—was uncontrollable. If someone had told me how our marriage was going to end and how soon, I wouldn’t have believed them. The Sawyer from years ago had faith in fate, faith that really bad things didn’t happen to good people.

The Sawyer back then was fucking naive.

Pulling open the top drawer in the red metal cabinet, I’m not shocked to discover tools, but I am surprised by how neatly ordered they are. Each having their own place and sectioned out. Perhaps it’s the way Collins lives her life—by the seat of her pants—that made me assume her workstation would be similar. Yet it’s the total opposite.

The second drawer is the same, but this time, screws and bolts are categorized by size and dimension, labeled carefully and organized into containers.

Next to the industrial-style metal cabinet sits a mahogany French dresser—the kind of thing you’d expect to see in a country kitchen and not a garage like this.

My interest piqued, I pull the first drawer open and immediately pause when I see a black photo album sitting at the top.

This feels like an invasion of privacy, but equally, I know the chances of Collins ever telling me more about her life is slim to fucking zero.

I know because, in many ways, we’re the same.

And I want to know more about her, even if they’re just pictures of the family dog. Every part of her fascinates me, to the point where I’m picking up the album and closing the drawer with my hip.

Though this is no family album, no images of dogs or Collins as a baby.

These are all from motocross competitions—and top-level ones at that. I know fuck all about the sport, but I’d recognize the SuperMotocross logo anywhere.

“Jesus,” I say out loud, turning to the next page.

The next photo is Collins, same pink-colored hair, same everything, just around ten years younger and with a bronze medal hanging around her neck and no makeup. She smiles at the camera, posing with the silver and gold medalists as they stand on the podium together.

I begin flicking through pages faster, each image revealing more about her life, telling me more than I know she ever would herself. Before, I’d never have described Collins as unhappy—more content with what she had in life. But after seeing these images and catching a glimpse of a smile I’ve never seen, I realize my girl has layers for days.

A roar filters down the street, and I quickly turn and shove the album back into the dresser, pushing on the drawer just as Collins pulls back into the garage.

When she lifts the visor on her helmet, her gaze is suspicious—or maybe it’s just my guilty brain playing tricks on me. Her attention rests on the drawer where the album’s kept, and I follow her eyes.

Shit. It’s not fully closed.

“Dad, you have to buy me a bike like this one. Cars suck.” Ezra croons as Collins releases the kickstand and helps him off the Harley.

“Is that right?” I reply, leaning against the dresser and crossing my ankles, trying to emulate a casual pose in a bid to counter her suspicions.

Collins still hasn’t said anything as she pulls her helmet off and shakes out her hair.

Holy shit.

“Did he do good?” I ask her.

She hooks her helmet over the handlebar and unzips her leather jacket, Ezra doing the same with his.

“He did.” Collins’s face is full of mischief, but the kind that makes you feel uneasy, like you’ve been caught in the act and she fucking knows it.

She walks toward me, stopping only a foot away. When she reaches down to my side, shutting the drawer fully, her perfume hits me. Her eyes never leave mine, long black lashes framing deep brown pools that pull me in and make it hard to look away, even if I wanted to.

In this proximity, I can see—and appreciate—how skilled she is at applying eyeliner, the wings at the corners of her eyes sharp and identical to each other.

I wonder how long she’s been wearing her makeup like this since I couldn’t see any evidence in the photos.

“I need to get to an appointment,” she says, voice low and laced with an emotion I can’t decipher.

Anger, hurt, skepticism?

I can’t be sure what it is, but my level of discomfort kicks up another notch.

I nod once and push off the dresser, rounding Collins and making my way over to Ezra and the door.

“That was so cool, Collins. Thank you,” he says.

I ruffle my hand through Ezra’s floppy, dark hair as she turns to face us, her eyes immediately softening for my son.

“You’re welcome.”

“Maybe we can do it aga?—”

“I think once is enough,” I cut him off and place a hand on his shoulder, which is immediately shrugged away.

Despite knowing I just landed myself in the hottest water possible with the one woman I have ever known to simultaneously intimidate and intrigue me in equal parts, I regret absolutely nothing about this afternoon.

He has no recollection of his mom, but I remember the way Ezra gradually closed off the longer he went without Sophie in his life. The past six months have been the worst I’ve seen him, and it’s broken my damn heart to witness and be powerless to change things around.

That is, until today and the past hour we’ve spent in this old, borderline run-down garage.

Collins picks up a microfiber cloth and the pot of wax they were using earlier, handing them to Ezra when she reaches us. She doesn’t look at me, her attention solely on him. “I had a lot of fun today. You can come around and help me anytime you want.”

His face illuminates like the goddamn Fourth of July.

Like I was saying, tornado.