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Work kept me busy instead. After selling my bike, I needed a new ride. I had my eye on a few motorcycles through online auctions, but Ratchet found a new project for me in his scrap yard business. When he rolled the 1960s Triumph Bonneville off his trailer and onto my driveway, I stood back, surveying the heap of junk.
“When you said it needed to be rebuilt from the ground up,” I said. “You weren’t kidding.”
“Some shithead bought a brand-new Ducati and didn’t want her anymore.” Ratchet patted the Bonneville’s cracked headlight. “I rescued her a few months ago and she’s been sitting behind my office ever since, waiting for someone to take her home and pretty her up again.”
I squinted at Ratchet with a skeptical look. He shrugged and shoved his hands in the pockets of his grease-stained coveralls with a grin.
“You always liked a challenge.”
I circled the Bonneville. Her frame was bent and tangled, the paint job was a wreck, but I could see the potential underneath to bring out the gleam of a classic motorcycle again.
“How much do I owe you?” I asked.
Ratchet waved me off.
“Take her. She’s yours.”
Ever since then, I’d been working on the bike for two days straight. I was caught up on all my commissions for painting, so I moved on to fixing up my new bike, putting her back together again until she was fit for the road.
It was late afternoon when I heard the crunch of wheels on my gravel driveway. Raising my hand to shield my face, I glanced up.
Orange motorcycle. Tattoos. And that wiry, muscled body I knew well.
Damn it.
No getting out of it this time.
With a bracing breath, I rose to my feet and wiped my hands on a rag.
Diablo parked and shut off his bike. The snug-fitting white t-shirt he wore provided a tempting peak of his tattoo ink underneath. After removing his helmet, he approached with measured steps as if he wasn’t sure if he would be welcome or not.
“You aren’t returning my calls,” he said.
“Nope,” I replied.
Diablo stopped a few feet away, leaving what felt like a cavern of space between us.
“I had to keep you out of it, Stevie.”
“You could have told me,” I countered.
Diablo scrubbed at the back of his head.
“Didn’t want you getting involved in my bullshit.”
“I’m the only female member in my club, Diablo. I’m up to my neck in all kinds of bullshit every day.”
“That’s different,” he said.
“How?”
Diablo made a noise of frustration with a vague gesture.
“Because…”
I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue. He let his breath out in a rush and dropped his hand to his side, helpless. Then Diablo stepped forward, closing the space between us. He cupped his palm beneath my chin and tilted my head up until I looked at him.
“Because you’re my girl,” he said softly. “And I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”
