Slow Ride: Powertools: Hot Rides, Book #2

by Jayne Rylon

  Yeah, Wren wasn’t sure why she’d waited so long to become part of this gaggle of misfits. For the first time in her life, she really felt like she’d found her place. That had made the decision to give up her apartment in Middletown and move into the empty tiny home next to Devra, Trevon, and Quinn’s on the Hot Rides property that much easier.

  Especially since Ollie had agreed to Quinn’s proposal that he scavenge parts exclusively for Hot Rides and their sister-shop, Hot Rods, down the road for a premium and the same shares in the garage that the rest of them got, too. Since then, he’d been parking his van in the grass near their tiny homes, camping out overnight before hitting the road again early the next morning, en route to whatever junk heap turned gold mine he wanted to explore next. They hadn’t realized at first that Ollie was a card-carrying member of the van-life club. She’d always assumed he used his rig for hauling his treasures home after a successful salvage. In actuality, he had a trailer for that.

  The inside of his long white van was an immaculate tiny home, not so different from Quinn’s or the one she now occupied. Unlike her parents, everyone at Hot Rides was making it clear that having what made you happy didn’t have to mean having a lot of fancy shit.

  The simple life was the best.

  With the awning and propane barbeque Ollie had built into the exterior of the van, he had no trouble expanding his living space during the summer. Hell, he even had a pet hedgehog that was the cutest damn thing she’d ever seen. Now that they were heading into the cooler part of the year, he appreciated a spot complete with hot water showers and an electricity hookup to hunker down in.

  And they all enjoyed having him around more.

  No doubt about it. Ollie was exactly the kind of guy Wren should be looking for if she was ever going to admit she might be ready to move on from the glorious disaster her love life had been for five no-fucking years. Unfortunately, no matter how hard she tried to feel something for him below the belt, it just wasn’t happening.

  Maybe she wasn’t as healed as she’d hoped.

  Ollie mistook her extended silence for introspection about her parents instead of him and what might have been if she wasn’t so damn damaged. “Your folks obviously made you feel like your dreams weren’t valid—or that you weren’t as kickass as we know you are—if you didn’t do what they would have chosen for you, but at least they cared enough to try to help you in their own way. Maybe?”

  He tried to put a positive spin on things, which was something she really appreciated about him. Nothing ever got him down, and he was willing to raise the people around him up when they could use a boost.

  “I guess.” Wren cleared her throat. Someday she should probably attempt to smooth things over with them. She’d tried once, after things had imploded with Jordan and Johnny, making her realize that if she didn’t tell people important stuff when she had the chance, she might live to regret that decision.

  It hadn’t gone well. The rumor mill had carried hints of her bad behavior back to her parents, disgracing them when she was romantically linked with two different men at the same time. She hadn’t had the guts to tell them that they had it all wrong. That she wasn’t frivolous or some kind of slut. She should have made them understand that she’d loved both men, even if she’d ended up with neither in the end.

  Wren was different now. Stronger, she hoped.

  That didn’t stop her from leaping up when the roar of two engines echoed up the long, winding driveway to Hot Rides. Small doses of this friend shit were enough for her right now. She was still getting used to opening herself up again, even if these men and women would never judge her for the things she revealed to them.

  Considering their propensity for acceptance and the ménage Quinn, Trevon, and Devra had going, she might even get up the nerve to unburden herself about her past relationship…eventually.

  For now, she was glad for the perfect excuse to slip away from their conversation.

  It was dangerous, working here. Coming to care for the Hot Rides.

  But she hadn’t been able to stop herself. She’d fallen in love with being part of their not-so-little family. Wren hoped they couldn’t tell how desperately she needed them.

  “You guys keep eating. I’ve got this.” She had nothing else to do since the shop was still building their clientele and had only recently added her services to their menu of offerings.

  Despite both Gavyn, the shop’s owner, and Quinn, the head mechanic and shop manager, telling her to call it quits early, she hadn’t gone home. Mostly because it didn’t sit right with her to take advantage considering the beyond-generous salary they paid her. Partly because she lived right out back so she was sort of home already. And a little bit because she was pathetic enough to crave her co-workers’ companionship given that she had essentially been a hermit these past five years.

  “You sure?” Quinn asked around a mouthful of falafel.

  She laughed and flashed him a thumbs-up, happy to help.

  If Wren had only known what was coming, she might have changed her mind. In hindsight, the gut punch caused by meeting the man about to stroll through Hot Rides’ door would make the uncomfortable discussion they’d been having seem like Welding 101 versus TIG-welding aluminum.

  Fortunately, she was a master of her craft and had a lot of experience suppressing her emotions.

  4

  Kason hooted as he took the sweeping curves through the woods leading to Hot Rides faster than he ought. Not because of the rush of adrenaline, though he’d be lying if he didn’t welcome that taste of the forbidden. He did it because he knew his bodyguard—Van Hernandez—would be scowling fiercely in his fancy black pickup truck with heavily tinted windows, which trailed the purple-and-orange customized Ducati Diavel power cruiser Kason was hoping to have enhanced and fine-tuned while he was in town.

  Fortunately, Van had never yet kicked his ass, though he’d threatened to when Kason’s thrill-seeking tendencies had gotten out of hand with excessive drinking, drugs, and gambling in the past year or two. His friend’s concern had convinced Kason to take some time off, ground himself, and get help.

  For some of his problems, anyway.

  So far no one—not even Van or his counselor—had figured out the real reason he’d done all that dumb shit. And Kason was planning on keeping it that way.

  Van would have to deal with Kason’s minor rebellion.

  Hell, he’d even worn a helmet. How much more could the man ask of him even if it was his job to keep Kason safe?

  Too soon, the winding country road led him to a painted sign. It was black with flames in the background and the silhouette of a motorcycle up front. Hot Rides was lettered in silver inside the shape of the bike.

  Kason deliberately signaled before making the right into the long driveway that led to the specialty shop, which was gaining quite a reputation for the quality of their work. Hopefully his adherence to the road rules would be enough to appease Van.

  Even better yet would be if Hot Rides lived up to the things people were saying about it.

  Kason had amassed a pretty significant collection of motorcycles. He had tons of ideas for upgrading his current fleet and things he’d like to buy or build to expand it even more…if he could find the right partners to do the work.

  One downside to being famous was that everyone thought you should have a rich-guy tax applied to work you hired out. Either that or you should be excited to take freebies for publicity instead of paying for what you’d really like best and enjoying it in private instead of as some glorified circus animal. He shook his head at his admittedly first-world problems.

  Still, if the mechanics at Hot Rides were both high-quality and fair, he’d be back. Over and over. They wouldn’t be able to get rid of him.

  When the garage came into sight, Kason revved the engine and zoomed ahead. He parked and climbed off the bike before Van could catch up, eliminating his opportunity to deliver a lecture. Van was too damn careful to break the speed limi
t or do anything even a little naughty.

  That’s probably why he kept striking out with Kason’s drummer, Kyra.

  Which was none of Kason’s damn business. He was their boss, not their nosey neighbor. So he pretended not to notice whatever the hell was—or wasn’t—going on between the two, whom he considered friends in addition to employees.

  Kason had enough to worry about keeping his own life in order. One way he did that was by immersing himself in non-damaging hobbies, as his therapist referred to them.

  Translation: buying more motorcycles and fancying up the ones he already had was A-OK.

  He strode to the office portion of Hot Rides and went inside, amused by the mini-rev noise that replaced a standard tinkling bell to announce his visit. At about the same time, a woman emerged from the garage, which he glimpsed through a large plate glass window.

  The space was immaculate. Workstations were laid out neatly and the equipment was all top-brand stuff. Photographs of past builds wallpapered the office and he found himself drooling over nearly every one. Though not as much as his mouth watered for the Hot Rides receptionist.

  The tall, willowy blonde behind the counter tempted him to throw away his new rule. The one about meaningless sex going on the no-no list. Maybe that had been a stupid restraint to place on himself, but the truth was he hadn’t been enjoying his hookups any more than he had the endless shots and thousands of dollars he’d wagered—and lost—on dumb shit.

  When he’d overindulged, he’d gone numb to the thrill of things that used to excite him.

  Even music had become a chore. The thing he’d dedicated his whole life to being his best at. The career he’d fought for since he’d run away from home at sixteen. He’d never forget forging that shitty ID so that he could play in bars and earn enough for a hot meal or two, even if it wasn’t enough for a place to stay, before moving on to the next town. Those fast-food dinners had tasted better than some of the exclusive chef specials he’d eaten since.

  It was all a matter of perspective, and with success, he’d completely skewed his own.

  He’d gotten spoiled.

  Kason wasn’t about to throw away all that hard work and a decade of dreams just because he couldn’t have everything he wanted. There was still plenty of stuff he could enjoy.

  He leaned in and very deliberately took off his sunglasses, prepared for his new obsession to shriek and fawn over him.

  Except she didn’t.

  Instead, she arched one perfect brow and asked, “How can I help you?”

  By coming for a ride with me. On my bike, and in my bed.

  Kason might have been asshole enough to say it if she’d been one of those people who was impressed by his fame. A woman he knew would get off on telling her friends she’d fucked him as much as she did on how well he pleasured her.

  “I brought a modified mid-nineties Ducati Diavel with me today. I wanted to see about customizing it further. Increasing the horsepower, dropping the handlebars, maybe changing out the rims and tires. Basically, whatever the mechanics think would enhance its performance or its style.” If he was doomed to strike out with the gorgeous shop assistant, he at least tried to focus on his excitement over the bike.

  That’s what his therapist had recommended, anyway. That he concentrate on the things that sparked joy in him instead of his disappointments or his anxiety about losing the fame and fortune he’d amassed. Little did she know that one of the things he craved most was at the root of his fears.

  Don’t think about that.

  Instead he studied the fine bones in the woman’s long fingers as she took notes to show her boss. They matched the rest of her, tall and thin. She didn’t look like the women he usually found himself attracted to—or sleeping with, rather, since he hadn’t had to pursue a woman in forever. For one, she wasn’t wearing makeup. Her pale hair was naturally glossy and framed her gorgeous face where it hung straight and unstyled. The T-shirt and ripped jeans she wore weren’t curve-hugging women’s cuts. Even the boxy clothes couldn’t hide her feminine appeal, however. She was raw and honest, daring him to take her as she was. And he wanted to, desperately. He usually picked from the fans who threw themselves at him simply because of the image he portrayed when he was onstage or because they thought they knew him after watching interviews he’d done.

  This woman was something completely different. Kason found himself craving a new flavor. Wasn’t that part of what his whole crisis had been about? Maybe he could find less risky ways to satisfy his desires.

  Before he could think of something clever to say, to make the woman look up with her bright blue eyes and maybe laugh or talk to him about something more personal than motorcycles, she finished writing and asked, “Could you leave the bike here for a few hours so Quinn—our head mechanic—can do a thorough evaluation of what’s already been done to your ride, some research about what’s possible, and brainstorm new ideas no one’s tried yet? He’ll put together his recommendations along with some sketches, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure, that’s fine.” Kason tried not to sound too sleazy when he said, “I’ll be in town until the end of the week. After that we’ll have to work things out over email until it’s ready for pickup.”

  “Don’t you want to wait for an estimate before deciding to go ahead with the work? I’ll be honest, our rates are about ten percent higher than industry average due to the specialized experience of our team. Plus we mandate a certain level of quality in terms of the brands of components we install, in order to ensure you get the best we can deliver. You won’t find bargain basement price here, but you will get more than your money’s worth, I can promise you that.” The woman impressed him with her knowledge and her directness. It wasn’t often someone was that honest with him.

  It was exactly what he’d been hoping for.

  “Don’t worry, I can afford it,” he promised, unsure if he was irritated that she didn’t know it or grateful that for the first time in a long time, he was being treated like a normal human being. He’d nearly forgotten what that felt like. “And I’ve heard your guys know what they’re doing. So I want to see for myself. Let’s consider this a test of their skills. If they pass, I have other bikes I have big plans for.”

  Now why the hell would she scowl at that? It was supposed to be a compliment and a promise.

  The faux engine revved again as Van joined them in the shop. His friend might blow his cover if he kept standing there, in the corner, with his arms crossed and his dark glasses still in place. He looked every bit like a bodyguard instead of some random guy’s ride home.

  That didn’t stop the receptionist from blasting him. “Oh, you’ll see. Hot Rides is the best at what we do, even if not all of us who work on the bikes have dicks.”

  Oh shit.

  From behind him, Van was attempting to disguise his laughter with a fit of coughing every bit as fake as the mini-engine door chime. That was okay, Kason deserved to be embarrassed.

  He’d earned this extra-fine woman’s annoyance.

  He hoped there was some way he could make it up to her. Because more than her striking looks, he liked her fire and her take-no-shit attitude. Imagining her working on his motorcycle guaranteed it would become the new favorite in his collection.

  Riding usually made him hard. The next time he climbed on the Ducati would be no exception.

  5

  “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot,” Kason Cox said with a disarming smile as he raised his hands, palms out so Wren could see his calluses, earned by playing guitar. “I shouldn’t have assumed… I apologize.”

  “Thank you.” Wren believed he was sincere, so she let him off easy. After all, Johnny would have wanted her to give his idol a second chance before ripping his man-parts off and stuffing them down his throat.

  It had been a while since she’d seen a picture of the country star, but Wren had recognized him immediately, even before he’d come inside the shop’s office.

  It was almost like seeing
a damn ghost.

  Her heartbeat pounded double time and her hands trembled, making her handwriting shaky as she took notes for Quinn and the rest of the team. Not because Kason was famous, but because his voice was inextricably entwined with so many of her sensual memories that she could never separate the two.

  Parts of her body that had been dormant for years stretched and took notice every time Kason Cox opened his wickedly fine mouth. She pasted on her most blasé expression and said, “What’s the best way to get in touch?”

  Yet somehow her question seemed suggestive, even to her.

  When she glanced up, really allowing herself to take him in for the first time, she realized that Kason was even more handsome in person than on billboards and TV shows.

  Damn, no photoshopping necessary for him.

  He was tall, with chestnut-colored hair. Colorful tattoos hugged his biceps, enhancing each of the cut lines on his sculpted arms. And when he took off his sunglasses and held her gaze, his emerald stare threatened to set her panties on fire. Or would have if she’d been wearing any.

  All of the sparkles she’d thought were gone forever when other guys—even ones she liked and respected, like Ollie—couldn’t bring them back for her floated through her veins as if she’d mainlined happy glitter.

  What. The. Fuck.

  It must be because he reminded her so much of Johnny. Especially those captivating eyes… Damn!

  That had to be it.

  As he leaned in closer, she realized he smelled as good as he looked. Like leather and motorcycle oil and the outdoors. “The shop can contact me via email.”

  He rattled off an address and she jotted it on the top of the sheet where she’d taken her notes.

  Then he said, “But you can call or text me if you like. My number is—”