Jerk. Angry bastard. That’s how people describe me. Everyone in this small town knows to steer clear of me.

Thing is, they don’t know me. They don’t know what I’ve seen, what I’ve done. So I’ve learned to put up a shield to protect both me and them. When everything gets to be too much, I escape on my beloved Harley, the wind in my face calming my soul.

But my new neighbor hasn’t gotten the memo about me. She’s a walking, talking firecracker, and I can’t help but imagine what that feistiness is like in bed. She’s full of dangerous curves and a smart mouth that draws me to her like nothing I’ve ever felt.

We couldn’t be more different. I’m a grumpy asshole and she’s a sassy princess, but somehow, she sees through me and our spark is undeniable.

The question is… will we light up like pretty fireworks or a devastating explosion?

I should warn her that’s she’s not safe with me, but I’m tempted to take her for a ride.

A ride neither of us will ever forget.

—

McKayla

Looking up at the neon sign that dominates the sunset sky, I whistle softly. Only one thought goes through my mind. Ho-lee Shit! I can’t believe I did it! Well, we did it.

I’m standing in front of the Triple B Salon, in awe of the magic that Brad and I have been able to work in such a short period of time. When we took over this place, it had been sitting empty for almost a decade. The problem was that nobody really knew what to do with a former drive-in hamburger restaurant that someone stuck on the county register of historic landmarks because John Wayne used to be part-owner. You can’t make a lot of changes to a place like that.

Then there’s just the pure insanity of our idea. Most folks in the beauty industry flock to Hollywood, eager to work on celebrities and have their names in the rolling credits of a TV show. If you don’t go there, you want to make it in New York, where the celebrities are just as numerous, but you also have a possibility at fashion industry fame. Getting your scissors on the locks of a supermodel is a lifetime achievement for some stylists.

Brad, my business partner and the funniest bitch I’ve ever known, and I both did that for years. We hooked up soon after he came to LA, our styles and personality just clicking fabulously. Brad mostly handled makeup, but he can snip a bang too. Meanwhile, I was the follicle genius, turning rat-nested, hungover A-list sluts into red carpet stunners. We worked the Hollywood scene doing movies, TV shows, awards shows, and more. I’ve had my fingers on more heads than a porn star gets her fingers around cocks. Name me a star who lives in Los Angeles, and I can probably tell you their hair care secrets—who’s got gray hair, who needs some extra highlighting, and whose hair isn’t even theirs. For quite a few years, I kept Hollywood’s secrets and dealt with their bullshit quite nicely.

But last year, after a few things happened on a reality TV show that just left us feeling too creepy-crawly, the bug to settle and have something to call our own got its claws in us, and now, here we are. I was surprised when Brad agreed to come with me, actually. I thought that, coming from a rather hoity-toity East Coast background, he’d found heaven in Los Angeles. But here we are.

After some research, we couldn’t really decide, so fate intervened. After a call from my friend Emily, who ironically triggered my sudden urge to get the fuck out of the California, we ran away from LA to Great Falls, a picturesque little town she’d told me about. It was where she and her now fiancé, Hayden, went the weekend after he asked her to marry him, and it’s just north of where she lives now. It’s a beautiful town, with a length of Main Street straight out of the 1950s, a brand-new luxury resort associated with the nearby ski area, and a vibrant arts scene that’s been famous since Norman Rockwell was painting.

Ironically, we won’t be giving up all of our Hollywood connections. The state has been doing a lot to try and get filmmakers to bring production to the state, and not just cable dramas or B-movie action flicks. There’s been a ton of movies filmed out there over the past few years. Chances are, if you’ve seen a small town scene that was going for that American sense of nostalgia over the past few years, it was filmed somewhere in or around Great Falls. It’s enough to give some people what my grandmother liked to call ‘airs’. Still, there’s a certain small town charm to Great Falls, and most people actually say hello to other locals they pass.

Talk about a change of pace! And that’s why Brad and I chose this storefront. Sure, there were a ton of challenges with the historic landmark issue, but it’s right in the middle of the main road leading up to the resort, where we can serve both the upper-crust tourists and the middle-class townies. And the landlord’s been a sweet man, who told us, “As long as the county landmark people don’t shit themselves, you’re free to do whatever you want to fancy up the place.”

When the landlord said that, I was a little terrified about what Brad would do. After all, I’ve seen some of his date photos. But I shouldn’t have worried. Brad’s always been artistic, even before he started focusing on makeup, and I have to admit that the result of his interior design vision is spectacular.

From the street, the big sign streetside has only been modified. The classic cowboy that has been there for fifty years now holds a pair of scissors instead of a Winchester, and the neon underneath reads Triple B Salon instead of Duke’s Drive In. We’ve kept the old-fashioned pull-in spaces as parking, while the kitchen and sit-down diner area were gutted. Three black- and white-striped awnings catch your eye, drawing your eyes through the huge plate-glass windows to see the crisp white salon chairs and bubblegum-pink walls. The pink was my only demand . . . well, request, because demanding things with Brad is a surefire way to start a riot. And he fights dirty, too. He’s not above taking a can of Aqua Net and using it like the LAPD uses pepper spray.

So pink had to be a suggestion. But it’s my current favorite color, and the girliness of it contrasts perfectly with Brad’s preppier style, giving the impression of chic extravagance. Besides, it gives the whole thing a sort of throwback vibe too. Clear out the salon chairs, and I could see someone doing a classic sock hop instead. We’re just missing a baby-blue Chevy Bel-Air parked out front. I thought about it, but Brad and I both decided we weren’t that throwback.

With a happy sigh, I look up and down the street for Brad, who was supposed to meet me here ten minutes ago. My best guess is that he’s still working on making his eyebrows perfect. The man’s got one flaw to him and that’s eyebrows that would make Hepburn herself go running for a razor. But we’ve got to do our last walk-through to be ready for the grand opening this weekend. Getting the business license was harder than dealing with the historic landmark people. And we’ve still got some work to do, fucked up eyebrows or no fucked up eyebrows. It’s why I’m dressed down right now in jeans and a t-shirt instead of my normal fabulousness. I’ve got fucking work to do.

As I scan, I spot a beautiful motorcycle parked outside the mechanic shop across the street. I know jack shit about bikes, but I know a work of art when I see one and have a momentary daydream about riding down the highway with that bad boy humming between my legs. Actually, the idea of any bad boy humming between my legs has me smirking a little. It’s been too long since that’s been a reality for me unless you count my favorite vibrator. Still, riding a bike like that, holding onto a warm hunk while the vibrations send ripples through my pussy, and wrapping my arms around his six-pack abs . . . sign me up!

My fantasy is cut short when I hear a little ahem behind me. Turning, I spot Brad, who looks like a walking fashion show, as always, with his slim khaki pants, plaid button-down shirt rolled to his elbows, and polka dot bowtie. And his eyebrows. Yep, I knew it. Freshly done behind his stylish bold black frames. “Glad to see you made it.”

“Me? I wasn’t the one spacing out!” Brad says with a laugh. He catches sight of the bike across the street and whistles. “I’d love to ride that hog!”

“The bike or the owner?” I ask, and Brad gives a smirk. “Gotcha. Doesn’t make a difference. You’ll just pick the hotter one.”

“Damn right. So, honey, you ready for this? We’re T minus forty-eight hours till the grand opening. I almost can’t believe it! Who’d have thought we’d be out of Hollywood, in a little town, doing bridal hair and prom makeup again? Or more importantly, that we’d be so happy about it?”

I look at him carefully, evaluating because that sounded a little tight. Brad’s always sarcastic, snarky, and hilarious, but that’s a bit over-the-top even for him. “You okay? We’ve been planning this and busting our asses for months and you’ve been a hundred percent with me the whole time. You having last-minute second thoughts?”

Brad sighs as his eyes settle on the storefront’s embossed nameplate that we put right next to the front door. “No, not second thoughts, just nerves I think. We’re on our own, you know? It’s always been someone else’s risk and we just cash the checks. I’m a magician with a makeup brush, and you’ve definitely got a flair with hair, but business owners? I’m lucky if I remember to pay my own damn bills, and now we’ve got this too? Knowing my luck, we’re going to be prepping some double-booked wedding because one of us brain farted, and that’ll be the exact time that the power company cuts the damn juice just as we’ve got three harpy bitches with chemicals in their hair. Just . . . it’s a lot of pressure and I want us to do well.”

I have to hold back a smile at Brad’s language. His flamboyancy isn’t a put-upon act . . . well, most of it. Harpy bitches? Who else besides Brad would come up with that? Instead of smiling, I give him a light punch in the middle of his well-defined if skinny as hell chest.

“Do well? Fuck ‘well’, honey buns. We’re going to rock this shit. We’ll hire an office helper to do the bookings and pay the bills so we can do what we do best. If we do well enough, we can even make sure the office help is six foot two, styled like a mofo, with an eight-pack of abs and a big package for you to drool over. It’s gonna be epic, Brad. You’ll see.”

“Oh, great,” Brad mock-complains as I give him a huge smile, wrapping him up in a hug. I can feel the tension leave him, and he takes a big breath, hugging me back. “You’re going to get us a lawsuit for sexual harassment.”

“It’s only harassment if it’s unwanted,” I joke back. “He’s gonna love me, no doubt about it. You? We’ll just have to wait and see.”

Brad laughs, letting go of me and looking inside at the salon. He nods as if to himself and pats me on the back. “All right, let’s check everything out so we’re good to go for Saturday.”

Unlocking and opening the door with a dramatic ‘ta-da’ from Brad, we step inside . . . and it’s perfect. Even though we’ve been here off and on through the renovation process, it feels different to see it cleaned up and devoid of workers and realize just how fabulous of a job Brad has done. “So, what do you think?”

“I think if makeup ever falls through on you, you’ve got something hot waiting in interior design,” I reply honestly. Walking through the reception area with throne-like hot pink leather chairs, I see that there are already magazines fanned out on the sleek metal tables. Further in, the black floor gleams under the spinning white chairs that face ornate mirrors that light up from behind, creating a shadow of lace on the pink walls. The hair wash station is set up with all of my favorite products, the same ones lined up perfectly on the shelves in reception to sell to customers. A lot of people would be surprised how much product sales can add to a salon’s bottom line.

Brad’s makeup station has quilted leather drawers to organize all of his products, with more hidden in cleverly disguised drawers around the station because he has so many doodads that he’d never find a way to look sleek if it were all visible. As I do a spin in the middle of the floor, I feel like I should be wearing a full skirt instead of jeans, letting it all twirl out and around like a Disney princess.

I’m so giddy that I squeal in delight. “Brad, it’s so, so gorgeous and fancy and amazing and . . .” I’m rambling, trying to think of more adjectives, when I realize that he’s staring at a wall in the reception area. Actually, as I freeze my spins, I see that he’s ping-ponging his eyes from one wall to the opposite one, tapping a finger against his lips. “What’s wrong?”

“Babycakes, we have a problem,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “We need art. Here and here,” he says as he points to one wall, then the other. I walk back toward him, eyes flicking back and forth like his did. The walls are bare, but I don’t mind the minimalist nature of the reception area. I’ve done too many haircuts in crowded trailers or chaotic backstage areas with shit going off everywhere. A little minimalism sort of works for me.

“I think it’s fine, but we can rush order some if you want. Just remember, we can’t cover up the plaque from the county.”

Brad hums, glancing over at the plaque, which we installed to note the historic nature of the salon building. “No problem, and I want. I definitely want. It’d be great if we could do black-and-white portrait shots of us, just a little mark of our style to give it a little personality.”

I laugh, gesturing around me. “Uh, Brad, personality is in full effect here. But yeah, I’m never opposed to a little photo shoot.” I fluff my big, juicy curls a bit, putting on a model’s accent. “Just tell me where to stand and where to smile at the camera and we’re good. But we probably can’t get anything done for this weekend unless we did pictures right now. One thing, though.”

“What?”

“This pink is too damn good to be kept black and white. I want the hair colorized.”

Our eyes meet for a beat as our faces break into huge grins, and without a word, we both run for our stations to get prepped. Touching up my curls and adding a fresh pop of color to my lips and eyes, I ask, “Whatcha thinking for the shots?”

Brad looks thoughtful, then says, “I’m gonna grab a vest from my apartment first, but we’ll need to head out to the woods. I want a nature shot, maybe take a stool to perch on, and get the sun behind me. You got any ideas what you want?”

With a flash in my brain like a lightning bolt being hurled into my head from Zeus himself, I know what I want. That motorcycle across the way is perfect, and in black and white, it would be all sexy curves, just like me. We could even colorize the chrome. It’d go with my hair in a great way. Grabbing the camera we use for before and after shots, we head outside into the bright morning light and walk across the street.

Brad sees the resting machine and agrees it’s perfect. I knock on the door to the shop to see who the owner is, but there’s no answer. Great. Find my dream, and nobody’s home. Kind of like most of my dating life, actually.

I look over at Brad, who’s admiring the curves but staying well away. To hell with it. I untuck my t-shirt and tie it tight under my boobs. I’ll make this good. “All right, so I just won’t touch it. I’ll stand in front of it and the owner will be none the wiser. You good?”

Brad gives me a dip of his head, but I can tell he’s not comfortable with this. “I’m not saying yes so that I can keep plausible deniability if the owner sees the pic and throws a shit fit, but you should definitely stand over there for the shot.” He gestures toward the motorcycle, and I can’t help it, I get into it. I’ve seen plenty of other women make love to the camera, and I decide to hell with it, I’m gonna do while the doing’s good. I smile and begin posing, popping a hip out to face the camera full-on, turning and leaning forward to stick my ass out.

As I pose, I get caught up and lay one gentle hand on the handlebars and the other on the seat. Brad continues clicking away, getting into his inner fashion photographer himself.

“Yesss, girl. Look here” —click— “and off toward the front tire” —click— “arch your back . . . that’s it, now caress that chrome like it was the perfect cock.”

I reach out, biting my lip and looking over my shoulder when suddenly, I hear a deep, sexy, but still furious growl. “What the fuck are you doing to my motorcycle?”

Evan

I rub at my temples, washing down the second of the damn horse pills the VA gave me for bad times with a swig of coffee and wincing. It’s already been a shitty day, and it’s only eleven A.M. Even on good days, I’m getting no more than four hours of sleep a night, and I know my caffeine habit is getting the best of me. But I didn’t sleep at all last night, not that that’s anything new since I got back from my last tour and the nightmares started.

Well, nightmares might be putting it lightly since the dreams that plague me are more like sleeping reenactments of the worst moments of my life. I see them all the time, the ghostly images that I know are supposed to just be in my head but sometimes seem so damn real at two in the morning. I rolled out of bed at seven simply because I couldn’t stand to lie around anymore. I felt like an extra in The Walking Dead, but I sucked it up and drove on, as we used to say. I took a shower, skipping the shave today because fuck it, and got ready to hit the day because that’s what you do when you’re responsible for helping out at a family business that provides both a needed distraction and the funds to survive.

What you don’t do is what too many of my buddies have—fall into drinking, drugs, and for some of them, eating the end of a pistol barrel. I can’t call them pussies. Some of those guys were the hardest-core motherfuckers any man could hope to meet. But that’s not me. I’m not looking for congratulations, but damn if I couldn’t use a little slack today.

Not that I’ve gotten any. As soon as I walked into the shop, my brother TJ started giving me shit about not pulling my weight when I drag-ass in an hour late and run off potential clients with my lack of customer service skills. “You can’t just get by with being good with a wrench, goddammit!” he yelled at me. “You have to actually talk to people!”

He’s probably right, but the last thing I need is my little brother telling me how to live, especially when he’s had a cushy life here at home, never having to battle a damn thing other than some nerves when he asked his flavor of the week out for a drink or a fuck, her choice.

So I’m already near my boiling point when I walk outside to grab another coffee and a cigarette to clear my head so I can tackle the engine rebuild on my schedule today. It’s not a bad one. Old GM small blocks are pieces of cake compared to European builds, but I want to be able to focus, and that means coffee. I just step out the door when I see some chick damn near lying on my bike.

Before I can even think, all of my anger from the morning boils over as I charge forward like a raging bull, exploding from deep in my chest. “What the fuck are you doing to my motorcycle?”

I see her jerk back, startled by the noise. Who does she think she is? Hands off my baby. I built this cycle from the frame up, and nobody, not even my brother, gets to touch it without my say-so.

The woman turns to face me, a placating smile already on her red-painted lips. “I’m so sorry! It’s just such a gorgeous machine, I couldn’t help myself.” She dips her chin and pulls up one side of her smile a bit more, her head tilted slightly, and I can tell she’s used the practiced pose to get her way more than once. Considering the smooth, creamy skin she’s showing off under the tied-up t-shirt she’s wearing, she probably doesn’t have to ask twice either.

I huff, but that act isn’t going to work on me. “It is gorgeous. Know what else it is?” I wait a half-beat, but before she can even open her mouth, I answer my own question. “Mine. Back. The. Fuck. Up.”

She’s taken aback by my vehemence, her eyes going wide as her full lips round, taking in a gasp of air. She is hot, not like most chicks I see around here. I mean, she’s rocking metallic pink hair like it’s nobody’s business, and the jeans she’s wearing do look natural on a bike like mine, but that’s only if invited first. She stutters and swings off my bike, letting me see the rest of her, and she’s no less hot in that tight t-shirt that shows off a front side nearly as curvy as her backside. “Again, I’m sorry. I knocked on the door to ask but nobody answered—”

“So you knew that it wasn’t right but went ahead and touched my bike anyway? Yeah, you sound really sorry, Princess.”

I can see the switch flip in her eyes instantly as she goes from nicely trying to apologize to nuclear. Guess she’s got a button to push.

“I’m not a damn princess, asshole,” she fires back, turning and jabbing a finger at me. “I just wanted to take a picture with your bike for our new salon. I’m sorry I touched it. Obviously, that’s my bad. But you don’t have to be so fucking rude.”

As she rants, I’m suddenly struck by how the fire crackles in her wild eyes and the flush moves down her cheeks. She’s gesturing all around with her hands like some caricature, pointing at me, the bike, and vaguely across the street. She’s cute when she’s pissed.

I can’t help but laugh, but it’s a snarky dark chuckle that she takes as my still being rude, though it wasn’t really my intention. She plants her balled-up fists on her hips while the guy, who’s looking like he wants to be anywhere but here, shakes in his overly tight khakis, holding his camera like a shield.

My eyes are mostly filled with the pixie in front of me that’s about to go apeshit on me. “What? What the fuck are you laughing at?”

I can’t help it, her boldness makes me laugh even harder. “Did you really just try to tell me that you’re not a Princess? Have you seen yourself? Pink nails flicking all about, and makeup done like you’re in a damn movie? And that hair? You look like a Powerpuff Girl or something. You’re a walking, talking Pink Barbie Princess, honey.”

Her voice drops to a throaty growl, and I know for sure that she doesn’t appreciate being called Princess. A part of me that isn’t pissed off and caught up in my throbbing headache sort of wonders why. “Don’t call me Princess. If you want to address me, my name is McKayla, but I think we’d be better off if you just didn’t call me anything, ever again. Sorry for touching your precious bike, asshole.”

With a hair flip, McKayla pivots in her heels and stomps away. She’s obviously pissed as fuck, flipping me off as she talks faintly to herself about what a jerk I am. But with every stomp, her ass bounces and sways, creating a sexy image if I ever saw one.

I cross my arms and watch her for a moment, one corner of my lips sneaking up just a bit until I feel eyes on me. I realize that the guy is still there, his polka-dot bowtie somehow adding that touch of absolute ridiculous unreality that makes me know for sure this isn’t some waking nightmare. I’d never imagine this. He’s watching me watch her, and I raise an eyebrow at him, not saying a word.

“So. That’s McKayla and I’m Brad,” he says in a lispy voice that certainly advertises which team he swings for. “We’re the owners of the new Triple B Salon across the street. And who did we have the pleasure of meeting today?”

I nearly gape in disbelief. Shit. They’re literally my new fucking neighbors. Of course they are, because that’s how fucked up my life is. TJ’s gonna kill me. With a hearty sigh, I look up to the sky, silently cursing whatever joke fate is trying to play on me.

Looking back at Brad, I relent and offer a hand. He shakes, and despite his effeminate aura, he’s got a good grip to him. “I’m Evan Hardwick. My brother TJ and I own this garage. Looks like we’re neighbors. Welcome to the neighborhood. But don’t touch my bike.”

Brad nods, taking his hand back. “Understood. Loud and clear. FYI, I’m the nice one. You’ve heard the expression ‘a bark worse than the bite’?”

I nod, thinking I know where this is headed. “She’s feisty but a little playful puppy inside?”

Brad shakes his head, surprising me. “McKayla’s got a hell of a bark, but her bite is even worse.”With a hum of disapproval, he gives me a look and then offers a little finger wave and sashays across the street toward the new storefront. I watch him walk in the door and then hop on my bike. I light it up with a grumble of the engine, the aggressive snarl mirroring my mood perfectly. I pull away from the shop, gunning it as I turn a half-circle and double-shift as I pass the salon window, the engine going from a howl to a full scream. Hidden behind sunglasses, I cut my eyes over to the salon. As I pass, I tell myself that I won that little battle of the day as I fly out to the highway, needing the wind in my face to let go of the shitty morning.

McKayla

Brad and I stand in front of the small crowd, and when I say small, I mean like ten people and we’re two of them. It’s disappointing, to say the least, and I feel slightly ridiculous in my sexiest dress, petticoat, and heels. I spent at least an hour getting ready for this, and I’ve seen bigger crowds for a junior high school girls’ volleyball game.

At least the guy from the newspaper is here. He said that we’ll make tomorrow’s weekly edition if I can give him a few good quotes. He’s sort of cute, in a nerdy way, but he seriously needs some work on his hair. From the looks of it around here, dog clippers are considered a viable tool for hacking everything down to a quarter-inch buzz cut . . . but I can’t do that.

Still, it’s our grand opening, and Councilman Jaxson Kennedy, the suited representative from the city council, stands next to us as I thank everyone for coming and welcoming us to their town. “When Brad and I first decided on Great Falls, the first thing some of our friends said was ‘Where?’ But over the past few months, we’ve found ourselves welcomed warmly by this beautiful town, and I can say I understand why they call this place the friendliest town in the US. Thank you, and I hope everyone enjoys the Triple B!”

There’s a round of light applause like it’s a golf tournament, and then Jaxson hands us a laughably large pair of fake scissors. We pose for the local newspaper reporter to take a picture, and I remind myself that I need to deliver some better quotes than what my welcoming speech apparently was. Brad and I cut through the large ribbon in front of us, and we’re officially open for business.

I take a moment as we step inside, deciding that ten people is enough. We’ve done it. I look over at Brad, and he’s feeling the same way. Our smiles are huge, stretching across our faces in amazement at what we’ve already accomplished, so excited to get rolling with our new lives and new business in our new town. Setting the giant scissors behind the counter, I invite everyone into the salon and begin to mingle with the few folks present, introducing myself to what could be our first customers.

I approach a stunning blonde woman whose highlights make me wonder who I’m up against in town. She’s seen someone with some good skills. Still, I know I can do better. I only hope that the people around Great Falls can tell the difference and be willing to pay for it too. I offer my hand and an introduction. “Hi! I’m McKayla, the Queen of Coifs, as my partner, Brad, calls me when he’s in a good mood. Nice to meet you.”

She shakes back, a polite smile warming her face. “Nice to meet you, McKayla. I’m Rose, your neighbor from a few doors down. I own the Mountain Rose Boutique store. Welcome to the ‘hood!”

“Thanks for the warm welcome. I’ll have to stop in to your store and see what you have. Admittedly, I get most of my stuff online, but it’d be great to get some things locally too.”

“I’d love to have you come by. So, Brad’s your partner?”

I laugh, glancing over my shoulder at Brad, who’s being himself and already has a woman in his makeup chair doing a demonstration of his skills. “Trust me, it’s not that kind of partnership. Brad’s not into women.”

Rose chuckles. “So what does he call you when he’s not in a good mood?”

I grin. “Let’s just say that Triple B has different meanings. I like to say it stands for Beautiful Badass Bitches. When Brad’s in a bad mood, the first two B’s can change to Basic Bossy Bitches, which is funny because we’re both anything but basic.”

Rose giggles, and I feel that click that tells me I’ve made a friend. She smiles, and it’s smooth conversation, putting me right at ease that I’ve done the right thing moving here and setting up shop, especially since her highlights are apparently natural. Not too many people are that lucky, that’s for damn sure, and I’m doubly lucky that I don’t have to worry about competition.

I shake hands with just about everyone, making sure I give the newspaper reporter plenty of good quotes. It’s easier than I thought. Talking with Rose has relaxed me, and I’m able to be more of myself. I try to avoid namedropping too much, but let’s face it, I’m trying to bring a little bit of Hollywood glamor, so I just try to be humble about it.

After the newspaper guy finishes up, snapping a pair picture with me and Brad, Jaxson comes over offering a pleased smile. “Well, Councilman,” I say, grinning, “what do you think? Think we’ll add something to Great Falls?”

“I’d say things look like they’re going very well—maybe even get you some new business right off the bat. And please remember, just call me Jaxson. Maybe I can be your first customer.”

I nod politely, feeling like he’s being nice but getting a little tingle like he’s flirting a bit with me too. Normally, I don’t have a problem with it, but he just doesn’t do it for me. “Sure thing, Jaxson. Don’t want to steal you away from your current hairdresser, but I’d be happy to give you a cut and let you decide from there. I appreciate the city council welcoming us to town.”

“I don’t think my current barber would be too upset since he cuts the hair of most of the guys in town,” he says. Jaxson smiles, and again, there’s something in that smile that ticks a little circuit in my brain. “But he’s not nearly as pretty as you are, so I think I’d likely choose you even if you shaved me bald.” He leans in to whisper conspiratorially, “But please don’t.”

Yep, he’s definitely flirting with me now. I heard the compliment, but even as it’s an ego boost to be noticed, he just doesn’t light me up inside. No butterflies for the clean-cut guys. It’s one of the first things I learned about myself in high school when all the other girls were swooning over jocks and big-man-on-campus types. Those guys don’t do it for me.

Nope, I might be silly and I might be weird, but give me a rebel with—or without—a cause, a hellion, the brooding misfit who never walked the straight and narrow. Yeah, that’s the guy who’ll get me going, even when I know from experience that it’s a bad fucking idea and only leads to heartbreak. But it gets me every time. At least they’re usually honest about their fucked-uppedness.

My brain flips back to the asshole on the bike across the street. My eyes track over to the shop Brad told me he co-owns, but it’s closed. I can see the lights are on inside, so they must be open for business, but the big bay doors are pulled down. Yeah, that’s more my type of guy. Obviously, he’s got issues, including a huge one about nobody touching his damn bike.

If only he weren’t an asshole. I have a moment of disappointment, but before I can analyze it too much, I realize Jaxson is still talking. “ . . . been on the council here for years, grew up down in the community college area, but came north after I graduated, and I never left. I’m hoping I can use my business degree and council experience for advantage and become mayor, then who knows? Maybe go bigger for a state rep seat.”

I smile and nod, knowing that to most people, a sweet guy with ambition like Jaxson is a dream come true. He should be the type of guy every woman wants. He’s a respectable adult and all, but even tuning out for half of his speech, I’m already a teensy bit bored, if I’m honest with myself. All I can think of is the fact that any haircut I give this guy is going to be over styled, totally conservative, and as boring as watching what little grass there is underneath the front windows grow. It’ll be the kissing babies and shaking hands haircut, offensive to nobody except me and Brad.

Still, I want to be polite, and a customer is a customer. “That’s quite a life plan you’ve got there, Jaxson. Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

Jaxson gives me another grin. “Yep, a one, five, and ten-year plan. Got to have both short-term and long-term goals and chase them with focused drive, sheer will, and hard work. It’s all part of the secret, you know? You have to ask, then visualize and believe, and you’ll receive it. Law of attraction and all, you know?”

I distractedly fidget with my necklace, knowing I’ve stepped in the deep end now. I realize I’ve made a mistake when Jaxson’s eyes zoom in on the beads, just inches away from my cleavage. Shit, didn’t mean to do that. I lower my hand, regretting my accidental signal. I get it. I’ve got some legit boobs . . . but not everyone gets to see them.

“How about lunch after everyone filters out?” Jaxson asks. I’m just about to apologize and say no when he continues. “We can go to the diner and I can introduce you to most everyone in town. It’s a busy place for Saturday’s lunch rush.”

I so don’t want to do this. I’d rather be in the salon, trying to make my impression the old-fashioned way, giving haircuts that’ll leave people stunned and customer service that’ll leave them wanting more. But looking around, I see no one waiting, and I know Brad can handle anything that happens. I sigh inside, knowing that I need to do this for the business connections.

I don’t want to lead Jaxson on, but I do need to get out and get my face known. Suddenly, I’m struck with genius. To hell with it. We can officially open tomorrow. “You now what, Jaxson? That’d be great. Brad and I would really appreciate your introducing us to everyone. You really take your council role as welcome wagon seriously!”

Before he can correct me, I turn, hollering to Brad. “Hey, honeybuns!” I draw out the word to emphasize the endearment on purpose. “Jaxson offered to introduce us to some folks over lunch. Isn’t that nice of him?”

Brad looks at me, immediately hearing our code word for “rescue me” that has come in handy more than once at a club when a guy wouldn’t take the subtle hint and go away. It’s a desperate plan, but hey, whatever works.

Brad straightens up, adding a little bit of bass to his voice. “Why yes, dear. That is rather nice.” He looks at me with a shit-eating grin and I know he got the message.

I also know that once he and I get to hang out alone again, I’m so going to hear about this.

Evan

It’s mid-morning and I’m deep under an old Cadillac, checking every hose for a sneaky leak that keeps setting off the Check Engine light on Ms. Barnes’s car. She doesn’t drive it much, mostly just back and forth to tennis at the club, so it should be all right, but about every two months, she brings it in with a little noise or a check she wants done after reading some shit on the Internet.

But this Caddy is older than I am, which means it’s got more than a few demons of its own lurking under the hood. Thankfully, these old Caddies also have some elbow room in their frames and I’m not having to disentangle a damn Gordian knot in order to change an oil filter like I do with some of the newer Japanese and Korean cars.

Whatever, it’s money in my pocket, and I really don’t want the woman stranded, even if I’m beginning to suspect she’s doing something to the car herself to set the light off. Is there such a thing as Munchausen by proxy to a car? Like, is she pouring sugar in the gas tank at night or chucking sand into the fan belts before she brings it in?

I’m elbow deep, following a hose that I suspect has picked up a crack somewhere, when there’s a knock on the hood, scaring the shit outta me and making me jerk, damn near busting my forehead against the drive shaft.

Dropping back to the creeper beneath me, I roll out from under the car, already pissed. “What the fuck? Could have busted my damn head since I’m working here, dumbass . . .”

I stop as I realize it’s not TJ giving me shit but Old Earl from down the street, who’s already smiling at me, barely containing his laughter as he shoves his hands in the pockets of the overalls that are stretched across his big beer belly. Earl’s sort of the shop’s edition of the grapevine. He’s always good for a little bit of rumor, and he’s usually more reliable than the local news. Years ago, he used to be into cars too, but now he runs the family agricultural supply business . . . or at least pretends to. “Ooh, that was a good ‘un. Gotcha good, Mr. Evan.”

I slide out from under the Caddy and get to my feet, resisting the urge to rub his shiny bald head. “Earl, we’ve talked about this. Evan, just Evan. You’re forty years older than me. You don’t need to call me mister.”

He shakes his head in that country boy way of his, like what I said was half in a foreign language or just total silliness. “Ain’t nothing but a thing, son. I call everyone Mister or Missus or Miss—just how my momma raised me—and you ain’t gonna change it now. Whatcha doing?”

I look at him like he’s crazy, because according to most folks, he really might be half-crazy. Then again, considering he took his father’s two-bit feed and grain and somehow turned it into the biggest agricultural supply dealer in the northern half of the state, maybe crazy like a fox would be a better description. I gesture back to the car, patting the curved fender like it’s an old friend. “Working on this Caddy for Ms. Barnes.”

“Oh, that old bat?” he asks, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about the Caddy or Ms. Barnes. “She always seems to be leaking from both ends. What’s wrong this time?”

I shrug and play it safe to assume he’s talking about the car. “Think she’s got a seal or hose that’s got a crack in it. Hey, shouldn’t you be at the store? It’s Monday morning, Earl . . . don’t you have shit to do?”

Earl grins that same grin that used to adorn all the ads for his store, the one that kind of makes him look like a cross between a Gerber baby and a naughty garden gnome. “Best Monday ever, Mr. Evan. My youngest son opened today for the first time, and I’ve got the whole day off till I go in this afternoon for the closing shift.”

Huh, that’s new. Earl’s the third generation of his family to run the store, but all three of his kids have reaped the benefits of having a multimillion-dollar company in the family without being at all interested in keeping it going. Then again, if half my job were selling seed and feed, I’d enjoy a different job too. Not that I’d choose an office job. That’s not me, but some of Earl’s supply just . . . smells. “So Bennie is working for you now? Well, congrats and all, but I’ve gotta get back to it here.”

I’m hoping he hears the dismissal and leaves me to it. I don’t need to hear about Bennie. I’ve met the man when Earl brought him around to show him off like a prized pony. I think Earl thought I’d connect with Bennie because he did a couple of tours in the early years of Iraq so we have some shared ghosts. Earl does too, but his are older echoes from Vietnam, and he made peace with them long ago, enough to try to swap war stories a time or two, but I wasn’t interested.

I just don’t want to go back there, not physically and definitely not mentally. Let the ghosts lie dormant and quiet as much as I can is my motto. Not that they stay quiet all the time.

Earl doesn’t seem ready to leave, though. “I didn’t stop by for my health, boy. It’s shitty enough as it is. I stopped by to ask you a question.”

I tilt my head at him and sigh. You never know what he’s going to come up with, so I try to wait patiently and see where he’s going, but I fail. “What’d you wanna ask? Because no, I don’t want to go to a meeting at the Elk Lodge for the fucking hundredth time.”

Earl smiles again, somewhat sadly. “But one day, I’ll ask and you’ll say yes. So I’ll keep asking, Son. They helped Bennie too. There’s men there from my generation who saw service in ‘Nam, but also a new generation, your generation, who’ve seen other things. There’s men there that can help you, help with those demons you wear like shields to keep everyone and everything out.”

He pauses meaningfully, staring into my eyes, then visibly lightens. “But that ain’t what I’m talking about right now. I came to ask you about the new folks across the street. You met ‘em yet? I heard it’s a man and a woman, but not a couple, judging by the gossip I hear.”

The gossip he hears is everything—like I said, he’s our neighborhood’s own ‘Ms. Kravitz’ that keeps an eye on everyone and everything. Nothing happens around here without Earl knowing about it, so I know he’s well aware I already had a run-in with the salon owners.

“Cut the crap, Earl,” I reply, grabbing a rag and wiping the mess off my hands. It’s one of those little things I picked up in the service. I have no problem getting dirty, but once that’s over, I’m a freak about clean hands. “You know I already met them, blew up, and ran her off too. Princess Pink Hair messed with my bike and then flipped me off like it was my fault.”

Earl’s smile changes, like he’s just gotten a tasty morsel. Considering the size of his gut, he’s had his fair share. “Ahh, now see? That I didn’t know. I heard about the commotion but not what started it. So now I know . . . she touched your bike and you went nuclear. Seems like an overreaction, but what do I know? I never had no bike before.”

I can feel the immediate tightness in my chest when he says I overreacted. I didn’t. My anger was totally justified, and even though she apologized, she expected it to just magically be okay like she didn’t just mess with the one thing keeping me sane right now.

I silently fume, and Earl stares at me, appraising me like he often has before, and I know he can see the darkness that surrounds me like smoke.

Smoke—that’s what I need. Goddammit, I hate this habit, but I can’t help it. When the caffeine doesn’t work, nicotine often will.

I walk past him to the open bay door, grabbing a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter off the work table as I go. I lean against the door frame, covering the tip as I light the cigarette that is both killing me slowly and making some moments more manageable.

Earl walks over, and I offer him one out of the pack, holding the lighter up as he inhales. He looks at me with a cocked eyebrow for a moment before speaking. “You know, Son, I’m not one to judge. My generation, we grew up thinking these things were actually good for you. You ain’t hooked, I can tell that. What gives?”

After a few puffs, I give in. “I need them. They help me focus, the routine of breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Like it’s fucking meditative or some shit. When a cig isn’t enough, I ride. It’s the only way I can outrun what’s inside sometimes. And I figure it’s a lot better than hard drinking or getting into fights.”

Earl nods sagely. “For Bennie, he goes down to the community college area three times a week to some gym where he rolls around in pajamas and chokes people or something. A man needs a way to be free from the demons. Sometimes, it’s best to run. But eventually, you gotta turn around and fight them, beat them into submission. That’s what Bennie says, and I’ll gladly take credit for teaching him that one.”

Earl’s probably got a point. He may have never had a motorcycle, but he’s got his demons and he’s battled and fought them for a lot of days. There are reasons all of his children except Bennie don’t want to go into the family business and why he’s been divorced three times. So I grunt an acknowledgement, and he takes that as progress for the day.

I swear Earl thinks I’m his pet project or something, but he hasn’t recognized that I’m broken far worse than he knows and I’m not fixable. Each man who comes back broken is broken differently, and I’m not Bennie. This Humpty-Dumpty is shattered from the inside out, and nobody's gonna put me back together again. Best thing I can hope for is to keep going day by day, and when I do explode or go over the edge, I do it in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone else.

Earl is willing to let it go for now. “So, back to the original topic at hand. The new salon folks? Seems after their ribbon cutting ceremony, Jaxson took them down to the diner and showed them off like prize-winning hogs, introducing them around.”

The fact that he doesn’t use ‘mister’ for Jaxson isn’t lost on me, as Earl has repeatedly said that Jaxson sets his Spidey senses on alert. I’ve met the man too, the last time when he brought his car in for some work on the air conditioner, and he just seems like a political huckster type, a little too polished to be legitimate. His smile, his laugh, and his handshake all seem just a little too practiced, like he works at it in the mirror at home until it’s just right.

“Yeah, so?” I grunt. Personal qualms about Jaxson aside, his taking them around and introducing them is just his sort of schtick.

Earl looks like he’s about to give me a Christmas morning puppy. He’s so excited for some reason. “Word is, he asked Miss McKayla for just the two of them . . . almost like he was trying for a date, and she accepted, but for her and Mr. Brad. Whoo-boy, I like her already.”

The thought of her side-stepping a date with that slick welcome wagon suit gives me a little jolt of happiness, although I’m not quite sure if it’s because I’m happy he didn’t get his way or because she didn’t go out with some douchebag. Sure, she was a spoiled bitchy Princess, but a damn hot one too. Something about the way her clothes, her body, and most of all, that hair . . . they all seemed to work together. She’s too much woman for a schmuck like Jaxson to handle, although the thought of the smackdown she’d give him if he tried makes me laugh inside a bit.

I look toward the salon. My mind’s all sorts of fucked up, but my eyes are perfect. The big plate glass windows let me see inside where she is standing behind a brunette, eyes laser focused on the section of hair she’s cutting. She’s talking as she works, her bright red lips forming shapes, and I wish I could hear what she’s saying.

My gaze moves around, and I realize Brad is standing at the front desk, phone cradled to his ear with his shoulder, and his eyes are locked on me. He raises one eyebrow and gently shakes his head at me.

I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding and look back to Earl. “Thanks for the gossip, Earl. But I gotta get back to work.”

He drops his cig, grinding it under his heel. “Sure thing, Son. You let me know if you need a ride to the meeting on Wednesday at the lodge.”

I give him a death-stare, but inside, I kinda grin. Man, that guy is like a dog with a bone . . . won’t give it up for anything.

Earl leaves, sort of waddling down the sidewalk at a deceptive speed. You don’t think the man’s moving, but next thing you know, he’s half a block away. After watching him go, I look back across the street. Brad’s still playing guard dog at the front desk as I get myself another eyeful of McKayla, but when I see him again, he grins and gives me a wink.

Sorry, buddy, that’s not my game, but you’re also not going to throw me off mine. Besides, I’ve got a leaky Caddy to chase down.

If only I were as easy to fix as this old thing.

McKayla

“We’re rocking, we’re rolling,” I chant as I do a little dance around the shop. I just looked at the receipts on the computer, and there’s a reason to dance. Roughly four thousand reasons.

Brad looks on with a huge grin, but he doesn’t join my victory celebration. He’s too busy making himself look beautiful. “I just can’t believe it. One week, and I’m already thinking we need to hire another pair of hands.”

I laugh, coming over and tugging on his arm. I’m too damn happy to just let him primp in front of the mirror. “I feel like ever since that newspaper article and going over to the diner with Jaxson, we’ve already seen half the town, so must be the other half coming in over the next two weeks because our schedule is full.”

Brad gives in to my persistent tugging and gets up to grab my hand, spinning me in a little circle and pulling me in for a crazy little swaying dance, even though there’s no music. He dips me down, one high-heeled shoe sticking up toward the ceiling, before he pulls me back to my feet. I keep forgetting that the man can seriously dance.

“Yep,” he says, agreeing with me as he does a little half-dance of his own that shows off a few more of his moves. “Half already love us and the other half will in a minute.” He twirls, dropping down faster than a man really should in pants that tight before bouncing up and popping a hip into one of the empty chairs, spinning it around. “Between all the hair services you’re doing and all the facials and eyebrows I’m doing, we’re on the cusp of being the premiere beauty salon in the state. I feel it.”

As he says the last part, he spreads his hands wide like he’s seeing our salon name in lights across a big marquee.

I laugh, glad at his projection but a little realistic too. “Well, maybe not the state. We should probably conquer this little town first, but we’re sure as fuck doing better than I’d ever hoped. ”

With big smiles, we do our special high-five combo with a mix of fist-bumps, waving fingers, and the piece de resistance hip wiggle with an ass smack. Brad might not have much of an ass, but I’ve got enough to make up for the both of us.

Brad rubs his bony hip, grinning as he heads for the register. “Done and done. I’m finished closing out the cash drawer and receipts for the day, so I’m gonna head out and do the bank run on the way home. There’s a couch and a cabernet calling my name. Need anything else?”

I’m pleased to hear Brad talking so positively about his new rental house. It was one of the things that had worried me the most about moving to smaller city, the slower pace of life. Brad had been a total denizen of the Hollywood night scene, stylin’ and profilin’ his happy little ass anywhere there was a dance club and a rainbow. Now he rents a two-bedroom house on the corner of town, and from what I can tell, the wildest it gets around here would bore most of the Hollywood party crowd.

“Nah, I’m good. Thank you though. I’m going to finish sweeping up and mop my way out the back to the stairs. I’ve got leftover Chinese food calling my name and a long bubble bath soak on the agenda. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.”

Despite appearances, I’ve got a homebody streak in me that likes the new setup, living right above the salon. The building has an apartment upstairs, and we’d talked extensively about sharing it since it has two bedrooms, but realistically, if we worked together all day and lived together, I think one of us would end up dead. There’d be glitter, hair dye, and blood everywhere.

I love Brad like the brother I never had, and he feels the same about me, but with both of us having such big personalities, a little life balance is in order for us to do our best work. Besides, the way he somehow finds men who are open to his advances from outta nowhere makes me jealous.

And since work is the priority, we decided having separate homes was the right choice to keep us clicking properly. Jealousy doesn’t make for a good work environment.

Plus, that means we each get multiple closets since he has just as many, if not more, clothes as I do, and the vision of our sharing a bathroom makes me shudder a bit. Friends, yes. Knowing each other’s toilet habits, no thank you.

With an airy kiss in my direction, he grabs the bank bag and heads out the door. The little bell over the door tinkles, and I decide to get back to actually wrapping up work. There may not be a cabernet upstairs for me, but I do have a couple of bottles of a local craft brew IPA that I could easily enjoy with the Chinese food.

I’m head-down, focused on the floor and sweeping all the stray hairs I missed throughout the day, when I hear the tinkling of the bell above the door. “Sorry, we’re closed . . .” I start as I look up to see Jaxson stepping in with a smile, his hand raised in a wave. “Jaxson.”

His smile grows as he sees I’ve remembered his name. “Hey, McKayla, hope I’m not interrupting. Just wanted to stop by and see how it’s going . . .” He tapers off like there’s more he wants to say, but he just looks at me. When I don’t reply, his smile slips a little before recovering. “So, how’re you doing?”

“I don’t think we could’ve dreamed of a better first week than the one we actually had. It’s going great, better than we’d even hoped. Just cleaning up for the night.” I gesture vaguely around the salon and he looks around.

Jaxson nods, looking semi-impressed at least. “I have to tell you, this place looks amazing. I don’t know anything about fancy salons out in LA, but you guys seem to know what you’re doing.”

I smile politely, then realize something. “Hey, how’d you know we’re from LA? I don’t think I mentioned that before.” I see a flicker cross his eyes, but it’s so fast, I think maybe I imagined it.

“I thought you did, or maybe I heard folks talking about it at the grand opening last week. That’s right, isn’t it? I’ve been telling everyone about our town’s new famous Hollywood dynamic duo.” He says it with such a big smile that I can’t help but smile back.

I try and think back. Maybe I did mention it. I mean, if I didn’t, I’m sure Brad did. It is sort of our calling card, bringing legit Hollywood skills. I just haven’t said much because I didn’t want to come off as arrogant to the locals. “Yep, that’s us. Started in two different places, hooked up in Hollywood, and now ready to rock on our own. I guess that makes us movers and shakers.”

I laugh a little at my own joke and then remember I need to finish cleaning up. Looking at the floor, I wiggle my broom a bit. “Sorry, Jaxson, but I really need to finish cleaning up for the night. Thanks for—”

I’m just about to give him the polite brush-off, broom pun intended, when he interrupts me. “Oh, let me help. You’re not exactly dressed for cleaning.”

I look down at my slim leopard print pencil skirt, puffy shoulder black top, and red patent platform heels. I bite back a little, not taking kindly to having my style questioned. Sure, it’s a little over-the-top, but it’s typical me for damn sure. I’m out there and fucking fabulous, and the rest of the world can like it or go fuck themselves. “Well, this is how I always dress and how I always clean, so it seems to work just fine.”

Jaxson seems to get the point because he steps back, giving me a bashful look. “Oh, I didn’t mean that to sound bad. Sorry, I meant it as a compliment. Most women around here wear yoga pants and t-shirts to clean, jeans if you’re really getting fancy. But you’re like a walking, talking pin-up from the 1950s, Bettie Page reincarnated. You take care of your appearance. I dig it.”

Cringing inside at my immediate jump to thinking he was insulting me, I try to backpedal a bit. I mean, he’s not my type, but he’s not being an asshole either. “It’s all right. I’m used to guys not really knowing what to think about my wardrobe, and usually, when people think ‘different’, they think ‘bad’ for some reason, so I’m a little defensive. Ever heard of Dita von Teese?”

He steps over and takes the broom from my hand, bending down to sweep up a little pile of hair. He looks up from the floor in front of me and I’m struck by the intimacy of the position even if he is a foot away. If my skirt were just a little higher, he’d be able to see quite a bit more than I normally show men I’m not interested in. “Never heard of her. Tell me.”

I hear a little bit of command in his voice and I’m surprised. Well, well, well. Maybe Mr. Politico-Nice Guy has a little fire after all. It’s probably wrong that it makes me like him just a smidgen more, but honestly, it does.

“Well, you said Bettie Page, right? Think of Dita like the woman who sort of picked up Bettie’s ball and ran with it. She’s a fashion icon, known for her vintage style, mostly 30s and 40s. She models, designs, and dances too. I’ve always been inspired by her flair for classic drama, but I have to mix a bit of rockabilly in for myself too. I’m too wild to be that traditional.”

Jaxson laughs. “Did you just say you’re a hillbilly? No offense, but we’ve got some pretty country folk around here. No hillbillies though.”

I laugh back. “No, rockabilly, kinda rock-n-roll with a little country mixed in. Think 50s Pink Ladies meets sexy-sass and given a twenty-first-century twist.”

Jaxson smiles, tilting his head as he leans on the broom and looks me up and down, obvious in his appraisal.

I freeze and can’t decide if I feel good or bad about his attentions. I should be able to tell, but I just can’t get a read on him and that makes me nervous. While I normally go for rougher types, there’s a little something in his overall vibe that leaves me questioning just how vanilla he really is.

Jaxson breaks the tension after a moment, pursing his lips and humming. “Well, whatever you call it, it works for you.” His face stays serious for a moment, waiting for my reaction, but I stay quiet for a change. Talking is the easiest way to drag this out, and I just want to turn in.

Brad would be fucking proud of me for keeping my big mouth shut because that’s a rare reaction for me. I’ve got a bad habit of talking my way into problems and sometimes not being able to back out without shit going down. Actually, one of the first times Brad and I worked together, that was the case.

Jaxson, not hearing the ‘thank you’ he’s expecting, changes tack and smiles again. “Hey, you had dinner yet? We could grab something to eat?”

He looks like an earnest little boy, and I’m about to snatch his new favorite toy away . . . me. But I’m not the kind to be treated as anyone’s little plaything. That’s probably part of the reason I have such a problem with the bad boys. I can get on for the ride, but eventually, I want to take the wheel sometimes too. Jaxson strikes me as the type to want a sweet little woman who does what he says, definitely not the kind to let me run full-throttle on occasion, and that more than anything makes up my mind for me. “Thanks, Jaxson. But I’m beat. I just need a little down time to recover from the crazy week and get ready to do it all again.”

His face falls in disappointment, but with a breath, he rallies. “Sure, I understand. Maybe some other time?”

I hum noncommittally and walk him toward the door, a clear indication that I’m dismissing him. He relents and follows me, stepping outside as I pull the door open. He pauses, looking down at me just as we’re nearly pressed against each other while he slides his way through the door. Suddenly, I’m aware of how much bigger than me he is. I’m not a tiny woman—well, not that tiny—but even in my five-inch platforms, he’s got at least six inches of height on me. But where I’m curvy and full-chested, he’s slender and wiry.

As I look up, I don’t want to back up. I don’t want to give him the impression that he’s got rights in my own store, but I do lean back in an attempt to get some personal space. This is my bubble, and that is your bubble, dude.

His eyes are flickering, but I don’t feel heat. His eyes are stone cold as he looks at me, not like a man looks at a woman, not even like a human being looks at another human being, but like someone would look at a bug, or maybe a bauble in the store that you want to buy only to throw away later.

I feel the decrease in space on a visceral level as he leans in, turning my face away as he kisses my cheek. His lips are dry, papery thin as he holds them against my cheek for a split second that feels like an eternity.

I press against his chest, cringing away, desperate to get him the fuck out of here. “Look, uh . . . Jaxson, one of my faults is I’m blunt as fuck, so I’m just gonna say this. I’m new to town and not looking for anything romantic. Friends, sure, but nothing more. I appreciate your help with the city council stuff, but that’s it.”

Jaxson smiles at me. “Sure, I get it. But you won’t be new to town forever. Just trying to get to know the new girl in town.”

It sounds reasonable but makes me narrow my eyes at him anyway. I may not be new in town forever, but after what I just felt, if hell froze over and Satan himself knocked on the door asking for a date, I might be more interested in the Prince of Darkness than this man. “I understand. Please, I need to get cleaned up.”

He steps further out and begins to walk away, turning to offer a two-finger wave. “I’ll see you later, McKayla.”

I watch as he gets further away. Nothing he just said was off, but still, there’s something about him that gives me pause. I look up and down the dark sidewalk, noting how alone we are.

I still haven’t gotten used to how things are so quiet around here. Except for certain nights, it’s one of those towns that rolls up the sidewalks when the sun goes down, a hell of a long way from LA with a quiet time of three thirty in the morning . . . sometimes.

If Jaxson had nefarious intentions, he damn sure would’ve had an opportunity.

With a sigh, I shake my head, telling myself that I’m not in LA, and every nice guy that chats me up isn’t a boogieman I need to be wary of. Right before I turn inside, a red light twinkles across the street and I squint to get a better view.

The red cherry of a cigarette. Evan. Yeah, Evan’s his name.

Evan

I’m a watcher. I can’t help it. Ever since I got back from my last deployment, where I spent days in hiding, frozen in mountainside caves or rooftops or wherever the fuck they sent me, staring at the world around me through a scope, I have kept the same habits.

Don’t engage, don’t draw attention, just lie low and observe and you’ll know more about everyone and everything than you thought possible. I’ve relaxed a bit in the time since I’ve been home, made a few friends who can put up with me running hot and cold, and bought a big ass bike that draws attention but turns people off from the dirty biker, but I still watch.

Mostly, though, I watch because I still don’t feel like I belong. Sure, TJ puts up with my ass and old Earl holds out hope for me, but when I walk around town or when I go to the supermarket, the people I pass just don’t seem like the same species as me. They’re smiling in that sort of pleasant smartphone-induced haze that’s filled with Facebook updates, manufactured outrage over some people you don’t really give two shits about, and kitten pictures.

Part of me remembers the time I was about the same. Just a softer, carefree kid coming home to a working-class house with parents too busy to pay any attention to me and TJ unless the school was calling again. I just kinda skated by, passed my classes, hung out with buddies, and just coasted through days without much thought.

Quiet and shadowed against the front of my building, I’ve downed two Monsters while peering into the salon across from me, still caught in my reflections. Why did I join the Army? It wasn’t out of any great desire to wrap myself in the flag and go play soldier boy. I remember that. I’d seen the JROTC crew sweating it out in the parking lot, twirling their rifles and shining their helmets while my friends and I sat on tailgates in the school lot, just goofing off. I thought they looked like idiots.

So why did I join? I guess the answer’s simple—it was something to do to get me out of here and grow up. I saw friends getting more and more lost, trying drugs and working dead-end jobs, and at some point, I realized I wanted more than that. I figured the military might make a man out of me. How was I supposed to anticipate spending most of my time outside of basic training in a godforsaken desert? How could I have known what I would see . . . what I would have to do?

I watch Brad leave, and my eyes tick back to McKayla, who is sweeping up, bending over in a skirt that hugs her every curve like it was custom-made for her. She may be a Pretty Pink Princess, but she’s built like a pin-up queen.

Hell, I don’t know. She’s a Hollywood girl. Maybe it was made for her curvy measurements. She hasn’t made a big deal of her background. I think she’s left that in Brad’s hands, but the rumors have gotten around, and a few people have Googled her. Supposedly, she’s done some pretty famous shit, not that they advertise who cuts the hair on summer blockbusters.

I’m about to go inside for the evening when I see that prick, Jaxson, striding down the sidewalk, and I shrink even farther into the shadows so he won’t see me. I stand there, hidden except for the wisps of smoke from the cigarette I’m just holding as a cover while I stand there not moving, watching for twenty minutes while he chats up McKayla, obviously trying to lay the mac down on her. He even tries sweeping like a dutiful servant before she ushers him out the front door. I have to smirk . . . I may not know a lot about McKayla, but it’s not the way to impress that woman. She’s the kind who I bet loves to get treated like a queen, but only from a man strong enough.

My fist tightens against my thigh when I see him lean in to kiss her, but I damn near guffaw out loud when I see her bob and duck away from his advance. Damn, last time I saw moves like that was when Ali was making people look like fools in a boxing ring on YouTube.

Good girl. Smart girl, I think. You don’t want to let him in even an inch.

He walks away, turning back for one more wave, but she stays outside, glancing along the street for a moment. I predict when her gaze will hit the front of the garage and take my first drag on my cancer stick, lighting up the cherry, and like a moth to a flame, I feel it when her eyes latch on to my location.

It’s not what I should do, intentionally drawing her attention like that, and honestly, I don’t even know why I do it. I just want her to know I’m here. She squints for a moment, making sure her eyes aren’t playing tricks on her. I toss my can to the side, where it rattles as it makes its way into the trash barrel that TJ insists on keeping right outside the office door . . . probably because of my damn cans.

I’m smiling, knowing McKayla’s about to hairflip away again and stomp inside. I’m already focused on her hips, ready for the quick view of her ass in that leopard skirt, when I realize that she’s not turning to go inside and instead, those curvy hips are getting closer as she struts across the street toward me. As she gets close, I look her up and down. “So, wanting to see the bike again?”

She’s not amused. “Hey, asshole, you just perving out over here now? Get an eyeful?”

I smile, but it’s a small consolation. “Evan.”

Her thunder stolen, she stares at me, confused. “Huh?”

I raise an eyebrow, “You called me asshole. My name’s Evan.” Patting my chest in a mocking thump, then pointing at her, “Me Evan, You Princess. Just thought you’d want to know who you’re bitching at. Continue.” I wave my hand in a come on gesture, since while I know I’ve knocked her back a little, she’s not the kind to stay that way for long.

She smirks, continuing. “I said . . . Evan, a.k.a. Pervy McPerverson, maybe you should take a picture. It’d last longer.” She eyes me like saying my name is asking her to chug a lima bean juice frappe.

I smile, and it’s a real one, a rare occurrence these days, as I’m struck with a thought. Curious, I ask her, “Maybe one of you trespassing on my bike? How’d that turn out, anyway? Get what you needed?”

It’s the longest string of speech I’ve offered her yet, and judging by the shock on her face, she realizes that too. Her sails deflate, and while it takes a little bit out of the fiery sexiness she’s got, it also makes her cuter in a lot of ways. “Yeah, about that. I really am sorry. I did try to ask, and when nobody answered, I meant to just stand in front of it and not touch. I got carried away. I’d say it won’t happen again, but that’d be a lie. My whole life is pretty much me getting carried away by crazy ideas and wild adventures.”

I huff out a laugh at her honest admission. “So tell me, what’s the craziest idea, the wildest adventure you’ve ever been carried away on?”

She looks up to the sky like there’s an answer written in the sparks of the stars, humming as she searches her memory. Considering how long it’s taking, either she’s going to lie her ass off or she actually has gotten into some crazy shit. I’m kinda hoping it’s the second.

Finally, looking me in the eye, she starts. “Well, I’d say the time I dared to touch a guy’s bike without permission, but maybe that’s not so crazy after all. How about ditching Hollywood and moving to a new town to start a new business when I only know one person in the whole town? Meh, you know that too. Let’s see . . .”

She taps her lips with black painted nails that glitter in the street lights, and I feel a long forgotten tingle in my jeans. It’s not that the equipment doesn’t work, but usually, the demons are running around too much for me to do anything about it. “Well?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “Let me guess, you went to a club and Leonardo DiCaprio walked in . . . and walked out ten minutes later with you and every other woman in the club in tow.”

“Leo?” she asks. “Gimme some credit, it’d take him more than five minutes for me alone. Six, at least. Anyway, ah . . . yep, craziest adventure. I once hitchhiked across the state line to Nevada, just a backpack of snacks and a hundred bucks to my name. Rode with a truck driver on the way there and a group of bikers on the way back. In hindsight, they might’ve been a motorcycle club, but I didn’t care at the time. They were just going in the right direction.”

My eyes go wide. That’s a bit wilder than I’d thought. Maybe even bordering on stupid. “What was in Nevada? Hitting the slots with that hundred?”

McKayla leans in to whisper like she doesn’t want anyone to hear, even though we’re alone on the darkened street. “I went to a Prince concert.”

I realize how close she is and my heartbeat picks up as I look at her. “All that for a concert? Must’ve been some show.”

She leans back, eyes meeting mine, and grins. “That’s not the crazy part. The crazy part is that I hitchhiked with a trucker and a biker gang to Vegas and back for a Prince concert alone . . .” She pauses for dramatic effect. “when I was sixteen. And lived to tell the tale. It was fun and I was damn lucky.”

All right, not bordering on stupid, but about three days past the line of stupid. At least she seems to recognize how insane it was. “That’s a dangerous adventure. Hope you’re a little smarter about your escapades now.”

She smirks at me, tilting her head in a way that sends another tingle down my spine. “Sometimes yes, sometimes no. You only live once, so I’m going for it, balls to the wall. Speaking of, come on.” She grabs at my hand like she’s ready to lead me somewhere, lifting her chin toward her salon. “Let me show you something.”

I’m a little stunned. Nobody willingly touches me these days. Everyone’s too scared of the growling, ticking time bomb that I am to even approach me. I’m surprised some people don’t ask to see my rabies tag.

But she just takes my hand like it’s no big deal. Crazy and wild, indeed. I’m curious what she’s up to, so I follow, prowling across the street with her. She pulls open the salon doors, leading me inside, and walks up to a wall in the reception area. “Well, you wanted to see it. There you go.”

I can’t really see this angle from my shop-front, so I look around and see what she’s talking about. The photo of her posed leaning over my bike looks like something that you’d find on one of those old motorcycle calendars, Miss July because she’s so damn hot. But whoever did the filtering and printing did a lot to up the class level a notch, making it classy and not trashy. The black and white coloring gives it a vintage feel, highlighting the curves of her body and my bike.

I instantly memorize it because it’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and I know I’ll be jacking off to that image later tonight.

I turn toward McKayla, giving her a low whistle. “I don’t wanna sound rude, but you look sexy as fuck in this picture. Maybe I should’ve let you take a few more with my bike before running you off.”

If I thought she’d be turned off by my lack of finesse, I’m dead wrong because she moves in close, rising up to her tiptoes in those damn high heels to press her lips to mine.

It’s sultry and heated, even as her lips simply move against mine, not begging entry, just enjoying the moment. She breaks contact, leaving my lips burning, and looks into my eyes. “Well, Evan? You going to be rude some more?”

Before I know what I’m doing, I grab her around the waist, kissing her back forcefully, pulling her body in tight to press against mine, her glorious mix of soft curves and firm flats making my heart race. My cock lets loose a battle cry that I haven’t felt in a long time, raging to full hardness in my jeans as I reach down to knead her ass.

She lets out a whimpering sigh of delight, and I take advantage, slipping my tongue in to tangle with hers. It feels like sparks are flicking against my skin everywhere we touch as our lips work at each other. She slips a hand up to my hair, threading the strands through her fingers and gently pulling me even deeper.

Her other hand claws at my back, those manicured nails scratching my shoulder blade deeply. The flash of pain wakes me up, and I pull back, resting my forehead against hers, my breath coming in pants as I try to recover. McKayla’s breathing is even heavier, her eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”

I take her arms in my hands and nudge her away to look her in the eye. “You don’t want to do this. Crazy and wild adventures might be your thing, but I’m not an adventure you want to try out. You’ll just get yourself hurt. I’m a damn nosediving plane, just trying to stay steady and praying I don’t pancake when I hit rock bottom. And fucking the new chick across the street damn sure isn’t gonna make my life any easier.”

I step back, still trying to shake off the effect she’s had on me. My body is crying out, no part of it louder than my cock, which is screaming at me to turn the fuck around and go back. It’s forgotten what a real woman feels like.

I ignore it, using the last little scrap of decency left in me to keep my feet pointing in the right direction. Walking out the door, I hear her behind me. “Bye . . . Evan.”

McKayla

“And so anyway, John was like, I saw this on Netflix when I was thinking the whole time, ‘uh-huh. You’ve just been watching porn again.’ So I turned to him and said if you think I’m gonna put my mouth anywhere near—”

I tune out the chatter, trying desperately not to focus as another one of my customers seems to want to treat a haircut like a chance to engage in some free sex counseling or something. Maybe it’s our image. The cheesecake shot of me on the motorcycle probably doesn’t help, even if it is fucking awesome. But with Brad and me being a little more . . . out there than the average person around here, paired with our natural flirtatious natures, people think we’re sex experts or something.

I wish. Right now, the only thing going through my mind is fuck me running. Or standing, or lying down, or sitting. Or basically any damn way that doesn’t involve the police. Since kissing Evan a few days ago, riding that man to oblivion is all I can think about. Come to think of it, maybe I am a little more sexpert than most because my mind is coming up with some pretty inspired ideas right now. Straddling him as we race down a deserted road probably isn’t the best idea though.

I’ve gotten through the days, seeing customers virtually back-to-back all day. I really haven’t had time to count my lucky stars, but Brad was right last week. We might need to look at hiring another pair of hands around here. Front desk, clean up, even another stylist. I remind myself of that again as Mrs. Alameda in front of me keeps going on about her husband.

While the hustle has helped keep me from going nuts, more than once, Brad has caught me daydreaming as I stare out the window across the street. I haven’t told him why yet, but he’s smart. He knows. He just hasn’t said anything yet, but he knows I like men like Evan. And motorcycles. And bad boys on motorcycles.

Speaking of, I glance up to stare out the window and across the street, straight into his garage. It didn’t take me long to figure out that by putting my clients in the first chair on the left side, I could keep track of the big doors on the shop. And it only took me about five minutes after they opened Monday morning to realize we have a clear shot to see inside as they work on cars. Can I get an amen for beautiful weather?

I finish up with Mrs. Alameda and swipe her card before standing behind the counter and looking out across the street during the ten minutes I’ve got open in my schedule, taking advantage of the free shot I’m getting. And I’ll admit that maybe, just maybe, I’m watching like the pervert I accused Evan of being. But right now, he’s working on a truck, his muscular arms flexing as he turns some sort of wrench while taking the rear tires off. I don’t care if it makes me a pervert or not. My eyes are locked onto him, memorizing every detail.

I hear Brad tsk behind me. “Girl, are you at it again?”

I smile, turning just my head to answer. “Hell to the yes, I am. Hey, I see there’s another guy over there working on a car. Who do you think he is?”

Brad sighs, looking to the heavens as he comes over from his station, probably praying for strength to not wring my neck. He looks out the window for a moment, then shrugs. “Considering your boy told me he owns the shop with his brother, and that guy is a younger, sweeter looking version of your asshole boy toy obsession, I’d lay bets that he’s the brother. I’m brilliant at deduction like that. Just call me Shercock fucking Holmes.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You know I read somewhere that Holmes and Watson probably did the dirty in Arthur Conan Doyle’s private notebooks?”

“It ain’t dirty. Well, not too dirty, unless that’s your kink,” Brad says with a smirk. “So, about your boyfriend—”

I glower at Brad, elbowing him in the side. “He’s not my boyfriend. But he’s damn sure gonna take me for a ride. On that bike or otherwise.”

A timer chimes softly, and I walk back toward my second favorite chair, where I can still get a view of Evan at work, but not as good a view. I’ve got another client in it, chilling out with her earbuds in while a heat activated conditioner soaks into her blonde locks. I pat her shoulder, and she opens an eye, popping out an earbud. “Hey, Rose, your conditioning treatment is done. Ready to wash up?”

Rose sighs, taking out the other earbud, looking disappointed. “Already time? Damn, my audiobook was just getting to the good stuff.”

“Good stuff like good stuff? Well, don’t let me stop you. Just let it play out loud while I rinse your hair and maybe we’ll all enjoy the good stuff for a minute. Lord knows, I’m not getting any otherwise.”

Rose, who’s a little older than me and totally the good girl with a deep-seated naughty streak that will rock some guy’s world some day, laughs, popping the earbud jack out of her tablet to let the audiobook play. “. . . throwing her onto the bed, the pirate captain growls as he rips her bodice clean up the front, leaving her breasts heaving into the chilled air. Diving in, he suckles her nipple, her wanton body writhing in need for the long, hard sword she felt pressing against her through his tight breeches. ‘Please, Captain . . . please . . .’ she begs. ‘Give it to me.’

‘Aye,’ the captain says, leering at her. ‘I’ll make you shiver on me timber.’”

I bust out in raucous laughter, unable to take any more. “What the hell are you listening to, Rose? Some pirate porn shit? It’s literally a bodice ripper!”

She’s laughing now too, and Brad just stares at us like we’re from an alien species before he gripes. “Is that really what women read? Long, hard sword. Shiver on me timber. Seriously? It’s not that difficult.”

“Oh?” Rose asks, grinning at Brad. “And what does it take then, oh expert on all things concerning male seduction?”

Brad shrugs. “Girls, take it from me. Just tell the man you want his cock, and he’ll be ready to go nine times out of ten. Hell, they’ll be breaking down your door.”

“Yeah, well, gotta worry about our reputations,” Rose counters, making Brad shrug, unconcerned. “What?”

“You know what a reputation is? It’s what you use to console yourself when you’re using a vibrator instead of the real thing.” He presses his lips together as he snaps his fingers and hums his agreement with his own statement. “And on that sage advice, I’m outtie for lunch. You bitches want me to grab you anything from the diner?”

He points at each of us, waiting for us to shake our head before swooshing out the door. Brad’s relaxed more, being his fabulous self more in public, and I’m glad. For now, though, Rose and I look at each other and dissolve into giggles again. I wipe a tear from my eye, “So . . . pirate porn, huh? Wouldn’t have pegged you as the type. Get it . . . pegged?”

She groans and rolls her eyes at my bad pun but sobers up. “Yeah, well, I’ve been so busy with the boutique, starting it on my own and working the B shift—I’ll be there when it opens, and I’ll be there when it closes—that I haven’t really had time to date or have a personal life at all.”

“Hire some help,” I comment, but Rose shakes her head. “Why not?”

“The boutique isn’t quite as popular as this place. And while I’m not worried about living the high life, I’d like to be able to afford to eat more than ramen noodles and box mac ‘n’ cheese.”

“Good point,” I joke. “All that MSG and shit’ll kill you.”

Rose sighs, looking a little forlorn. “I’m probably gonna end up the cat lady who yells at customers to close the door when they try to come in and shop so my horde of cats doesn’t escape.”

I start with the obvious, wanting to cheer her up. She’s the closest thing I’ve made to a new friend in this town, and I hate seeing her looking this way. “If you have so many cats that they’re gonna escape, your store is gonna close in a hot flash of a minute, Spinster Rose. So there, then you’ll have time to date. Problem solved.” I give her a pointed look. “Or, you know, you could date now and bypass the cat scratch fever and Fancy Feast.”

Rose nods her agreement. “I know. It’s just hard, even in a town this size and with tourists coming through. I thought I’d be a successful entrepreneur with a husband and a kid or two by now. But that’s just not in the cards, so my boutique is my baby, and I’m so hard up that I listen to pirate porn instead of dating a decent guy with an actual cock. And no, I won’t let you look at my browser history.”

I chuckle and start rinsing out her conditioner. “It’s okay, honey. Maybe your ship will come in. Hell, maybe he’ll be the one who likes pegging.”

“Huh?”

I shake my head, remembering that I’m not in Hollywood anymore and things aren’t quite as adventurous. “Never mind. Just one word of caution, Rose. If that boat’s named Titanic, don’t get on the damn thing.”

She giggles at me, finally relaxing some again. “How about you? New in town—anybody caught your attention?”

I sigh dreamily and resist the urge to look through the front window again. “Maybe. Do you know Evan Hardwick, across the street at the garage?”

She recoils in horror, jerking so hard she nearly bonks her head on the porcelain edge of the rinse sink, but I manage to catch her with quick hands. “The asshole who barely speaks, just grunts at people and revs his death machine motorcycle up and down the street at all hours of the night? That Evan Hardwick?”

I nod, feeling a light blush creep up my neck. “That’s the one. What can I say? I’ve got good taste in men. You gotta admit, it’s a hopeful last name.” I purse my lips as I turn her head and get more of the conditioner. “And it’s not a death machine. It’s a pretty sweet bike.”

Rose sighs. “Have you actually talked to him? I think the boutique was open for almost a year before he said one word to me, and that was only because I took my car in for service and TJ wasn’t working that day. I told him what I needed and he grunted, said ‘three o’clock’ and walked off. Customer service at its finest.”

I shrug. She’s dead on even to the way she drops her voice to make it rumble a little. “Sounds about right. First thing he ever said to me was at volume ten as he charged me like a damn bull . . .” I lower my voice into an imitation of Evan, growling. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Rose’s eyes widen and her jaw drops, and she sits up, gaping at me while I work on drying her hair. “And then what?”

I smile, working the towel through her hair before squeezing it out. I spin her chair around and pick up my scissors, knowing Rose doesn’t need much, but I do want to even her out in the back. “Well, after that great introduction, we had a big screaming match in the middle of Main Street. And a week later, I kissed the shit out of him before he ran. But he won’t be scared for long. He’ll be back.”

“How do you know?”

I grin, catching Rose’s eyes in the mirror. “Because now I’m a fear he has to conquer.” I kiss the air, smacking my lips, certain I know how this is going to play out. “And he might find that in conquering me . . . well, I like to conquer myself.”

Rose chuckles. “Is that so?”

“Shiver me timbers.”

Evan

Lunchtime in the shop is always a bit awkward as TJ and I try to make conversation like I’m not a bastard thorn in his side. We don’t even eat the same things. He’s all about the burgers and enjoying his food while I seem to take bitter comfort in eating shit that would make more sense as field rations.

So here we sit, day after day unless he escapes to the diner, making small talk about the various cars we’re working on or flipping through the car magazines scattered across the table. I don’t even think we’re keeping track of what we’re saying. I know at least twice a week, one of us will go to the other about something we just talked about at lunch and it devolves into a shouting match because we’ve already discussed it, but we keep doing it. I guess it’s what brothers do. Or at least it’s what we do . . . now

I’m damn grateful he’s willing to even work with me, but that doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable to chit-chat with a guy who knew me before I was fucked in the head with an alphabet diagnosis of PTSD that basically just warns folks that I’m always a breath away from losing it.

I can see it in TJ’s face too sometimes. He remembers when we’d spend hours tinkering with our dad’s car or with the bikes and cars our friends brought us. Hell, our wrench skills are how we paid for the most epic Spring Break trip ever, a four-day trip to Lake Havasu in Arizona. I don’t think TJ and I slept in the same bed twice those whole four days, and I know for damn sure that I never woke up with the same bedmate I did the night before. Thank God for condoms and Lady Luck favoring the young and foolish.

Maybe that’s what TJ is looking for, the big brother who was fun-loving and maybe a bit crazy but was the rock who helped him out when our parents died soon afterward. TJ was ready to give up his dream for this shop and just get a regular job when I, on leave before my first deployment, pulled him aside and told him that in no way, shape, or form was I going to let him do that. Instead, I made him sign up at tech college so he’d have the business skills to go with being a grease monkey, and then I sent him a big chunk of my paycheck each month to make sure he was taken care of.

He doesn’t know where that guy’s gone, or why. Sometimes, I wonder too. Lots of guys from my unit are doing well, settled stateside with wives and kids, and I always wonder if they’re stronger than me for being able to handle the shit we saw overseas better than I can. Or maybe they’re less affected because there’s something wrong with them and I’m the normal one.

I don’t know. I just know that there’s always a little kernel of something black at my core, and it swirls, rising and falling outside my control sometimes, no matter how many stupid fucking breathing exercises I try from the VA doc. Maybe it’s just what the one guy told me—there are people who are made for war and people who aren’t. Sometimes, the people who aren’t are forced into war, and it changes them or it breaks them.

I feel eyes on me and look up from the new bike magazine spread out in front of my microwaved tray of Salisbury steak, grainy mashed potatoes, and dark greenish shit that’s supposed to be either spinach or beans, I’m not sure which. I look up to see TJ giving me a look. My mouth’s full, so I just grunt. “What?”

He leans over from his lunch of a club sandwich on whole wheat to slap me on the shoulder. Guess he’s trying to clean up for some reason he’s not telling me. “How you doin’, brother?”

I give him a what the fuck look. Normally, if TJ has something he wants to ask me or to offer me, he just comes out and says it. This is something new, and new tends to make me put my guard up. New hurts or at least has the potential to hurt more than the old. “Same as always, just eating my damn lunch.”

I don’t ask what he’s up to. Like I said, I really don’t want to know. But he is in full-on fairy flew up his ass mode, so he keeps going. “Well, I’m doing well. Very well, in fact. Thanks for asking.” He gives me a shit-eating grin, and I growl lightly. Great, fairy dust and unicorn rainbows. Someone get him a My Little Pony. “Ask me why.”

I set my spoon down, wiping my greasy fingers on my jeans, and rock the chair back on two legs as I look at him, trying to see if there’s something different I’m missing. Not seeing anything, I decide the easiest way to get through this is to just let him talk. “All right, fucker, why are you doing so damn well today?”

I see the excitement behind his eyes and I flash back again to when we were boys, both whole and happy and full of life. He still looks the same, a wholesome innocence grown into a man who is solid, a brother in every sense of the word. For him, danger is the spice of life, like chili salsa on top of your tacos. You decide how much you get.

I, on the other hand, lost that shine a long time ago. I know that sometimes, the world will pry your jaws open, jam a funnel in between your lips, and pour fiery hot habanero salsa down your throat and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. I don’t want to piss on his parade, though, and let him enjoy his innocence.

He claps his hands once, nice and loud, the grin on his face spreading. “I met the one, man. Remember that car I delivered up to the resort for that tourist? Well, I’m sitting in the lobby waiting for him to come down for his keys and pay the bill when a vision walks in front of me. Her name’s Alice and she works at the resort.”

“Why haven’t you seen her before?”

“She’s not a local,” TJ explains. “She just wrapped up a degree in hotel and hospitality management and moved up here. The resort’s nice enough to let her stay there. She said she’s got an apartment.”

“She said, huh? So she actually talked to your ugly ass?” I ask, feeling a hint of amusement. “Does she happen to be blind?”

“Fuck you, man.” TJ laughs. “We got to talking, I waited for her break time, we got coffee, and I asked her out. She said yes, and we’re going to dinner this weekend. That’s it, I’m done for, Bro.”

He flops back in his chair, a fascinated, dreamy look on his face as he stares at the ceiling. Yep, I can see the kittens, unicorns, and rainbows falling out of his ears.

I laugh a little, full of sarcasm. I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but still, I think TJ needs a reality check. “Lemme get this straight. You met this chick, had coffee for a few minutes, and you’re already planning the wedding? Yeah, sounds serious.” I snort through my nose, picking up my spoon again. “And everyone says I’m the crazy one.”

TJ gives me a dirty look, and I swear he’s about to stick his tongue out at me like we’re six years old again, but he reels it in. “Nah, man, when you know, you know. And this one, I just know. She’s it. You’ll see.”

He goes on, telling me practically verbatim every word they said while they drank coffee, and I can feel his excitement and joy at the happy road spread out before him. As he does, I’m torn between darkness and light, which just makes me more miserable.

I’m happy for my kid brother. Truly, I am. He’s a good guy, and while I harass him about it, he’s not ugly or anything. He keeps his shit together. But somewhere deep inside, in a place I don’t want to admit even exists, I’m fucking jealous.

How come he gets the happily ever after and I’m stuck in purgatory, paying for sins I committed long ago on someone else’s orders? How come he gets to smile and sleep through the night and look out on the morning with hope, while I only look at the sunrise and wonder if it’s the last one I’ll see before I go over the edge and get myself killed?

I’d love for just a minute of the peace he feels, but that’s not my path. I’m never gonna have a happily ever after. There’s no woman who would put up with my shit, and I know why. It’s hard to love a monster like me, and honestly, I don’t want to inflict my damage on anyone else. I just need to keep the lid on the Pandora’s Box inside me and hope that motherfucker stays shut tight.

I push back from the table, offering a hand to TJ as I school my face into a smile I know is only mildly reminiscent of my real one.

“I’m happy for you. Make sure you invite me to the wedding. I’m uh . . . I’m gonna go for a ride. I’ll be back later this afternoon, but I’ll finish that brake realignment before I head out tonight.”

I keep the smile just long enough for him to inspect me, make sure I’m okay and not about to crumble. I hate it when he does that. He makes me feel like he’s just waiting for the moment I can’t take it anymore.

Finally, he nods. “Sure, Bro. It’s a beautiful day, and they said they wouldn’t be back to pick it up until Wednesday anyway. Get out there and ride a few miles for me too.”

I know he’s full of shit now. He’s never ridden a motorcycle in his life. It’s another one of the differences between us. I’ve always been the one who pushed the line from the time we were kids. He was the one who kept his bicycle on the sidewalk while I was the one seeing if that rocky hill was really as dangerous as the other kids said it was. When I built my bike, I offered TJ a ride. His comment was that he had no need to strap himself to a death trap.

But maybe that’s exactly why I do it. I’m not the suicidal type, but maybe there’s a part of me that wants to be taken out of this whole equation that is the world. Tempt fate a little bit, dare the Grim Reaper to catch me. After all, if he does it, I didn’t really do anything wrong.

I stalk out to my bike, throwing a leg over the seat and settling my old combat boots on the ground on either side, straddling the machine as I start her up and listen to the grumbling purr. It’s another one of the things I can’t let go of. I always wear combat boots for work or riding.

I look left and right, pulling a big turn across Main Street and pointing my bike toward the mountains. Right as I’m about to twist the throttle and blare out of town, I hear a piercing, loud-ass whistle. I jerk my head around, looking for the source, and see McKayla standing outside the salon, her eyes locked on me.

I pull over to the curb, pissed at myself for doing it like I’m some damn taxi she just beckoned with that eardrum-busting shrillness. Still, I’ve heard Drill Sergeants who were quieter than that whistle. That’s impressive.

She pops a hip out, one hand shading her eyes from the afternoon sun. “Where you heading, cowboy?”

I don’t know why, but I answer her. “Out. Away. I don’t know. Just away from here.”

She gives me a sassy grin and raises an eyebrow. “Well, which is it? You going out or running away? Ah, I know. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.” She nods like she has me all figured out.

I relent. Maybe she has an angle on me here. “Maybe so.”

“Need a chaperone to make sure you do something stupid?” she asks. “I’ve busted my ass six days a week since getting here, and I’m taking an afternoon off.”

I chuckle, leaning back on my bike. “Isn’t a chaperone to make sure you don’t do something stupid?”

She gives me a smirk and runs a hand seductively over my handlebar mirror. “I think we’ve established that I’m not that kind of chaperone. Besides, I can see you need to break some rules right now. So come on, Evan. Let’s go on an adventure.”

She waits, and I realize that she’s willing to go after what she wants, but only so far. She’s not throwing herself at me with no self-esteem. Instead, she’s somehow offering to share her excitement at the things life can offer, even if just for a moment. It’s different from the few women I’ve actually spent time with since getting home. This one is wild but has standards. Sassy, but classy too.

I think back to TJ and how happy he was about his new girl and look at the one in front of me. Yeah, this is a bad fucking idea, but the darkness inside me needs it, needs just a little spark of her light to quell the shadows for a little bit. I’ll never be a happily ever after guy like TJ, but for a minute, it’d be nice to pretend.

Resigned, I turn and pop open my saddlebag, where I keep the helmet I never wear. “Safety first.”

“But you—”

“Helmet up, or no ride.” Holding it out, I can’t help but lighten the growl in my voice as she takes the brain bucket and pulls it onto her pink head. “Now get on.”