Changing Gears
Shifting into Love: Book One
Roseanne Beck
Table of Contents
Title Page
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
AUTHOR BIO & WHERE TO FIND ME
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ALSO BY ROSEANNE BECK
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
For Karla
Thank you for keeping me grounded while encouraging me to stretch my wings.
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
AUTHOR BIO & WHERE TO FIND ME
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ALSO BY ROSEANNE BECK
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Lauren
AS I SCAN THE KARAOKE bar, I’m certain of several things.
One—Mullet Mike should absolutely be banned from wearing Elvis jumpsuits.
Two—the older women who always commandeer the front-center table have the bluest hair I’ve ever seen.
And three—the couple onstage performing I Got You Babe make a very convincing Sonny and Cher. Even though they’re both men.
What I’m not certain of is the location of my sister. Or her boyfriend, AJ. They were supposed to meet us here half an hour ago.
As if reading my mind, my friend Megan asks, “Where’s Kylie?”
I shrug. “Who knows? Maybe she and AJ are stuck at work.”
Megan swivels toward me and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Stuck licking each other’s faces off.”
“Ew. Thanks for that mental picture.” Although she’s right. That probably is what they’re doing. And I have actually caught them doing worse. Much, much worse. On the counters of our shop, no less.
I’m totally scarred for life.
Not that I’m a prude or anything. But you’re not supposed to see your sister in flagrante. Ever. Definitely not at your place of business. And definitely not with an employee. Although, of the two of us, she would be the one to push the boundaries.
“Oh! There she is. Hey, Kylie! Over here!” Megan waves toward the front door, then drops her voice. “Uh-oh. She looks pissed.”
Crap. She does look pissed. My sister’s movements are clipped and rigid, she’s got that steely look in her eye, and I can practically see the steam coming out of her ears.
“Everything okay?” I ask as she plunks her butt on the barstool next to me.
“No, Lauren,” Kylie spits out. “Everything is not okay. Where’s Andrew?” She cranes her neck, trying to locate the bartender.
Oookay. Megan and I share a glance, and I slide my glass of Shiraz in front of Kylie.
My sister pulls a face and pushes the glass back toward me. “No thanks. I need the hard stuff tonight.” She catches Andrew’s eye. “I need a Three Wise Men!”
Megan lets out a low whistle, and my eyes widen. Kylie hasn’t done shots of Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, and Jack Daniels for a long time. I don’t even think Dad’s death rated that particular trifecta.
Kylie slides a credit card across the counter, slams back the drink Andrew places in front of her, and then motions for another. “Just start a tab.”
Megan and I exchange another glance before I turn my attention back to my sister. “So, uh, what brings your three favorite guys back to town?”
Kylie presses her lips into a thin line, and her nostrils flare. Sure signs that she’s trying hard not to explode. She knocks back her second shot and winces. “Damn. That’s good.” She blows out a long breath, either trying to calm herself down or negate the alcohol sting, and her knuckles whiten around her shot glass. “AJ and I are done.”
“Oh, Ky.” I throw my arm around her shoulders and pull her in for a quick hug. “I’m so sorry.” I know it’s the right thing to say, but a tiny piece of me breathes a sigh of relief. I never thought he was good enough for her. There was just something about him that rubbed me the wrong way. But now is definitely not the time to tell her that.
Again.
Of course, the fact that they’re no longer together also means the atmosphere at the shop will be super uncomfortable. After all, he is our chief bicycle mechanic.
Great.
“What happened?” I ask.
“He started acting weird yesterday. Found him freaking out this afternoon.”
Megan and I share a glance. AJ has the emotional range of a teaspoon. I wouldn’t have thought freaking out was in his wheelhouse. Unless... “He wasn’t on drugs, was he?” God. That would explain so much.
“What? No.” Kylie shakes her head. “Turns out, he got a call from his ex.” Her jaw clenches. “His pregnant ex.”
“Oh. Wow.” At least it’s not Kylie who’s pregnant. That’s a whole other level of complication we just can’t handle right now.
“Wait,” Megan says. “Is he—”
“—the father? Yep.” Kylie cracks her knuckles.
“Huh. Guess he’s not such a bad guy after all,” I muse.
Kylie’s nostrils flare, and she’s gripping her glass so tightly I wouldn’t be surprised to see it shatter. “She wasn’t pregnant when AJ and I started dating.”
Megan cringes. “Oh, shit.”
“Yeah. He was cheating on me with his ex.” Kylie takes several deep breaths and straightens her shoulders. “Anyway. I’ve decided.”
“That you’re not gonna date any more losers?” Crap. Didn’t mean to say that out loud. Must’ve been a combination of the wine and stress.
She shoots me with her laser beam eyes. “No. Well, yes. But no. No more dating for me, period. And definitely no dating employees. For either of us. Too messy.”
I bite back a snort. I could’ve told her that. Hell, I did tell her that. On several occasions. But mentioning that fact now isn’t gonna do either of us any good.
And while part of me resents her feeling the need to include me in her decree, the majority of my brain shrugs in resignation. Not like it’s gonna be
a hardship on my end. I don’t recall the last time I went out on a date. Even before our dad’s death six months ago, dating and I never really got along. Partially because I’m naturally introverted, and partially because I’m socially awkward around hot guys. Add in the fact that I’m still trying to sort through the shop’s finances while working part-time at the college, and I’ve got my hands full.
Plus, our only other employee is our uncle. “Crap! Uncle Pete!”
Kylie waves her hand. “Eh, I don’t think Uncle Pete’s gonna miss AJ. He never did like him very much.”
“No. I mean, isn’t Uncle Pete’s shoulder surgery tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” Her eyes widen. “Shit. I totally forgot about that.”
“Please tell me AJ’s ex lives locally.”
Kylie shakes her head. “He quit. He’s probably at the airport now.”
“What?” I squeak. “He didn’t even give us notice? Can you call him and beg him to stay?” Not that I really want AJ hanging around, but with him gone and Uncle Pete out of commission for several weeks, we’ll have zero bicycle mechanics. Which isn’t really a good business model for a bicycle shop. Especially one that’s already struggling.
While Kylie has the skills to do repairs, her days are usually jam-packed with the front-end aspects of the job—customer service, ordering supplies and equipment, trying to get a handle on the overall business. And I’m just the numbers girl—finances, accounts payable, and accounts receivable. Totally hopeless when it comes to the hands-on stuff.
Kylie huffs. “Hell, no, I am not begging him to stay. We’ll figure something out. We always do.”
I swallow the rest of my drink in one long gulp.
We’d better figure it out. And quick. I’ve run the numbers. Things don’t look pretty.
There’s a $10,000 estate tax due in a couple of months and a $30,000 balloon payment due several months after that. Which we might be able to cover with some hard work and a little luck.
Timing-wise, the beginning of spring always brings an increase in bike sales and repairs. Plus, the upcoming Pedals & Medals event usually results in a bump in the income column. Add in the new city bike program we’ve been hearing whispers about and Dad’s life insurance policy, and we might just be able to squeak by.
Assuming, of course, we have a mechanic.
Geez. I didn’t think I could dislike my sister’s latest boyfriend any more.
I guess I was wrong.
AFTER ANOTHER GLASS of wine, however, things don’t seem quite so bad.
Except my sister’s singing. That’s still as horrible as ever. Some people get better as their blood alcohol level rises. Not Kylie. It starts at “tone deaf” and goes downhill from there. She’s currently in her “dying cat” range.
What she lacks in the ability to hit any kind of recognizable pitch, she more than makes up for with enthusiasm, however. That’s part of what makes her so good at her job. I would much rather be behind the scenes. She, on the other hand, doesn’t mind making them.
Karaoke’s probably one of the few places I’m okay being in the spotlight, especially after a couple of drinks, and especially when Kylie’s onstage with me. Because one—as opposed to my sister, I actually have a decent voice. And two—with her up there, it’s a safe bet no one will be paying much attention to me.
Which is why I don’t protest when she waves me up.
“You two have fun!” Megan chuckles as she shoos me away.
A grin stretches across my face when I see the song Kylie has queued up. Taking the extra mic from her outstretched hand, I mentally prepare myself for the performance of one of our old standbys. I manage to maintain my focus until Kylie starts gyrating to the disco beat of Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive.
Damn. Every time. My sister always manages to do something to throw me off. It’s like her superpower. This time, she’s doing a weird combination of the disco finger point and the wax on/wax off maneuver from The Karate Kid, all while swiveling her hips as if she’s trying to win a hula-hoop contest.
After the third time she bumps her hip against mine, I give in. It’s either join her or sustain massive bruising.
So I join her with the disco pointy finger and rock my hips side to side.
If disco wasn’t dead before, we sure are killing it now.
And not in a good way.
But the crowd seems to be enjoying it. The Blue Hair Ladies even shout with us as we butcher the chorus and disco-point toward the door.
And despite the fact that I’m actually a pretty good singer, my voice slides right off the note. Because there, right inside the door, is one of the most gorgeous guys I’ve ever seen. Dark hair that’s a little too long to be considered respectable, tattoos snaking up muscular forearms. The only imperfection is the fact that he’s on crutches, a huge green cast extending from under his shorts down to his toes.
Well, that, and the scowl on his face.
But even the scowl looks sexy.
Just adds to the bad boy appearance.
The scowl deepens as Kylie hits a note that makes even me cringe. And I’ve had a lifetime of building up my immunity.
His eyes flick to mine, and electricity races down my spine.
Of course, that could be my nervous system trying to reboot itself after Kylie’s misfire.
Okay, Lauren. Focus. You’re here to support your sister. Not pick up men.
Ha! As if.
Picking up men is Megan’s thing. Just like being the tomboy extrovert is Kylie’s thing and being the introverted good girl is mine.
Plus, he’s here with a woman. And even if he wasn’t, he looks like he’d be right up Megan’s alley. And definitely out of my league.
So, I refocus on my sister, catching her eye in time to belt out the final line. While I’m still holding the note, she shouts, “Suck it, AJ!”
“That’s right!” one of the Blue Hair Ladies yells back. “You tell him!”
Fearing that Kylie might, in fact, continue to tell AJ just what he can do, I wrestle the mic out of her hand and sling an arm around her shoulder, forcibly leading her off the stage.
“I will survive,” she slurs as I steer her back toward our seats. “Without AJ. Without men! Men!” She throws back her head and barks out a laugh. “We don’t need no stinking men!”
My heart stutters as we pass by Mr. Hottie’s table.
Need? No.
But it sure would be nice to have the option once in a while.
CHAPTER TWO
Jake
“SERIOUSLY? I MAKE ONE innocent comment about getting bed sores from your couch, and this is your response?” I give my sister the stink-eye.
“Hey. You’re the one who’s been bitching and moaning about getting out of the house. And I know how much you like music...” Tracy grins.
I jab my finger toward the stage, cringing as the duo onstage hits one wrong note after another. “This is not music. This is where music comes to die.”
Tracy rolls her eyes. “Quit your whining.”
“You did this on purpose.”
“Did what?” She gives me the innocent look that lets me know I’m right.
“Brought me to this godforsaken place so I’d quit bitching about being cooped up inside.”
She flutters her lashes. “Did I?”
“I hate you so much right now.”
Another grin stretches across her face, and she leans forward, ruffling my hair. “No, you don’t. Besides. Not much you can do about it.” She stands up and heads for the bar.
Dammit. I hate the fact that my sister is right. Almost as much as I hate the fact that I’m at the mercy of her and my brother-in-law for the foreseeable future.
Shit.
My leg throbs, almost as if echoing my dismay, and I wedge one of my crutches under my cast in an attempt to get it elevated in a semi-comfortable position.
Unfortunately, I don’t know that there is such a thing.
I shoot my leg a disgusted loo
k. Another two weeks of this monstrosity. Then at least another four in a shorter cast and probably a walking boot after. Out of commission for the rest of the year. Shoot me now.
Although, I guess I should be thankful that at least I’m able to be up and around. Unlike the previous three weeks, where I was pretty much relegated to my sister and brother-in-law’s guest bed or couch with my leg elevated to control the pain and swelling.
But seriously. I’m liable to be batshit crazy by the time I’m fully healed.
Assuming I do, in fact, fully heal.
I do my best to squash the little voice of uncertainty that reminds me I’m not young anymore. That this time, my injury might not heal up quite so fast. Or at all.
Broken bones pretty much come with the territory in my line of work. But it’s a hell of a lot easier to heal when you’re in your teens and early twenties. Not quite as easy when you’re twenty-eight and already full of hardware.
I’ve known a couple of guys who sustained similar injuries. They’re not on tour anymore.
Fuck.
The queasy mixture of fear and uncertainty rolls through my gut once again.
What the hell am I gonna do if my leg doesn’t heal like it’s supposed to? Not like my years of BMX and Motocross racing have prepared me for any real-world jobs. Unless there’s a job market for semi-decent has-beens somewhere I don’t know about.
“We don’t need no stinking men!”
The shout from the stage area jars me from my thoughts.
While I feel honor-bound to maintain my air of disgust at my sister’s choice in bars, I have to admit that it’s not that bad. It seems like everyone’s having a good time, and for a karaoke place, there’s a pretty decent crowd. In fact, if I weren’t throwing myself such a pity party, I’d probably get up there myself.
My eyes track the duo as they head back to their seats. Actually, the shorter one’s pretty damned cute. Chin-length blonde hair, skin that flushes as she darts me a green-eyed glance, and a nice ass that holds my attention as she steers the taller woman past me toward the bar.
Something niggles at the back of my brain as she takes a seat. Why does that other woman they’re sitting with look familiar?
Changing Gears Page 1
