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CHAPTER FOUR

COLLINS

“D id you manage to fix the transmission issue with the Twin Cam 88? The owner reported the gearshifts aren’t as smooth as they should be.” Cameron sits at his desk, forearms folded across his chest, waiting for my response as I stand in his office.

I got the job at Smooth Running almost a year ago after I was fired from my old place for invoicing Asshole Tax to a customer who totally deserved it. At that point, I was ready to leave New York and move on to somewhere else, but then I landed a job here—a garage specializing in Harley servicing and refurb—and it was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down.

Only, in retrospect, I kind of wish I had backed out of taking the job so I wouldn’t have hooked up with the guy sitting in front of me. Cameron is a grade-A asshole and, unfortunately for me, now my boss. Though he wasn’t when we were messing around.

After a couple of times with him, I realized the error in my ways—he was definitely a selfish prick who didn’t much care for my needs in bed.

And if I’m not getting off with a guy, what’s the point?

So, I ended it, and shortly after, he was officially promoted to service manager—though, unofficially, I like to think of him as Head Dickface.

It’s only a matter of time before I bill him with an Asshole Tax too.

I stand at the entrance of his office, smiling sweetly. There are two chairs in front of me, but I have zero intention of taking a seat. “Yeah, I finished up on that before I left yesterday. The customer plans to collect it in”—I check my watch—“a half hour.”

Cameron leans back in his chair, eyes raking over me. I force back an eye roll. I mean, seriously ? I’m wearing dark blue overalls, which are basically more black from oil streaks—a little like my hands right now.

“And what about the service that was pushed back to lunchtime?” He swivels to his computer, unlocking the screen.

I save him the job of looking up one of our best customers. “Mr. Moran?”

“Yes.” His voice is clipped.

I thumb over my shoulder, entirely too satisfied with myself. “He’s in the shop now. I was running through an oil change when you summoned me.” I make to leave. “Is that all?”

His jaw tics—something I previously found sexy, but now it just annoys the shit out of me. His face kind of annoys me in general.

He waves a condescending hand, and all I want to do is shove it in a starter clutch.

“Just make sure you finish up on Moran’s bike before you take a lunch.”

“You got it,” I reply in a faux bright tone.

Twenty minutes later, I’m handing the keys to Mr. Moran and considering if I have time to head back to my apartment for the lunch I prepped but left in my fridge when I overslept and tore out the door this morning.

“I’m looking for a pink-haired bombshell. Has anyone seen her?”

I look up from the form I’m filling out, my attention snapping to Kendra—pro soccer player and center back for the New York Storm.

I check over my shoulder. “No one fitting that description around here.”

Wearing training gear and a Storm beanie, Kendra lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “So, the pitch was frozen, and afternoon practice was canceled. Jack’s about to head on a three-day away series, and I’m feeling needy.”

I’m grabbing my bag, jacket, and keys before she even asks.

“How about a coffee date at Rise Up? I have a half hour before Head Dickface reams me out for being a minute too late.”

“Absolutely.” Kendra spins on her heel and makes for the door, me closely behind.

You can really feel the chill settling over Brooklyn as we walk the few blocks to our favorite bakery—one Kendra and Jack practically live in.

“He’s still being an ass to you then?” she asks as we wait to cross the street opposite the café.

“Yep,” I reply, exasperated just thinking about my boss.

It’s fair to assume this girl knows more about me than anyone, including my fling with Cameron earlier this year. Kendra is the only person I’ve spoken to about my past, although I’ve held back on a lot of information, specifically about my childhood and some of the painful memories that still eat away at me. It’s safe to say my relationship with bikes has not always been positive; sometimes, the easiest way to bury the memories is to not talk about them and avoid uninvited questions, as well-meaning as they may be. I’ve told her about my grandparents, who raised me before they died eight years ago, although, to be honest, there isn’t much to tell there. They were old, and both died from pneumonia in the same year. She knows I’m an only child, and I’m every bit true to the stereotype—I don’t like to share my food, and I’m pretty selfish when it comes to the TV shows I want to watch.

She asked me a few weeks back how my parents had passed, but again, I don’t like to talk about it, and, honestly, there’s very little backstory, only a tragedy I can’t change. A truck driver was more interested in switching the track on his Spotify playlist than he was on the road in front of him. My dad drove an F-250, but that was no match for the eight-wheeler that plowed into the back of them at sixty miles per hour. After my grandparents broke the news and my puking subsided, I had never been more grateful for my bratty self since, that day, I’d insisted I stay home with a sitter and watch movies rather than head to a family dinner.

I was a delightful child.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting beside my unusually silent best friend in a usually chaotic and jam-packed Rise Up. The owner, Ed, is hurrying around the place, trying to keep orders moving.

I drop sweetener into my black coffee and begin stirring, waiting for her to speak. “You’re quiet today.”

She takes a bite out of her British cheese scone, eyeing me carefully. “I’m waiting for you to go first.” She motions with her hand. “Tell me all about your ride the other night.”

Without warning or permission, a flashback of that night pushes to the front of my mind. I buried all memories of my time in Sawyer’s bed in the depths of my brain—or at least, I thought I had.

“And I think the coffee is ready.” Kendra points to where I’m absentmindedly stirring the sweetener that likely dissolved a good while ago.

Reaching across the table, I grab some more and continue stirring it into my coffee. I don’t look at her when I respond, figuring I can hide the lie more easily sans eye contact. “Nothing to report. He took me back to my place and went back to his.” I add a casual shrug to help sell the ruse. “I’d guess he was reading a bedtime story to his son fifteen minutes later.”

She tips her head to the side. “He’s twelve. I doubt Sawyer is putting him to bed with Charlotte’s Web .” She takes another bite of her scone, swallowing quickly. “Besides, you can’t even look at me. That tells me everything I need to know.”

The flush rises on my cheeks, followed by a wave of heat.

Kendra finishes her scone and leans toward me, arms resting on the table, blonde hair framing her doubtful face. There’s a mischievous glint in her brown eyes—one that dares me to deny it again. “You slept with Sawyer Bryce, didn’t you?”

I shift in my chair, confused at my reaction. Why is admitting I had sex with a guy so damn difficult? I told Kendra about Cameron the day after it happened. I know whatever I tell her goes no further, but somehow, saying that I slept with Sawyer out loud would make the whole thing feel more real.

I lift my eyes to hers, and she sits back in her chair, satisfied that the look on my face is the answer she suspected.

She flicks her hair. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“It was a one-time thing.” My throat feels tight, voice muted.

Ed sets a chopped cheese sandwich down in front of me, and I hurry out a, “Thanks,” before I take the biggest bite I can manage.

As I chew around a chunk entirely too big for my mouth, Kendra studies me, that fucking glint back in her eyes.

“You like him, don’t you?”

I swallow and shake my head. “No. He’s not my type—I swear I’ve told you that before.”

Her eyes narrow. “Based on what evidence? The fact that he’s a nice guy with a cute kid, a successful and driven athlete, or a drop-dead gorgeous guy most women are desperate to date?”

Despite the accuracy of her observations, I scramble for an excuse. The truth is, he is a good-looking guy. Older than what I typically like, but handsome and was at least keen on looking after my needs in bed. Even if he was a six out of ten. I internally snicker at the memory of his reaction to that rating, taking another bite of my sandwich.

“Like I said months ago”—I break from my thoughts—“he has baggage, and I don’t do any kind of relationship.”

I drop a pickle onto her plate since I can’t stand them and she’s a total weirdo who can.

I live by a few rules, and getting into anything that could be perceived as serious with a guy with kids is one of them. I’m not okay with crossing a line where children can potentially get hurt or be dragged into a messy situation. I lost my parents, just like Ezra lost his mom, and he doesn’t need any more potential complications. My gut feeling about Sawyer hasn’t changed—I can tell he’s a guy who doesn’t do no-strings easily, and that’s the exact opposite of my type. Even if, physically, he pushes all my buttons. And that’s why I can never go back there—or more specifically, to his bed—again.

Kendra bites the end of the pickle, waving it around like it’s some kind of prop supporting her argument. “Who’s to say he wants anything serious anyway? I know when Jack and I started fooling around, it was initially for fun. Jenna kept saying it would be a good friends-with-benefits type of arrangement.”

Jenna is the goalkeeper for the New York Storm and one of Kendra’s closest friends. I like her. She occasionally comes to hockey games, and the times I’ve gone, she’s been there.

“The only reason why your situation worked out with Jack was because, deep down, you both wanted more. In this instance, I do not.” I take a sip of barely warm coffee. “I can just about hold down a job—never mind a relationship or a fuck-buddy arrangement.” I scrunch up my nose. “ Plus …” I stress the word and bite my bottom lip. “I didn’t feel a spark,” I lie, knowing I definitely felt something unique between us. I lower my voice and lean forward. “Like, I came and everything, and he was well equipped, but it was kind of boring.” The second part of my statement is more truthful, but I still feel shitty for saying it.

Kendra fights to keep the coffee she just sipped from spraying. She coughs down the last of her mouthful. “And what is it you want exactly? Chains and whips?”

I flush. Again .

“ Oh my God ,” she half gasps. “You do, don’t you?! How did I not know you were into kinky shit?”

I gaze around the packed café. “Speak up a little, Babe. I don’t think Dave at table four quite heard you.”

She drops her shoulders. “Tell me. I need to know.”

There are only two people who know my taste when it comes to the bedroom: Mike, my douchebag ex, and a guy I had a drunken fling with one weekend in Las Vegas—and I doubt he even remembers my name since I can’t recall his, but he was hot. Every part of my life I keep private, and my sensory-play kink is definitely one of them.

I flick my eyes up to Kendra as she watches me intently.

I take a deep breath. This is not how I imagined my lunch break going down. “I guess you could describe me as a sensory seeker in bed.”

Kendra quirks an interested brow.

“Orgasms are so much better when all five of our senses are heightened. Well, they are for me anyway.” I bite on the pad of my thumb. “I’ve been known to come from just a guy’s tongue teasing my neck. Then there’s ice and hot wax play.” I take a sip of now-cold coffee.

“So, like, running ice over your body?” Kendra asks.

I nod once. “Yeah, and then you can get into the harder stuff, like spanking, et cetera.”

She runs her tongue across her bottom lip. “And that’s not something you got with Sawyer?”

I balk. “Are you kidding me? He’s not interested in that kind of thing. The second he switched to missionary, I knew I was just seeing it through to the end.”

She shakes her head on a giggle.

“Plus, I like to do a lot of that stuff to the guy as well, and, yeah, they’re not always that hot on it.” I push my half-empty coffee mug away from me. “I mean, can you imagine me pulling out the whip and feathers and asking him to lie there while I had my fill?”

Kendra’s giggle morphs into a belly laugh. “No, I guess not. But I will say this: I think you were his first time in a while. Jack told me he doesn’t get with women often.”

I run a hand through my hair. “Yeah, he told me. We also agreed it was a night to release some sexual tension for the both of us and never to speak about it again.” I pin her with a look. “Which is why you can’t say anything to anyone.”

Kendra zips her lips shut. “I am a locked vault, Babe.”

I nod once, deciding it’s best to change course. “So, what are you doing after this?”

She pulls out her cell and checks the screen. “Actually heading back to the ground. They managed to get the pitch playable, so I have an hour of practice, and then I’m running a coaching session with Jenna straight afterward.”

“The one for your new Girls in Sports Foundation?” I ask.

She hums and repockets her phone, looking kind of sheepish.

“What?” I press.

She just smiles, her usually rosy cheeks turning pinker.

“Well, this particular coaching session isn’t exclusively for girls; we had a few boys show interest too …” She trails off, a smile still plastered on her face. “Ezra will be there.”

It takes me a second to connect the dots, but then it hits me. “Wait. As in Sawyer’s son?”

She nods tentatively.

“Yep. Apparently, he’s really withdrawn around people, so Sawyer is trying to get him into sports. He figured soccer might be something new for him. Sawyer told me he likes it in PE.”

I drop my face into my hands, groaning. I can’t say I’m embarrassed about anything; I’m just not used to sharing these parts of myself with anyone.

“You have to bring your best poker face.”

She stands from her chair and rounds the table, wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Babe; this girl won’t say a thing about what she knows … or that you wanted to spank his ass hard right after tickling it with a feather.”