Select Love: A BWWM Romance (Blazin' Love Book 8)

by Ja'Nese Dixon

  Dad glances around the table. “Shall we discuss the specifics of this friendly competition.”

  An unspoken agreement passes through my siblings, and I open my hand towards my father's vacant chair. "Absolutely."

  Dad lowers into the chair. Paper and iPads appear and cover the table. My brain buzzes with activity as the volume of my thoughts compete with the moment. Dad sets individual criteria for each of us based on our departments. The deadline is the end of the year. His words reach my ears in a drawn-out slur as if my mind in processing in slow motion. Yet my thoughts try running ahead of each response to construct my plan and my timeline.

  I envision my calendar, subtracting the holidays and our vacation. That makes roughly six to seven weeks tops to move from sales manager to general manager. I release a slow, unsteady breath. This is beyond my wildest dream for my career. I'm okay with my current position. We each play our part to help our family, but I never thought sitting in the GM seat was possible, but it is.

  The meeting ends almost two hours later once Mom and Dad leave. A swoosh of collective relief falls over the room.

  “What just happened?” Donovan scrubs his hands over his face.

  “Dad dealt the cards. What’s your response?” I load my electronics back into my purse and check the time. It’s a little after eight. Everyone’s in except Blake.

  He shrugs. "I'd rather hold down my department and work on developing my ranch. But each of you have my full support. What about you, Lynnie? Can you handle this and Platinum Prestige?"

  “Yes,” escapes without a single hesitation.

  I'll need to check some tasks off my current list like this order with Cade, and I need to bring the guys up to date. I'm sure Hunter can disperse any other major accounts to one of the other guys until I'm promoted to GM. I figure three months is all the window I'll need to make this happen.

  “Speaking of Platinum Prestige, I need to get moving.” I grab my things and hug them one by one. I stop in the doorway. “I love you guys, but get ready to move my furniture into Dad’s old office.”

  "That bleach must have seeped into your brain." Donovan jokes, pounding fists with Tristan.

  “I promise you’re not ready to rumble with me. Well, may the best woman win. Toodles.” I toss a finger wave at the sound of their laughter and head to my car. The click-clack of my heels on the concrete floor draws me closer to the exit. The dreams on my ten-year list zoom forward, and my heart jumps with glee.

  “Six weeks Payton.” I’m excited about telling the guys. But accomplishing the goals set by Dad in six weeks feels insurmountable in light of the deadline. I’m sure that’s why he set the benchmark.

  I remove my jacket and unbutton a few buttons on my shirt before sitting in my car. What a night. I pull out my cellphone and send a text message. SOS! My place in two hours. Respond, and I'll send drivers. This calls for REAL drinks. Dad's retiring. Help!

  I turn over the engine, and the display glows with directions. I almost forgot. The garage is less than fifteen minutes away. Donovan's words creep in my mind, but Dad's unexpected announcements make this trip a necessity. I hear my phone singing with responses as I follow the sound of the woman giving me turn by turn directions until I'm sitting outside a showroom. The well-lit dealership sits in the middle of nowhere.

  I duck my head to see the top of the building, Cade’s Custom Cycles. The lights are on inside, but in a way that tells me they're closed, plus the parking lot is empty. I grab my stun gun and get out of the car. I lock the doors behind me and walk closer to see the bikes inside.

  The place rivals our showroom—the large glass walls with LED lighting overhead display several motorcycles. I cup my hands over my eyes, hoping to see further inside, but it appears no one's around. I turn to leave when the sound of metal tumbling to the ground and a loud groan cuts through the quiet night stealing the air from my lungs.

  My stun gun and keys tumble to the ground as the hand of fear pounds my heart against my sternum. I scan my surroundings, thankful I'm alone. I look back towards the sound as I scramble to pick them up. Maybe this wasn't my brightest idea of the night.

  I turn towards the sound and weigh my options. I can leave, or I can go and see if the person needs help or I can leave. Wait…I thought that already.

  I place my thumb cautiously over the panic button on my keychain and position my stun gun in my right hand. I walk on the balls of my feet to keep my heels from warning the unknown person that I'm moving closer. Every few steps, I take a glance back at my car, ensuring that it's still there. Because if anything jumps off, I’m out of these shoes and in my car in ten seconds flat.

  I reach the edge of the building. This end is nearly black. I turn back to the light, trying to exhale the pent-up fear and inhale an ounce of courage to peek around this corner, but I can’t. I lean against the building taking a few breaths in my nose and out my mouth.

  Donovan’s words assault me, and I conclude these damn motorcycles aren’t worth my life. I stare at my car with the cold concrete against my back. A tremor shakes through my body.

  “Fuck it.” I slip the stun gun in my pocket and remove my shoes. I start across the pavement in a mix of a shuffle, skip, run as the rocky gravel digs into my bare feet.

  “Freeze.”

  Why didn’t I listen to Donovan?

  I throw my hands up, scared shitless. The sound of my shoes hitting the ground and my ragged breaths hang between the stranger and me. My car is right there. I'm so close I can smell my leather seats. I take a baby step.

  “Ma’am, I’m not the kidding kind. You’re on private property, after business hours. Turn around.” The voice has a savage edge to it that demands obedience.

  "All right. But don't shoot. Okay?" Common sense tells me to comply, although my feet are itching to run. But I refuse to be shot in the back. I follow his command, and the voice is hidden in the depths of the darkness.

  I take stock of my predicament. I’m here alone, at night, in the middle of nowhere, and no one knows where I am. This seems like the set up for a scary movie where the Black character dies first.

  "Look, I'll come back during business hours. Just let me get in my car, and I'll leave you to whatever it is you're doing back there."

  I flick my fingers towards the soft light in the back of the parking lot. I assume it’s the service garage. But it’s hard to tell from here.

  “You don’t look like the bike riding type.”

  “Because I’m not. You’re creeping me out. So, either let me go or step into the light.” I demand knowing he could deny my request. But he’s asking questions as if this is a friendly conversation, and it’s not.

  “Always bossy?” His voice softens a little.

  “I try when held hostage by The Dark Knight of Austin.”

  He laughs, and my eyes search for his face in the darkness. "What's your name, Goldie?"

  “Payton, and yours?”

  “Payton Stephens?”

  “Yes…” My nerves shake my voice. “And yours?”

  He takes two steps clearing the edge of the building, stepping into the light. Dark eyes, dark hair pulled up into a man bun and a towering presence. The white t-shirt stretches across his broad chest, and he walks until he's an arm's length away. He looks down into my eyes, and I can't breathe.

  “Cade Reynolds.”

  Chapter 3

  “You triggered the alarm.” I clear the shadows of the building curious to see her up close. I point to the security cameras, but her sharp eyes remain glued to my face.

  Her presence on the premises did trigger the security system. Still, it was my unsteady legs that caused all my tools to tumble in the garage. I caught a glimpse of her brown satin skin, feline eyes, enclosed by honey-colored hair.

  God, she’s beautiful. I take another step, and she steps back.

  "I didn't mean to startle you. But the addition of the showroom seems to attract the good and bad." I shrug it off. "The bad have learned
to stay away from my property, but the chrome dressed beauties on the showroom floor are magnets."

  “How did you know my name?”

  She speaks… “I received a few messages from you. But I haven’t gotten around to returning your phone calls.”

  “You ignored them?” Her brows scrunch.

  “Yes, it’s the best way to get rid of unwanted requests.”

  “Unwanted requests. How do you know it’s an unwanted request if you don’t return the call?”

  “Because I have a two-year waiting list.”

  "Two years!" She shouts.

  I nod with a smile. “I’m a man in demand. But you can reach someone in sales between nine and six, Monday through Saturday. I’m sure they can help you find something that suits your needs.”

  "But, I came to talk to you." Her voice fades.

  "And you did. Let me walk you to your car." Keeping my hands to myself seems like the most challenging task of the night. Her eyes, her voice, all call to me, and the word is clear: mine.

  However, women like her have no place in my world. A world of bikers and beer, rowdy men and women willing and ready to claim a Steel Ryder, especially the founder and president.

  Payton is the exact opposite of what I need, even if I want her.

  We walk in silence, and I slide my hands in my pockets. I look out over the parking lot to her sleek black sports car. A vehicle says a lot about a person. The sexy streamline coupe is much like the owner.

  The Bentley Continental makes me swing my eyes back to the beauty beside me. This baby starts at six figures.

  "Gift from daddy?" I ask, reaching for the door.

  "No, a gift from myself." She pushes my hand away, opening the door for herself. The moment she touches me, I forget this is not something I want. I slam the door closed and stare into her eyes.

  “How about a tour of the place?”

  "I'd rather not. You've made it clear that we have competing goals. It's best that I take my business elsewhere." Her response is accurate, but her abrasive tone calls to the man in me.

  “I’m sure we can work something out.” I step back to avoid her swinging door.

  “You. Wish." The door slams, and the purr of her engine follows.

  Payton slips through my hands, taking the enticing aroma of her perfume with her. I stand in the empty parking lot until her taillights disappear into the night.

  I head back to my garage. I step inside, activating the alarm and turn to the mess I left. I can clean it up and get back to work or daydream about Payton. The tools win.

  I turn on some music and let the hard rock fill my workspace. I complete the bulk of my work overnight to have the place to myself. I work better alone, and I was okay with it until I saw Payton admiring my bikes on the showroom floor.

  I toss the wrench into the chrome toolbox with more force than I realize because all the perfectly placed tools tumble to the floor again.

  “Fine.”

  I drop to the stool with Payton on my mind. It’s a waste of my time. A woman like her deserves better than a man like me.

  I stare at the 1972 Sportster damaged by a wreak over twenty years ago, and now it's mounted on a custom frame in my shop. The structure was my first customization to my garage, and it allows me to work freely without the need of an assistant.

  We've since built eight for my private collection and sold hundreds more to small Harley specialist shops around the country. My need turned into a lucrative arm of my business and funded the garage, then the showroom upfront. In less than ten years, I went from an ex-criminal, unable to find a job to a millionaire. And thanks to my custom bikes, I'm set for life.

  I walk over and pick up the clipboard beside the bike and go to my computer. I open the joint spreadsheet I share with my assistant, Ginger. I log the client updates before logging out of the system. She'll take my updates and share the progress with the clients. I add a note about the additional parts that need to be ordered before dropping the clipboard on my workstation.

  I increase the volume of the music and start the task of picking up the tools and cleaning my area. Then I drop heavy canvas clothes over each motorcycle. I’m actively working on the Sportster and a 1982 Lowrider. I stop to admire it. My leather guy will be in tomorrow to finish the seat. Then we’ll detail it until it shines before sending it home with another satisfied client. I lower the cover over it and head back to my desk.

  I work on a couple bikes at a time. Some are awaiting parts, some are waiting for the seed of inspiration to hit me, all are waiting for my time. But returning tomorrow with a clean slate always gives me a boost of energy. Much like the surge of energy, I felt when Payton touched me, my forearm tingles as if remembering it again.

  “What’s up, Stone? Getting a late start?” I look up to see Diesel standing at the backdoor.

  “Nah, I’m calling it a night.”

  He looks from his watch to me. “Since when do you finish before the rooster crows?”

  “I don’t.” I throw the dirty rags in the bin in the corner. “What are you doing back?”

  “I forgot the final numbers for the Turkey Trot. Grab your shit and head to the bar with me.”

  "That sounds better than hanging around here, thinking about the Goldie."

  “Who’s Goldie?” Diesel stops.

  “Nobody, just thinking out loud. Let me grab my wallet and helmet.”

  I walk through the garage to my small private area. I open the door and pull my wallet, cellphone, and keys out of the drawer. Then I notice the phone messages from Ginger. I intentionally ignored Payton's calls. I get hundreds of calls a day. I can't possibly take all the requests. So, I usually stick with repeat clients and referrals first, then I squeeze in new clients when I can.

  “You ready?” Diesel calls out.

  “Yeah.” I put on my worn leather vest and turn out the lights.

  I straddle my Big Dog Chopper. The custom detailing of the Steel Ryders MC logo in soft pearl across the glossy black surface makes this baby a head-turner. I remove my ponytail before lowering my helmet over my head. I fire it up, loving the growl of the engine. I rev it a few times before we pull out, making the short drive to the bar.

  The chrome shines in the streetlights, and a group of women stops on the sidewalk as we drive into the parking lot. It was a hole in the wall until we became equal partners with the owner. I dropped fifty grand into it and remodeled the place. Then renamed it after the motorcycle club. Now, we have a space to hang out away from the shop with good beer and amazing food.

  I recognize most of the bikes lined up out front. I park in my designated space.

  “Hey, good lookin’.”

  I remove my helmet and gather my hair. I smile and tip my head in their direction as Diesel parks beside me. We enter the place, and I order a round of beers and a burger with fries before walking back to our area.

  The guys stand and exchange hugs, surprised to see me. I prefer working alone. I attend mandatory meetings, but I trust my team to handle the details. We've done this fundraiser for almost ten years. Ace can handle it without my input or supervision.

  "What are you guys working on tonight?" I sit, and the rest of the guys gather around the table.

  For the next hour, Ace, our Road Captain, covers the logistics for the Turkey Trot. This year we're covering ten towns in four days.

  “How big is the truck this year?” I ask.

  "Twenty-six feet." Ace proclaims proudly, and the roar of their cheers fill the bar.

  “Well done.” I extend my beer to the center of the table, and we all touch with a rowdy roll of laughter before closing out business.

  The night is filled with beer, pool, and darts. I find myself relaxed at a table with Diesel. I’m glad I came out.

  “What’s going on with you, man?" Diesel leans forward, turning his beer up toward the ceiling.

  “A woman came by the shop driving a Bentley.”

  Diesel whistles. “To buy a bike?” />
  "I guess." I shrug and empty my bottle. I sit it aside, resting my elbows on the table.

  Diesel is the quiet type. In our younger years, he was the muscle, and I was the brains. Both landed us in juvie. We vowed to get out and never look back. And we've been clean and on this side of the law for more years than our wilder years. But those days seem a lot closer when I encounter people like Payton.

  “What about her has you like this?”

  “I don’t know. Do you ever think about settling down?”

  “With a dame that drives a Bentley?” His eyebrows shoot up.

  "A dame?" I chuckle, I sit back, draping my arm across the back of a chair.

  “It’s better than bitches or broads.”

  “You can call her a woman.”

  "That sounds like you're talking about your mother. A dame sounds borderline hot, given the circumstances." He pops the top on another beer.

  “I’m sure it’s probably all equally offensive.”

  “Then the Bentley type isn’t for me. I want a woman so fucking hot she’ll put a broad, dame, and a fox to shame.” He sits back with humor in his eyes.

  I guess I follow his logic. Women in our world are pretty low-key about that stuff as long as you're not offensive. I think it's all in the tone and the context. But I can't see myself addressing Payton with either.

  “As for your question, no. Settle down for what. We’re rich, our business is knocking on a billion,” he whispers, popping a fry in his mouth. “We’re good looking. We give back to the community. Shit, we’re the fucking blue whales of the ocean.”

  My beer flies out of my mouth, and I can't stop it, or I’ll choke. “Blue whales?”

  “Fuck yeah. Did you know they get close to 100 feet long and almost 200 tons? Un-fucking-believable." He tips the beer in my direction, clearly amazed.

  "No, Diesel, I didn't know that." I wipe my mouth. "So, no wife and kids for you.”

  “Kids, maybe. Wife. Nah.” He sits back as if thinking about it. “What do you and I know about wives? Our moms did piss pour jobs at raising us. Our dads ran the streets with whatever skirts they could tackle. The way I see it is fewer hearts get broken when you’re honest and single.”