Page 1 of Riding the Pine

CHAPTER 1

Athena

(SIXTEEN YEARS OLD)

November 2018: The Meet Cute

Author Note: Please excuse my intrusion, but in case your Kindle opened at Chapter 1 and not at the content warnings, please be advised that this book contains an on-page rape as well as ethical non-monogamy (one of the main characters sleeps with someone who isn’t the other main character with their partner’s permission) in later chapters.

Ihate people.

Generally speaking, I’m not the kind of person who’ll stop for a broken-down car at the side of the highway. Stranger danger and all that jazz.

But it’s cold as balls, and that dilapidated Camry with a rusty, discolored trunk lid and a UCR Raccoons bumper sticker next to an annoyingly flickering taillight, has been parked outside my house more than once lately.

And the well-wrapped up guy—Scott, if memory serves and assuming he’s the one driving—seems to be struggling to changea tire. I haven’t met him, but I’ve seen the back of his head as he walked toward his vehicle a couple weeks ago.

Crouched next to his car, he blows into his clutched hands, steam pluming into the air before he flexes his fingers then presses down on the end of a tire iron with both hands.

Having three younger brothers has its perks, they’ve taught me well. If it were left to our parents, I’d be hopeless. “Just call the tow truck, mija. Let someone else fix it.” Story of my fucking life.

That seems to be the family motto: Let someone else fix it. Papá in particular. Not one to get his hands dirty. If he can outsource it, he will, especially if it’s cheap to do so.

I, on the other hand, don’t like to be reliant on other people, not anyone, not for anything. Especially not my three younger brothers. Despite the easily accessible wealth I was born into, throwing money at things to make them go away isn’t really my thing. I like to get my hands dirty, and I fucking love cars.

I don’t really have time to change someone else’s tire, though, and I’d rather not get frost bitten nips in the sub-zero Iowan temperatures. But, this guy is on my brothers’ high school hockey team. If he’s late for the same game I’m on my way to, he’ll undoubtedly earn laps foreveryoneon the team. That asshole of a coach thinks he’s putting NHL players through basic military training rather than high school kids trying to win the national championship crown.

Plus, I’m going to the game anyway. It’s not like it’s out of my way.

“Need a hand?” I’m speaking as soon as I crack the door open, my words landing in the frigid air on a puff of steam. Fuck, it’s cold.

He doesn’t look my direction, but shakes his head. “Think I’ve got it.” He presses down with both hands, but the tire iron doesn’t budge. Certainly doesn’t look like he’s got it.

“Are you sure?” I inch closer to him, his cheeks and nose are bright red. It’s a colder than average Iowan November, and he’s bundled up like the Michelin man with an oversized puffy jacket shrinking his body.

He turns to answer me, nose scrunched up. “I can figure it out.” When his eyes meet mine, his face softens, and surprise flits across his features. “You can change a tire?”

I huff out a sigh. “Anything you can do, I can do better.” I snort. I’ve spent my entire life living in the shadow of a penis, lots of penises, in fact. First, my father, billionaire, aeronautics mogul, and all-around asshole, and then, once my brothers were born, the enormous peen-shadow grew.

They’re not particularly dickish, and when they are, I remind them of their inordinate privilege for being the superior gender which is apparently determined just by having a cock and balls dangling between their legs.

If only life was so clear cut.

Nothing raises my competitive hackles more than a dude telling me I can’t do something, or questioning my ability.

This guy’s lucky I haven’t ripped the tire iron from his trembling hands and knocked some sense into him.

He smirks, amusement lighting up his eyes as his brow twitches. “Is that so?”

I nod, folding my arms and hoping they’ll keep the quickly dwindling heat supply from escaping my body. “Seems like you’re struggling to figure it out yourself. Did you try reading the instructions?”

He snickers, pushing down on the bar once again. “Cars don’t come with instructions on how to change the tires. And I don’t need instructions, I know the how. The lug nut is stuck.”

“A likely excuse. And for your information, theydocome with instructions, it’s called an owner’s manual.” I nudge him out of the way with my knee. “Let me try.”

He inches back, pursing his lips like he’s fighting a grin and waves an open hand at the conundrum in front of him. “Be my guest.”

I don’t get nervous under someone’s watchful stare, in fact, I tend to excel under pressure. So the expectant look on his face doesn’t make me waver. I press down on the bar and... Nothing. It doesn’t move.

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