by JA Huss
“No budget, Bomb,” he calls out without turning back to me. “Just find me a nice place.”
And then he rounds the corner and he’s gone. And I’m left here, in this stupid alley overhang, looking like an idiot as the back door of the donut shop opens and I almost give Mr. Harrison a heart attack when he finds me there.
“Sorry,” I say as I quickly hop down the stairs, pick up my stray shoe and stuff it in my purse with the other one, and walk barefoot out into the rain.
“Find him a house,” I whisper to myself as I leave the alley and walk towards my street. Probably so he can share it with Carla the burrito bitch. I hate her. Why does she get a date with Spencer every damn week and I get nothing? I hate her and I hate him.
But a smile leaks out as my toes splash through a puddle on the sidewalk.
Because I will have the last laugh today. And I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out what I’m doing.
Chapter Three
VERONICA
By the time I make it back to my apartment, Rook is waiting for me in the Shrike truck, I’m sopping wet from head to toe, and my feet are fucking freezing.
“What the hell?” Rook says as she gets out of the truck and jogs over to me. “What happened to you? You just dashed out the back without a word.”
We trudge up my stairs together, then I unlock and open the door and hold it open for her. I’m already wet, she’s still fairly dry. Might as well keep her that way. I close the door behind me and hang my soaked jacket up on the coat hook. “Spencer was texting me all morning and I didn’t answer, so when I looked out the window and saw him coming across the street, I panicked and ran.”
Rook laughs. “That plan work out well for you?”
“Ha ha,” I say as I walk to the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower because I’m fucking freezing. Then we can go.”
“Sounds good,” she calls back from the kitchen. “I’m gonna raid your fridge, mind?”
“Nah,” I say back. “Go ahead. Be out in a minute.” I head into the shower and start the water.
Spencer was right when he came over here last week. The only time he’s been over here. He called it a dump. And it is.
Granted, my family home is sorta dumpy too, but at least it’s from my relatives. The windows were cracked from baseballs me and my brothers threw. The linoleum in the kitchen is stained and chipped from decades of Vaughn feet walking over it. The banister is missing spindles because Vann got his head stuck between them when Vic was in charge, so Vic just pulled one straight out thinking he was gonna get his ass kicked if we couldn’t all be accounted for when our dad got home.
Yeah, that’s home.
But this… well, I lied to Spencer. I stuck up for this place because he made me feel poor and trashy. He was right though. It’s a crappy place. The floorboards beneath my feet in the bathroom are probably all rotten with water damage. They sway when you walk. I might fall through the ceiling one of these days. Good thing no one is living below me. I have no idea what this place used to be. I’ve lived in Fort Collins my whole life, but I never paid any attention to these old buildings on this street. They were shops, I think. They look like storefronts with giant picture windows and mail slots on the doors.
The water finally runs hot and I peel off my wet jeans, toss them in the hamper, and then struggle out of my top and bra. I feel… used. And even though Spencer and I have had some pretty… interesting… sex during our relationship, it’s never made me feel unclean.
I mean, he likes the dirty talk, so he’s called me names during sex that would earn him a punch in the teeth any other time. I’m used to his particular brand of heat. But he’s never used me like this. He’s never used sex against me to get something he wants. That part of our relationship has always been normal.
Sure, I get a little hysterical when we fight. I’ve been known to throw a wine bottle or two at his head. But he’s a good ducker. I’ve never actually hit him.
And he can predict my violence pretty well. He pins me down and dirty-talks me back into reality and then things are all good.
It’s been a long time since he had to pin me down. And not because I’ve been rational. He just hasn’t paid much attention to me for almost a year. After that altercation with Rook’s ex, Jon, last summer, Spencer was almost back to his old self for a few weeks. We saw each other a couple weekends, he took me to Rook’s birthday party at Antoine’s studio, we fucked when we could manage to meet up, since we were living in two separate towns.
But then… after all that shit went down with Rook and Ronin and those weirdo human traffickers, Spencer was back to his distant self. And since that time, it’s only gotten worse. We work less than a mile from each other. We should be having lunch breaks together every day. We should be living together out in that farmhouse of his, riding into town every day in his Shrike truck, drinking our coffee on the road as we chat about our day.
But things haven’t turned out that way.
That thought alone is enough to start the tears.
I pull the ugly shower curtain back and step into my old and cracking tub and try to accept what my life has become. I should be thankful. Lots of people have it worse than me. I have a place to live, I have a job—two actually. I’m still working at Sick Boyz, my family’s tattoo shop. Even though Spencer gave me this great job as his personal assistant, I can’t just quit my tattoo job. I have regular customers who are depending on me to finish up their work. I’m booked solid three days a week for the next two months. And that’s just the big pieces—the backs and chests I’ve been working on. I told all the guys with sleeves they had to go to one of my brothers or I’ll be stuck there forever.
So yeah. It’s hardly fair to complain when I have two jobs that collectively pay me almost fifty-five grand a year. That’s not a bad paycheck for a twenty-three-year-old with no real prospects. I mean, I have an art degree, but come on. It’s an art degree. How much did I expect to get out of that?
Plus, I have a great family. My dad and gramps are cool as hell. Yeah, they were mean bastards to the boys all growing up, but I was their little princess. The spitting image of my mother.
That makes me smile.
My mom died giving birth to Vann, my baby brother. Well, he’s no baby now, he’s seventeen. I was already six when he was born and my oldest brother, Vic, he was twelve. The twins, Vinn and Vonn—don’t ask about the names, it’s my dad’s thing—were eight.
And my brothers might’ve challenged that princess side of me every chance they got, trying to toughen me up and teach me survival skills. But they love the fuck out of me. They are always there when I need them.
So check. I’m one lucky bitch. I should be happy. I should be grabbing this half-satisfied bull by the horns and riding the fuck out of it.
But I just can’t get past Spencer. I fell in love with his ass the first night I met him and I even fucked him the next day. We were practically strangers. And that love has only gotten stronger. In fact, I might be on the verge of being obsessed with him.
“Ronnie!” Rook’s knock on the bathroom door shakes me out of my funk.
“Yeah?” I answer back.
“Hurry, bitch. We gotta go.”
I laugh at her calling me bitch. I taught her that. She couldn’t make herself say it back to me at first, she thought it was an insult. But I told her, That’s what bitches call each other. “Be right out.”
I love Rook. I hope she never goes back to Denver. I want her to stay in Fort Collins with me forever. Rook is really the only great thing about my life right now. She’s always down with my stupid plans to get back at Spencer and today just proves it—she’s a keeper.
I turn the water off and step out onto the plush pink bath mat. The floor might be a mess, but I have my own stuff to counter it. I wrap myself up in a big thick towel and open the door. Rook is watching TV on the couch, stuffing her face with popcorn. “I’ll only be five minutes,” I tell her as I dash to my bedroom.
�
��Whatever,” she calls back. “That’ll be the day.”
Yeah, and that would usually be right. I’m a primper. I take forever to get ready. I dry my hair, curl it, brush it, curl it again. Then the makeup. I luuurve makeup. Like bad.
Then the clothes. I love clothes. I have my typical outfits. Tight low-scoop-neck t-shirts with the Sick Boyz logo on them. I wear those a lot with jeans. So much, in fact, it’s like my uniform. They’re comfortable and pretty.
I’m an eighties girl when it comes to fashion. I like big hair, tight leggings, stiletto heels, red lips, and tank tops under short jackets. And my big Betsey purse.
But today, I’m not about fashion, I’m about purpose. My last-ditch attempt to grab Spencer’s attention. I sigh as I fetch a pair of jeans from my dresser. They are old and ripped in the knees. I slip them on and notice they are a lot looser than the last time I wore them. I like my jeans tight, so I almost take them off, but really, I’m in the mood for loose today. I grab a Shrike Bikes t-shirt. This one used to be red, but has faded to an almost grayish-pink color. It has a vintage pinup girl riding a WWII-style bomb. Over the girl it says Spencer Shrike, but the words below are what I love about it. It says Bombshell Bikes.
He made a bunch of different bombshell shirts specially for me back when he was trying out all his different logos. Now he uses the ravens and a few other things.
But this bombshell piece was like an arrow through my heart. It’s like carving Spencer and Ronnie sitting in a tree on the picnic table in my back yard. Which I did the very first week we met.
I smile a little at this as I fasten my lacy pink bra and tug the shirt over my head. I slip on my old black Frye Harness boots and grab the leather jacket off the sturdy hanger.
I sigh as I look at it. And then I giggle. I stole this from him last year. Back when I could tell he was getting ready to leave me behind just as his business and body-painting careers were taking off. It scared the shit out of me and I wanted something more than a t-shirt that would keep me connected to him. Spencer never gave me a motorcycle jacket all painted up like he did Rook. And I do admit, I’m insanely jealous of that jacket she has.
But this jacket that I swear to fucking God I can still smell his musky scent on makes up for all that sadness and what I’m about to do today. Well, it’s a defining moment for me.
I slip my arms into the smooth sleeves of the leather and put my hair up in a ponytail. The contents of my purse are exchanged into a backpack and then I walk out of the room.
Spencer thinks he can just boss me around, leave me hanging after getting himself off, and there’s not gonna be consequences?
Yeah, right, buddy.
“Shit, Ronnie, took you long—” Rook stops talking as she takes in my outfit. I’m a girl who dresses for the occasion and Rook knows this. “No,” she says. “You said you wanted me to help you haul it back to town on the truck, Veronica.”
I tilt my head up and smile. “I know what I said. But I lied. Else you’d say no. But you already sold me the bike, Rook. It’s mine. All I need is a ride out to the farm to pick it up.”
My phone buzzes in my backpack and I grab it, hoping it’s Spencer calling to apologize or maybe stop by after lunch to finish me off…
No such luck. “Carson,” I say into the phone after I accept the call. “I’ve been thinking about that dinner invitation you gave me last week…”
“No, Veronica,” he cuts me off. “That’s not why I’m calling. I know you were looking for a car, so I lined up a friend of mine to show you some nice prospects tonight.”
Silence.
“Uh, you know, so we can finalize the loan?”
“Riiiiight,” I say back. “The loan. Ah… yeah. I do need a car.” I eyeball Rook. “But I’ve found some transportation until I’m ready to buy another one. As for the paperwork, I’ve decided I don’t need the loan anymore. I’m good, and a flower shop was never gonna be my thing, OK? Well, it’s been nice knowing you, take care.” And before he can say anything I end the call and slip the phone back into my pack.
“Spencer will fucking kill me if you get on that bike today, Ronnie.” Rook picks up our conversation like Carson never even called. “It’s wet out!”
I walk over to the front window and crack the blinds apart. “It’s stopped raining already. It’s supposed to be sunny today. Just a morning shower.” I smile sweetly at her. Rook is a pushover, I’m not worried. When I told her I wanted to buy the bike, she said she’d give it to me. But I made certain I paid her what it was worth last night when I sold my car. Every cent I got from my Mini Cooper went to Rook. And I’ve got the signed title and the bill of sale in my wallet.
“Stop worrying. I told you, my little brother Vann and I took motorcycle classes together lasts summer. We’re pros now. Besides, you’re one to talk. You took off on that bike last year and drove it a thousand miles away and you lived.”
“Yeah, Spencer and Ford came and hauled my ass back, too. They were not happy. Not at all. And Ronin gave me the kibosh on riding ever since. All three of them will kill me if I take you out there and let you ride.”
“Rook, whose side are you on?” I exclaim. “It’s hoes before bros, bitch.”
She halts the rant about to come out of her mouth and laughs. “Hoes…” She shakes her head at that. “Ronnie, if you crash—”
“I’m not gonna crash, I told you. Vann and I have logged almost a hundred hours already. We’ve been on the sneak for almost a year. He’s even got a bike halfway built at his friend’s garage. He’ll be riding it on his eighteenth in June.”
She gives me a doubtful look. But all that was one hundred percent true. I hitch my pack over my shoulder, open the front door, and wave her through.
She accepts my invitation and I’m in. I am fucking in, baby.
My new life starts today.
Biker Bomb Ronnie.
Chapter Four
SPENCER
“What do ya mean she doesn’t want the loan?” Fucking Veronica. Can’t this woman ever just go with the fucking flow? Why does she have to make my life so complicated?
“You were standing right here, Shrike. She blew me off and said she was never interested in the flower shop idea anyway.”
“Then—” I throw my hands up. “What the fuck is she doing?”
Carson checks his fingernails and suddenly he reminds me of a less cool version of Ford. “How should I know what that woman is thinking? I barely know her. She said she has transportation and she didn’t need a car just yet.”
“Trans—well, where the fuck did she get a car? I just saw her ass walking home less than an hour ago. How could she have picked up a vehicle in that time? Especially when I left her cold and wet”—very, very wet—“walking home barefoot in the rain.”
“Just for the record, that’s a dick move.”
I raise my eyebrows. Charlie Brown is getting brave.
“Look,” Carson says impatiently, “as much as I’d like to help you out, I told my old man I was at the dentist to come here this morning. I gotta get back to work. I’ll stop by tomorrow and we’ll talk ideas about my custom paint job. Later.”
And he just walks out.
Fuck. I rub the stubble on my head. Bombshell is gonna send me to my grave, that’s how crazy she drives me. I fish my phone out of my pocket and press her beautiful face. It rings through on the first ring. “You’ve reached Ronnie Vaughn. I’m either working or playing…”
I end the call and sit on the corner of my desk to think.
Ford comes back with a camera crew a few minutes later. “What’s up with them?” I ask, pointing to the three-man crew. “I thought they were Team Rook today?”
“Yeah, well, she told them she had to go to the women’s doctor and if they tried to follow her, they’d each get, and I quote, ‘a boot in the balls.’ She took off from the coffee shop and left them standing outside.”
I just stare at him. “So… she’s got my truck. Ronin’s out of town. She’s
conveniently got an appointment no one knew about. Ronnie’s out of area and suddenly came up with her own mode of transportation. Something is not right.”
Ford’s already pushing the crew out of the office and closing the door while he dials his phone. “Ashleigh?” he says with some relief. “Have you seen Ronnie or Rook?” He listens to her for a few seconds and then pops off an, “I love you, be home at six,” and ends the call.
They sorta make me gag. That’s how sweet and considerate they are of each other. I can’t stop the eye roll. “What’d she say?”
He shrugs. “Ronnie went with Rook to a doctor’s appointment.”
“Huh.”
We stare at each other, both of us thinking that’s all total bullshit. But then Director Larry comes in and drags our minds back to work and we drop it. Ford and Larry are busy setting up stationary cameras in front of each of the mechanics’ bays, inside the paint room—we have our own in-house painter now—and in the showroom, behind Rook’s desk.
Besides the new painter, we picked up a couple girls from CSU to run parts and do errands that Rook used to do. My payroll went from five to nine. Which may not sound like much, but three years ago I had zero employees, no real shop, no custom bikes of my own, and Ronnie and I were more together than not.
These days we’re not together at all.
And it sucks. I hate it. I hate sneaking around behind her back, trying to get shit done, trying to keep my secrets.
Yeah, I admitted I was guilty last week when we talked, but saying it like that—all generic and shit, no details—it’s not the same, because everyone knows the details are all that matter.
I walk outside and join the boys. The grand opening for Shrike Bikes is six days away. The painting crew had to wait until the rain stopped today, and now they are just finishing up the mechanic banners. The outside of the shop is all done up in black and red with a giant Shrike Bikes logo and a banner with each mechanic’s name on their bay door.
They are all good guys and they’ve all been with me since the start. Only Ryan and I make the custom bikes. I use Fletch and Griff to assemble the stock bikes. They do a little customization—but no frame stuff.