Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81328 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 407(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Someone honks behind me, dragging me from my admiring of the building. Narrowing my eyes in the rearview mirror, I force myself not to flip them off and pull into the parking lot. Finding a spot, I turn the engine off and pull down the sun visor. I look terrible. Putting on my Harley hat, I try and cover up my unbrushed frizzy hair, swipe the bill backward, and run my fingers under the bags of my eyes in an attempt not to look like a crack head from lack of sleep. Fuck it. It’s not like I get much better than this on a good day anyway.
Taking a deep breath, I get out and make my way across the lot, my feet ache from being cramped up in my Chucks so long, so I wiggle my toes to try and get the blood moving through them. Opening the glass front door, I’m immediately greeted with dozens of flawless bikes showcased on the floor. I’m stunned. They look like they were rolled right off the truck, some custom, and others painted with vibrant art.
I can’t help but want to touch the cold steel and run my fingers over the paint of someone else’s raw talent. There’s one that has a metallic green snake whipping across the tank and my mouth parts in awe. The detail is so realistic that a sudden pang of insecurity hits my chest, am I this good? Can I be?
“Can I help you?” I abruptly turn at the sound of a roughish male voice to a man wearing a black bandanna around his forehead, sleeves of tattoos, and dark hooded eyes looking right at me. He rubs both his hands together as if he’s ready to make a sell this morning, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he takes me in. My head turns to the side curiously, I wonder if many women come in here looking at motorcycles. Does he think he can overprice one to me? Sell me something from the back and pretend he’s doing me a favor?
I better not fuck with him not knowing him yet.
“I’m the new girl, here for detailing,” I say, sticking my hands into my pockets. He gives me an odd look.
“Um, I wasn’t informed of any new girl starting.” A look of confusion makes his eyebrows narrow from under his bandanna.
“I’m supposed to start this week, my name is Delilah Kingsman.” I try to jog his memory, but he’s still just looking at me with a lost stare. Dread hits the pit of my stomach that I got everything wrong and I didn’t get the job. “Maybe you should call your boss? I came all the way from California, and I know I’m in the right place.” My tone starts to get snappy, fear that this is a big mistake making me want to suddenly puke. I swear to God, if there’s been an error somewhere, I’m going to kick every motorcycle over in this fucking place and then cry all the way home.
“Yeah, let me call the boss man.” He turns on that note and walks to a desk behind the check-out. Following him, I scan the bottom half of the counter reading several stapled papers with name brand parts, and of course there’s one or two calendar girls posing next to a bike. Trying to remain calm, I rest my elbow on top of the granite top, waiting for him to tell me I’m in the right place. He’s on the phone talking to someone in a hushed voice.
The sound of machines working on the bikes in the garage just feet away, drowning out what he’s saying.
After a couple minutes, he hangs up and looks up at me with an unreadable look.
“He’s coming.”
Sighing, I turn around and place both my elbows on the counter behind me and look around the place as I wait. The smell of fresh rubber tires is amazing and I can’t help but take a deep breath, my eyes slowly moving down their display of helmets across from me.
The racket from the garage suddenly gets louder and my head turns in that direction, finding the doors are open and a tall blond man walks through, a grease rag in his hands. His hair is pulled back into a small hair tie, his muscles on full display in a ripped-up shirt and work leather cut. He’s in a biker club. Noticing he’s coming right for me, I stand straight, and he lifts his head from wiping his dirty hands and looks right at me. He has a heart tattoo next to his left eye, and even more ink around his neck and shoulders.
“D?” he asks, holding out his hand. His vibe is lawless. Cosmic even, and I’m taken aback by his dark presence. Clearing my throat, I shake his hand, my eyes still taking all of him in.