Page 8 of Clashing
I rolled my eyes. “Enough with the sugar thing. What I’m doing is none of your business.”
He shrugged. “Fine.” He hefted some piece of metal up and made his way to the exit. “I’ll ask Danny.”
“No!” I ran in front of him and held up my hands. “Don’t do that.”
He cocked his head. “Thought this place was practically yours. What do you have to hide?”
I sighed and gestured to the motorcycle. “Don’t tell Dan you saw me. I came to take pictures of Roxy so I can make something for Father’s Day. I want it to be a surprise.”
“Ah.” He observed the fogged-over lightbulb. “The lighting’s shit.”
“I know, but I don’t want him to hear this prehistoric garage open, so I’ll work with what I’ve got.”
“Got a flashlight on my phone.” He set down his hunk of metal. “Want a hand?”
I’d like both your hands on me, please and thanks.I cleared my throat and shook my head. “I’m good.”
“Do you know how much you’re like Dan, or do you two enjoy pretending one is more stubborn than the other?”
“I’m not stubborn.”
He arched a brow. “You’re trying to get pictures of that old bike in this shitty lighting, and you have an easy way to get help but won’t take it. Remind you of anyone?”
I scowled and moved around him. “Fine. Hold up your flashlight. Just don’t say anything to Dan.”
He whistled low. “Wow. Keep talking sweet to me, sugar. Gets me every time.”
“How long have you known Dan?” I circled the motorcycle to find the best angle. Charcoal drawing, definitely. It would fit the rest of his aesthetic. “Hold the flashlight here.”
Ryker came up behind me and raised his phone, shining the flashlight on the bike. “Right here?”
“Yeah.” I gulped. He stood less than a foot away, his body heat adding to the sweltering room. A heat that grew with the addictive aroma of leather and scotch.
“I’ve known him since he took over the bar a few years ago,” Ryker said. “Knew his old man before that.”
“So, you guys are friends?”Translation: Are you friends and off-limits to me?Not that it mattered.No men.I needed to get that tattooed on my face so I’d remember.
“I’d like to think so. Don’t believe many people hand over the keys to their house without a little trust.”
I gnawed on my lip and held up my phone for a picture. “Fair enough. How old are you?”
“What is this, an interrogation?”
Sort of.“You’re old, aren’t you?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Twenty-nine. You?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Fuck,” he muttered.
I tilted my head. “What?”
“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing at all.”
I peered at him through slitted eyes, but he gave nothing away. “Angle your light to the left, please.”
He shifted the phone. “Like this?”
