Page 5 of Fire Me Up
The door burst open again, and I turned to see my brother Lucas wander in, looking like he’d gotten lost on the way to the library.
“Sorry I’m late!” he gasped, pushing his glasses up his nose. Lucas straightened his button-up shirt—who the fuck wore a button-up to a maintenance class?—and surveyed the room withthe same analytical expression he used for his lab experiments. “This is… interesting.”
“Still not too late to back out,” I offered, then softened it with a grin. “Or, who knows, maybe you’ll start showing up at the engineering building on a custom chopper, Professor.”
“Not a professor yet. And I want to do this.” He set his papers down carefully on a clean section of the counter. “It’ll be good for us to have… what did my therapist call it? Shared experiences outside our comfort zones.”
I sighed. “You sure she didn’t mean trying a new restaurant?”
“She’s urging me to expand my social connections,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “I don’t know anyone in Denver yet, and everyone at the Collective seems… nice.” He eyed Lennox like Lennox was a murderer, dropping his voice. “Is he a criminal?”
“That’s Nox. He’s chill,” I said.
Lucas did not look like he believed me. My little brother had always been the academic one, more comfortable with theories than people. Moving to Denver for his PhD program had been a big step for him.
“Well, you picked the right place to meet people,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder and enjoying his slight wince. “Nothing builds friendship like getting covered in motor oil together.”
Lucas looked horrified. “I was under the impression this would be primarily observational.”
“Oh, Lucas.” I grinned wickedly. “You sweet summer child.”
I turned to address the room, raising my voice over the general chatter. “All right, everyone! We’ll get started in about five minutes. Feel free to grab a donut—thanks for those, Lennox—and check out the bikes. We’ve got Carl’s Harley over there for those interested in American cruisers, and a Honda here so you can see how the engines are different.
“I’ll keep us moving in bite-size steps. We’ll save questions for the end, so we can stay on task.” I could already feel myself wanting to explain the torque curve differences between the Harley and the Honda—interesting, but a half-hour tangent waiting to happen. “And if I get sidetracked by valve timing, someone throw a donut at me. Motorcycle engines are my passion, and I tend to ramble.”
Lennox was already chatting with Carl and Jerry, his booming laugh echoing off the walls. Lena was inspecting the Honda with surprising interest, and Lucas was hovering awkwardly by the workbench, looking like he might bolt at any second.
Perfect. Just a normal day at the Front Range Motorcycle Collective. The only one missing was Liv’s brother. She’d texted last night that he wanted to join, but he was probably another no-show. People often got cold feet about these classes, especially if they were forced into it by well-meaning friends or family members.
Not that I minded. Five students were plenty for a hands-on class like this.
I glanced at my phone. Two minutes to start time, and still no sign of the final student. I was about to text Liv when the side door banged open, and she burst in.
“He’s coming!” she announced, practically bouncing. “I had to threaten to throw his precious cat out the window, but he’s on his way.”
“Jesus, Liv, maybe you should let him make his own choices,” I said, but I couldn’t help smiling. Her enthusiasm was infectious, even when she was being a tyrant. “Is he actually interested in motorcycles?”
She waved away my concern. “He needs something to do besides reorganizing my kitchen cupboards for the fifth time. Medical leave is driving him insane. You know, you should talkto him about ADHD; I’m starting to think he has an undiagnosed case.”
Before I could ask about the medical leave, the main door swung open.
The man who walked in made me forget how to form words. He was a fucking masterpiece. His simple white T-shirt was fitted enough to show off his flat stomach and broad shoulders. His arms were thick and muscular, like he used them for a lot of heavy lifting, and I noticed a bandage peeking out from one shirt sleeve. The way he favored that side, holding the leash mostly in his good hand, told me the shoulder wasn’t anywhere near healed. He had the kind of jawline that belonged on a superhero, which I supposed, in a way, he was. Thick, dark hair and a hint of stubble framed his face perfectly.
And he was holding a leash.
Connected to an orange cat. An orange cat wearing a tiny orange harness.
Liv slapped me on the back so hard I stumbled forward. “There he is! Gael, this is Dylan. Dylan, my brother Gael. Oh, and ignore his cat—Bacon is a sweetheart. He won’t bother you at all.”
She was gone before I could pull my tongue back into my mouth, slipping out the side door with a little wave.
The cat—Bacon—sniffed the air imperiously, then hopped up onto my workbench and sat, peering at us all like we were beneath him. Gael unhooked the leash and wound it into a neat bundle, then extended his good hand to me.
“Gael Sanchez,” he said, his smile bright enough to power the whole damn shop. “Sorry about Bacon. Liv said it was fine to bring him along, and I couldn’t leave him at her place. He gets separation anxiety, and he’s been systematically destroying Marisol’s houseplants any time we leave him alone.” His other arm stayed close to his body, like he didn’t quite trust it.
His hand was warm and calloused, and I held it slightly too long before realizing and letting go. My face felt hot, and I was suddenly aware of how I must look—ratty T-shirt, grease under my fingernails, purple-tipped hair probably sticking up in every direction.
“No problem,” I managed, hoping my voice sounded normal. “Welcome to the Collective. I’m Dylan.”
