Page 1 of Egg Me On

Chapter 1

Aiden

The Front Range MotorcycleCollective's parking lot shouldn’t have been intimidating. It was just a parking lot. But the anxiety coiling in my gut had nothing to do with the concerning rattle coming from somewhere in the depths of my shitty Subaru—that was a problem for Future Aiden—and everything to do with my mission for today: finding a new place to park my food truck. At a motorcycle… club? Gang? I wasn’t sure.

I’d spent the past three years building my brand, my customer base, my entire fucking life around ‘Egg Me On’. I had budget projections, growth spreadsheets, the whole nine yards. And I was supporting both myself and my college-aged sister, to boot.

There was only one variable I hadn’t accounted for: real estate sharks. Specifically, the one who’d swooped in and made the owner of my old food truck lot an offer he couldn’t refuse.

So here I was, back to square one. And considering parking my rainbow-splashed food truck in the middle of what looked like the set of Sons of Anarchy. Great plan, Lockhart. Absolutely stellar.

I killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching dust motes dance in the sunlight streaming through my windshield. What looked to be a converted warehouse loomed ahead—all industrial chic with its gunmetal gray paint job and orange accents. Roll-up garage doors lined one side, and I could see motorcycles of every imaginable style parked in neat rows. My food truck would stick out like a drag queen at a church picnic. Or someplace less churchy, with more bikers.

But what choice did I have? My current location was being bulldozed next week for a luxury apartment complex, and finding affordable, profitable spots in Denver was nearly impossible.

I exhaled, fogging up my window slightly. "You're Aiden fucking Lockhart," I whispered to myself. "Your huevos rancheros made an uptight investment banker cry actual tears of joy last week. You got this."

Straightening my back, I pushed open my car door and stepped out, immediately feeling underdressed in my skinny jeans and faded "Rise and Shine, Bitches" t-shirt. The mid-morning sun beat down on the pavement, and the air smelled of motor oil, metal, and possibility. A distant rumble of engines vibrated through my chest like a second heartbeat.

"Aiden!" A deep voice called from the entrance, and I spotted Silas Halden's imposing figure standing in the doorway.

Even knowing he was a regular customer didn't stop me from feeling intimidated. He was six-foot-something of solid muscle with steel-blue eyes that missed nothing. My grandma would've called him "sturdy as an oak" before pinching his ass when no one was looking.

"Thanks for making time," I said, extending my hand and immediately regretting how clammy it felt. Silas didn't seem to notice, his grip firm but not aggressive as we shook.

"Appreciate you considering us," he replied, the hint of a smile softening his otherwise stoic expression. "How's business?"

"Still egging people on," I quipped automatically, then winced at my own terrible pun. "Sorry. Shop humor. It's, uh, good. Steady. Or it was until my landlord dropped the redevelopment bomb."

Silas nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Bad timing. But maybe good timing, too." He gestured toward the building. "Let me show you what we're working with. The space we’re using is the warehouse’s old loading dock, around the side.”

I tried to peek through the windows as we walked past, catching a glimpse of a half dozen motorcycles in various states of repair, and a few people milling about, mostly men as intimidating as Silas.

"I should warn you, I don't know shit about motorcycles. And I'm probably not what your customers expect in terms of, you know..." I gestured vaguely at my entire colorful self.

"You don’t need to know motorcycles, only food.” Silas raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “And I can’t imagine they’d care about your choice of outfits.”

"What if I say something stupid about their bike or whatever and get my ass handed to me?" I worried. "Not gonna lie. When I think biker bar, I think of places where guys like me get used as dart boards."

Silas stopped walking, turning to face me fully. "This isn’t a biker bar. No one is going to bully you. That's not what we're about here, Aiden. The Collective isn't just a name—it's the whole point. We've built this place specifically to be a community for everyone who loves motorcycles, regardless of who they are. There are women here, trans people, queer people. People of color. It’s not just the stereotypes who like to ride motorcycles. ”

“You… kinda look like a stereotype, though?” Shit, I shouldn’t have said that.

Silas burst out laughing. “Harsh, but probably true.”

"Well, that's a relief," I said. "Because the rainbow stickers on my truck are pretty permanent at this point."

That earned me another laugh. "We don’t care about your paint job. We only care that you serve amazing brunch all day."He rubbed his flat stomach, grinning. “Hell, I’m hungry even thinking about you being right outside cooking up that yummy eggs Benedict. Or the Nutella stuffed French toast?” He groaned.

“Okay,” I said, blushing. “I’ll bite. Show me what you’re thinking.”

“So you’re warned, the lot is kind of a work in progress, so don’t judge too harshly.”

He turned and led me around the corner of the building, talking as we walked.

"This whole place is a work in progress, really. We started small," Silas explained as we walked, his gait slightly uneven with what I now noticed was a subtle limp. "Just a shared garage space where riders could work on their bikes without annoying their landlords or freezing their asses off in winter. Then Marcus—my business partner—convinced me we could be more than that."

"And now?" I asked, taking in the professional-looking service bays on one side and a retail area displaying parts and gear on the other.

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