by Skye Jordan
Another shuffle caught her ear. Ava’s gaze darted back to the floor, and her stomach dropped.
No fucking way.
Ava bent and looked beneath the desk. Someone else huddled in the darkened corner.
“Mario?” Her mouth dropped open, and she cut a look at Matthew and Beth. “Mario? Seriously?” Then she told the young man, “Get your ass out here. Now.”
She turned in a circle, throwing her arms out to the side. “How many others do you have hiding around here?”
“Stop it, Ava.” Matthew came toward her, his approach aggressive. “Just stop it.”
She stepped back. “Touch me, and you’ll go to prison. Right now. Tonight. And you won’t have the support of the company lawyers.”
Matthew stopped with his hands fisted by his sides, his body rigid, and his face twisted with hatred and contempt.
Pain and anger ripped at her heart. She turned her gaze from Matthew to Mario. “You’re young and stupid. Grow the fuck up. You’re fired. Get your shit and get out. If I ever see your face around here again, I’ll have you arrested.”
“Ava—” Matthew started.
“Shut. Up,” she told Matthew, then alternated her gaze between Beth and Mario. “You’re both fired.”
“Come on, Ava.” Matthew’s tone softened. He obviously saw the hammer coming for him. “You know you can’t fire them. I’m their boss.”
“And I’m your boss.”
“Hold on.” He held up his hands. “Let’s talk this out. I made a mistake—”
“No, you’re sick and demented. You’re a five-year-old living in a thirty-year-old’s body. You need therapy. Intensive, exhaustive therapy for the depraved. And good luck getting that without your benefit package, because—let me make this very clear since your big brain isn’t working very well right now—you’re fired.”
Matthew wiped a hand down his face and turned to Mario and Beth, still standing there like they were waiting to be dismissed. “Listen, if we stick together, if we deny this, she’s the one who’s going to look insane. Everyone knows the wedding has her batshit crazy.”
“Really.” Ava crossed her arms. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Charlie won’t believe you,” Matthew said, referencing her father. “You know how much he respects me.”
“I know how instantly that will change the second he reviews the security video of the offices.”
All three of their mouths dropped open. Mario and Beth turned frantic looks on Matthew.
“Those are only in the main areas,” he assured them. “Not the managers’ offices.”
She swiped up the folder on the table, tore it in half, and dumped it in the trash. “You must have been getting a blow job when that memo came across your desk.”
At the door of his office, she turned and purposely looked at each in turn. “You disgust me. Don’t make me take legal action.”
Ava set a deliberate path to her own office. Her mind fractured and fragmented.
One foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other.
By the time she pulled her purse from her desk drawer, she was shaking. Tears blurred her vision. When she straightened, Matthew was in the doorway.
“Please, Ava. Don’t do this.”
“I’m not the one doing.” When he didn’t move out of her way, her fury returned. “Do I have to remind you of the cameras?”
“You’re not leaving until we straighten this out.”
“That sounded like a threat to me.” She tipped her head, pretended to consider. “Yep, I feel threatened.” She pulled her knee up sharply, slamming it into Matthew’s balls.
He grunted. His eyes crossed. He dropped to his knees, then rolled to his back, holding his junk. And in this case, it truly was junk. “Holy…fuck…”
Ava paused, standing over him, and pointed her keys at his face. “You’d better think about moving to Iraq to look for a new job, because you will never work in this industry in the US again. I’ll make sure of it.”
2
Isaac Banks dropped to his work stool in front of the vintage Suzuki Intruder. He’d been promising this carburetor rebuild to a high-ranking member of the Steel Warriors Motorcycle Club for a month. Grim had been patient, but Isaac couldn’t put it off any longer. Aside from being his biggest and most regular client, the Steel Warriors were also a one percenter motorcycle club. Isaac had no reason to fear the group, and he wasn’t about to create one.
So, here it was, nearing nine p.m., and after a full day of work—his tenth in a row—Isaac was still in grease up to his elbows. But Connecticut’s cool spring night blew in through the open bay door, and Breaking Benjamin reverberated against the building’s exposed brick walls. His walls. His shop. No bosses demanding project reports. No father looking over his shoulder. No board member telling Isaac which jobs he’d take on.
Without a doubt, the very worst day at Revival was ten times better than his very best day at the engineering firm he’d shared with his father.
Isaac rested his elbows on his thighs, pulled the cover from Grim’s carburetor, and smiled. All he needed was a beer and a babe, and his life would be perfect.
Not true.
Isaac’s chest took on a familiar heaviness as he surveyed the inner workings of the machine. The truth was, he’d need a beer, a babe, and his brother to make his life perfect. But he hadn’t been able to handle a babe since his brother had died, and Jeremy wouldn’t be coming back from the grave. Isaac would have to settle for a beer.
But only after his work was done.
To ease the ache that always came with thoughts of Jeremy, Isaac focused on the here and now. He took comfort in carefully positioning every bolt, every spring, and every plate precisely on newspaper at his feet. For the last year, this was the only place Isaac had found a sliver of peace—in his shop, with the bikes. Order had become Isaac’s best friend, distraction his playmate, and silence his lover.
Just as he started cleaning the metal, the phone rang. Isaac let the machine pick up. “You’ve reached Revival. I’m up to my nuts in bike blood. I’ll call you back when my patient is out of surgery and stable.”
He continued to scrub crud from steel while he listened with a mix of hope and dread. Hope this was a call about his help wanted ad. Dread that even if it was, the applicant would be as wretched as the last dozen.
He needed help with the relentless phone. He needed a receptionist to answer questions, schedule appointments, and show the bikes he was selling, not a brain surgeon. But finding someone even halfway reliable in this backwoods area of Connecticut had proved impossible so far.
“Hi, handsome,” the woman said into the recorder. “I’m sure you remember me. I interviewed for your receptionist position a few days ago. Tammy. Blonde. Killer body. I got to thinkin’…”
“Oh God,” he muttered. “Here it comes.”
“If I could bring my kids to the shop before and after school, I could work longer hours. I mean, there are only four of them, and the older kids are real good about takin’ care of the young ones.”
Isaac’s hands froze. “Seriously?”
“And, you know,” Tammy went on, “with all the noise you make in the garage, you won’t even hear them fightin’ none. I can even send the fourteen-year-old out for drinks, snacks, and smokes. Taught him to drive when he was twelve, and he’s real good…”
Isaac huffed a laugh and returned his focus to work.
Within the next twenty minutes, he’d received two more calls—one from a customer wanting Isaac to pimp out a Harley and the other one a request for service.
The phone rang like this all day, which allowed Isaac not only to pick the most interesting, challenging, and enjoyable jobs, but to name his price. But dealing with the details took a hell of a lot of time away from what he really loved—manhandling the bikes.
Isaac shut out the world and set to work rebuilding the carburetor in methodical detail. He was fully
aware some of the work he put into his craft was overkill. Not every part needed to be pristine. Not every step needed to be triple-checked. But his education and experience wouldn’t allow him to do it any other way. Isaac was grateful for those OCD tendencies because they had created a base of loyal customers who swore by his work, paid whatever he asked, and sent more customers his way.
Lights flashed over the dogwood and willow trunks outside. The familiar rumble of Harley V-twins shook the night. Isaac wiped his hand before using the remote to turn the music down. Three Harleys eased to a stop in front of the doors, and Isaac was damn glad he’d chosen tonight to work on the Suzuki. All three men wore biker boots, jeans, and leather vests decorated with the club’s patches.
He waited for their engines to shut down before greeting the Steel Warriors’ road captain, a man Isaac knew only as Repo.
“Hey, man.” Isaac stood, wiping his hands on the rag before he met Repo in the middle of the shop and offered a handshake.
“Wrench,” Repo said in greeting, using one of the many nicknames members had for Isaac. “That Ox’s piece of shit?”
“Yes, sir. She’s getting a new carburetor.”
A sound of disgust rolled in Repo’s throat. “Don’t know why he wastes his money on that foreign shit.”
Repo appeared to be in his late fifties, but Isaac guessed he was closer to a road-weary mid-forties. He wandered toward a Harley Isaac hadn’t gotten a chance to start rebuilding yet. “Who does this beauty belong to?”
“Me.”
“Gonna rebuild her? Or sell her like the other pieces of shit you’ve got lined up on your lot.”
“Every bike here has great potential. I only buy the cream of the repossessed crap. I’d rebuild them all if I could find time. But I’m definitely keeping this baby.”
“No secretary yet?” Repo asked.
Isaac sighed. “Good help is hard to find, you know?”
“Right.” He thought a moment. “My sister would be a good fit. Been riding since she was little. Used to work on bikes right alongside me. She’s got a great head for business, and she’s sweet as sugar. Your customers would love her.”
“She sounds perfect,” Isaac said, hopeful. “Think she’d want to come in and talk?”
“She’d love to.” A smile crept over Repo’s face. “But she’s doing five to ten for manslaughter.”
Isaac’s shoulders sagged, and he lowered his head on a groan, making all three bikers laugh. “Story of my fuckin’ life.”
Repo strolled toward Isaac’s future project and gripped the handle. “This one of those limited editions?”
“Anniversary XL50,” Isaac confirmed. “Only two thousand ever made.” She would be gorgeous when she was restored, but he had no idea when he’d find time to start that project. “How’s your hog runnin’?”
“Beautiful since you overhauled her. You’ve got magic hands, man.”
“Glad she’s taking care of you.”
“Came to ask if you’d go on a ride with us tonight,” Repo said with no preface. Isaac was already forming his rejection of the idea when Repo added, “One of our members just got back from Afghanistan. Lost a couple of buddies over there. He’s not doin’ so good, if you know what I mean.”
Isaac knew all too well what Repo meant, and a familiar knot tightened in his chest. “Your brotherhood will help.”
Repo nodded, went silent for a moment. The other two bikers sat quietly on their rides. “We thought you might be able to talk to him. Maybe settle his mind. Show him there’s life after losing a brother.”
Isaac shook his head, took a step back—automatic responses to prying his heart open to bleed over Jeremy. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ve got work stacked up for weeks round here—”
“I’ll tell Grim you were working on his ride when we pulled you away.” Repo tapped Isaac’s biceps with a friendly jab. “I’d consider it a personal favor.”
Which meant he’d also consider it a personal slight if Isaac refused. Which would, in turn, cut off half his bread-and-butter income—income from the club. His business might be booming today, but he knew too well how life could turn on a dime.
Isaac shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
As soon as he’d agreed, a weight lifted from his shoulders. Shirking responsibility had never come easily to him, but if he were honest, this might be a good idea. Nothing but the feel of warm air on his skin as he toured the dark countryside among men who had his back. Next best thing to a night in bed with a warm, willing woman, which hadn’t happened in way too long. “I’ll just clean up. Be out in a few.”
The night ride was just what Isaac needed. Jeremy would be smiling down on him now as he wound his way along country backroads in Devil’s Run among men who loved motorcycles the way he and Jeremy had. But Isaac had to admit, rides like this also made him miss his brother even more.
He was relieved when they finally reached the bar, ready to drink away the pain. Especially if he had to play counselor to this club member they called Bix.
The dive was busy and loud, and their group was greeted by other Steel Warriors. Isaac was taken into the fold as if he were a full-fledged member. He was fully aware of his place on the fringe, a place he occupied only when invited as he had been tonight. But he accepted the relationships for what they were.
He found Bix and formally introduced himself by offering his hand. “Isaac,” he said. “But the guys call me everything from Wrench to Wingnut.”
“The mechanic.” Bix was a young guy in his late twenties, but he had a look about him that made him seem far older. A look that spoke of trauma and pain, of having stared into the abyss. Isaac had seen that abyss when Jeremy committed suicide. He recognized the devastation Bix now wore as a dark, blank expression. “I heard you lost your brother.”
Bix’s directness reminded Isaac of Jeremy and twisted the knife in his chest. “Guilty,” Isaac said. “I hear the same happened to you.”
“Not blood brothers—”
“But brothers nonetheless.”
“Absolutely.”
Isaac nodded. “Let’s get a drink and find a place to talk.”
When Bix agreed, Isaac moved toward the bar. He turned to face the crowd, punched a fist into the air, and yelled, “Listen up. First round’s on me.”
Cheering ripped through the bar, and Bix cracked his first smile, making Isaac feel like the big brother he should have been for Jeremy.
When he turned back to grab his own drink, his eyes fell on a blonde sitting three stools away.
Money was the first thought to cross his mind. A slew of others followed, but they all culminated into one realization: she was slumming. Big-time. Everything from her fat blonde curls to the rhinestones on her black thigh-high boots screamed old money from Greenwich or new money from Manhattan. A redhead sat with her. She wasn’t quite as flashy in ripped jeans, a tank, and ankle-high, spiked boots, but she was still just as striking and just as much of a misfit.
Little upper-crust princesses looking for escape from their castles.
The thought curled Isaac’s lip. He purposely focused on the bartender. “Jager and Coke.” He pulled his wallet and offered a credit card. “For the round.”
The two guys sitting between Isaac and the women thanked him and abandoned their stools in favor of a couple of trashy biker chicks. Isaac watched the bartender whip up drinks, his mind drifting back to his other life. Life before Jeremy’s death. He needed to make time to stop by the house and see his parents.
“Does that round include us?” The blonde’s voice caressed Isaac’s ear. Sweet, conciliatory, pleasant. Her tone and her voice spoke of manners and breeding.
He turned his gaze toward the women. The blonde had her elbow on the bar, her chin propped in her hand, and openly stared at Isaac with pretty sky-blue eyes. He looked through her flirty smile, and a memory pinged in Isaac’s brain.
He leaned his elbow on the bar. “You look…familiar.”
Her
smile grew. “If I tell you the same, could I get you to buy me a drink?”
Isaac glanced at the bartender. “Include the ladies, please.”
“Ladies,” she said, drawing out the word. “Refreshing. Babe, hot mama, and sweet thing were getting old.”
She moved to the stool beside Isaac. She smelled like cool breezes in a field of wildflowers. He narrowed his eyes on her. Definitely familiar. If he was right about Greenwich, it wouldn’t be a stretch for their paths to have crossed.
“I’m Ava.” She offered her hand.
The gesture struck him sideways. As did the name. Ava. Ava.
“I’d forgo the drink to get to know you.”
Her words brought Isaac back, and he found her hand still extended. He took it, surprised to find her shake solid and confident. “Ava. Ava…?”
“Yes, Ava.” She pulled her hand from his, ignoring his request for her last name.
Where in the hell had he seen her? “Did you get lost on your way home from Manhattan, Ava?”
She tilted her head and held his gaze. “No. I’m here by design.”
“I’d say that design needs to go back to the drawing board.”
She smiled. A big, amused smile. The kind of smile he saw on toothpaste commercials.
“Where are you from?” he asked, his mind still searching.
Ava. Ava. Ava.
“I live in the city. My parents have a place here.”
He’d been right about Manhattan. “Here as in Devil’s Run?”
Humor lit her eyes as if the idea were absurd. “A little farther north.”
He’d nailed it. Greenwich was directly due north. And she lived in New York.
Greenwich, old money, Ava…
It all clicked. Ava Jennings.
Isaac’s worlds collided. Ava-fucking-Jennings in a biker bar. The universe tilted on its axis.
He leaned into the bar and searched her eyes. “Do I look familiar?”
He might be older, he might be wearing more scruff than usual, but when he visited his parents, people always recognized him.
