Page 12 of Egg Me On

Cash shook his head and stepped out, the door closing behind him with a solid thunk. Through the windows, I watched him insert his credit card at the pump, then lean against the truck as it filled. After a few minutes, the gas pump finished, and he headed into the convenience store.

Alone in the cab, I stared at his phone on the seat between us. The little voice of conscience in my head was screaming that this was an invasion of privacy, completely inappropriate, absolutely not something I should do. But then his phone lit up again with another notification, another comment from someone with a username that was just a string of fire emojis.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my own phone and opened social media, my heart pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape. My fingers felt clumsy as I typed @MotoCash into the search bar, half expecting nothing to come up. Maybe it was a private account. Maybe it wasn't even him.

The profile loaded, and I nearly dropped my phone.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

It was definitely Cash. But not the Cash I knew—the gruff, taciturn mechanic who communicated primarily in grunts and monosyllables. This was... something else entirely.

The profile picture showed him leaning against a motorcycle, head tilted slightly, the hint of a smirk on his lips. Whatever he’d used for lighting made his brown skin glow, the angular planes of his face as handsome as ever. His bio was simple: "I build things. Denver, CO." Followed by a wrench emoji and "DMs open for business inquiries only."

Business inquiries. Right. Because there were over 200k followers looking for motorcycle advice.

I scrolled through the feed, my mouth growing increasingly dry with each swipe. There were photos of his bikes, of projects he was working, and of rides through the mountains.

But there were also photos of Cash with his shirt off, torso glistening with sweat and motor oil as he worked on a bike, tattoos on full display. Cash in a tight tank top, crisp white that contrasted with his gorgeous, dark skin, arms flexed as he lifted something heavy. Cash in low-slung jeans and nothing else, his cum gutters on full display, standing in what looked like his industrial loft, the early morning light casting shadows across the ridges of his abs. The captions were minimal, often just parts of the builds he was working on, or the occasional wry comment like "And my parents said I'd never amount to anything."

The comments section below each photo was flooded with thirst—both men and women expressing in explicit detail exactly what they'd like to do to him. And he had a verified checkmark. Cash was a fucking social media model.

I clicked on a video where he was demonstrating something about engine tuning, but I couldn't focus on his words, just the way his forearms flexed as he worked, the deep timbre of his voice explaining technical details, the way he occasionally glanced up at the camera with those intense eyes. It didn’t seem like he was trying to be a social media model—the videos mostly seemed to be designed to help people. The model part? That was just a natural side effect of his insane hotness.

And he didn’t seem to be afraid to show off a little to bring in the attention.

My cock strained against my jeans, and I shifted uncomfortably in the seat. Heat crawled up my neck and flooded my face. I imagined those hands on my body, those forearms flexing as he pinned me down, those full lips trailing down my stomach...

The bell above the gas station door chimed, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Cash was coming back. I fumbled with my phone, closing social media and shoving the device into my pocket just as he approached the truck. My heart thundered in my chest, guilt and arousal mixing into a potent cocktail that made it hard to breathe normally.

The driver's side door opened, and Cash slid in, handing me a coffee.

"Thanks," I managed, hoping my voice sounded normal and not like I'd just been caught with digital porn of the man sitting next to me. I took a sip, grateful for something to do with my hands. How did he know how I took my coffee? Had I told him? Probably. "That's really thoughtful."

“You’re going to be busy today,” he said vaguely.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember if I even had plans today, couldn’t remember anything but what his abs looked like under that soft studio lighting he seemed to prefer. Not until he pulled up beside my food truck and I realized it was a work day.

He walked around to the back and opened his truck, grabbing a box. “Where do you want this?”

I blinked, rushing to jump out of the truck and rush around to meet him. “Oh, I can carry that. Silas is letting me store and prep stuff in the commercial kitchen inside. He said he only uses it when you guys host events. I mean, I need some of it in the truck, too, but I can’t fit it all in the little fridge I have in there.” I was rambling, and I couldn’t stop. “Don’t you have to work or something? It’s really not a big deal.”

“Not today,” he said, and I froze where I was standing, watching him carry the box into the FRMC. What? He was driving me around to food stores on his day off? I grabbed a big bag of onions and jogged after him, trying to make sense of it.

Chapter 5

Cash

Aiden's car was finallyfinished, sitting in bay three. After three days of work, its transmission was purring like a satisfied cat. Three days I didn't have to give, because I already had more real jobs stacked up than I had time for. So I’d spend three days dropping him off at home and then coming back to the shop to work an extra ten hours.

I should have been pissed off, but here I was, thinking about the way Aiden's face would light up when I told him it was done. I opened the bay door and pulled the car out, the transmission purring like a cat. It had needed a new clutch, and quite a few other things, but I wasn’t going to tell him the full extent of the repairs I’d done. He squealed as I parked the car beside his food truck, clapping excitedly.

"You're a miracle worker, Cash!" He was practically bouncing on his toes, as if the piece-of-shit Subaru was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

I just grunted, fighting the warmth spreading through my chest at his praise. And then he threw his arms around me in an impulsive hug, promising me free breakfast burritos for the rest of my life, which didn’t seem like a fair trade. Not if you did the math. I mean, a man could eat a hell of a lot of breakfast burritos.

But I didn’t know how to argue with him when he was hugging me, yammering on about how awesome I was. Eventually, he realized I wasn’t hugging him back and stepped back, telling me I must be super relieved that I didn’t have to drive him home from work tonight.

My heart dropped as I realized that was most definitely not true. My throat went tight, and I took a step back, trying to look casual, when it felt like my world was spiraling out of control. How had I gotten this used to having Aiden around this quickly?

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