Chapter Three
“Hey, boss…boss?” a voice insisted.
Ethan looked up from the tablet he was holding.
Lucky, his bike shop manager, took off his backward baseball hat and scratched his thick mop of flattened red curls. Giving Ethan an expectant look, he said, “You okay, boss?”
“Yeah, sorry, I guess I zoned out just now,” Ethan lied. He hadn’t zoned out. He knew exactly where his thoughts had been—out on the Zakim bridge with the girl with big, amber-brown eyes.
He shook his head, trying to chase her from his thoughts. He had offered to help her, and she refused. What else could he have done—forced her to get into his car? There was one word for that type of action, kidnapping. He did time once already in his life. He had no plans to go back to jail. Ever.
He gave his attention over to the newly produced custom motorcycle that was awaiting his final inspection. He stroked the sleek tank, but then the loud beeping of a big truck backing up pulled his gaze away from the bike to the windows on the far side of the room. He crossed to the window and looked outside at the tow truck backing up toward one of the open bays. A rush of adrenaline shot through him. He would recognize that heap of rust anywhere.
His receptionist, Brooke, appeared in the doorway. “Hey, boss, they’re bringing in a roadside call.”
A slight smile curved his lips. The wisp of a girl he had offered to help on the way had no choice but to accept his help now. He typically would not have spared a second glance at someone broken down on the side of the road. After all, it was the age of cell phones and roadside assistance. But when he saw the wreck smoking on the bridge and realized when he passed that inside was a young woman, he had to stop and try to get her off the road before someone rear-ended her car and sent her careening into the Charles.
He handed Lucky his tablet with the design specs. “Finish the inspection. Then make the call. Let’s get paid.”
Lucky looked up, his red brows raised with surprise. “But we’re not done. You always do the final inspection.”
“I’m working in the garage today,” Ethan called back. “You got this, Lucky. Do me proud.”
Ethan pushed open the aluminum door, leaving the bright custom bike room for the dark, greasy garage. He inhaled the scent of exhaust, oil, and tires. Man, he loved that smell. It had been a few months since he spent the day wrenching on cars…too long. Once upon a time, he never would have missed a day in the garage. It had always been his escape.
The first time he had stared down at an old, rusted engine, he felt a thrill. An engine was something that could be fixed and restored, no matter how old or broken, which had meant something to him after his father died. For that was what he and his mother had been—broke—in all senses of the word, broken hearted and overdrawn.
The bank repossessed their house three months after the nails were hammered into his father’s unfinished pine coffin. At first, he and his mom moved in with his mother’s parents, but his grandfather was a prick, always putting his mother down, which caused her to sink further into depression. She started drinking and popping pills. Then she met Eddie, who did nothing but dump on her. Despite Ethan’s protests, she married Eddie, and they moved into his rundown trailer in a park on Staten Island. Ethan had been thirteen at the time, and suddenly, he found himself living with a new dad who walked around in his stained white briefs and tried to tell him what to do—which was why Ethan spent most of his time away from home.
On most days, he could be found in an abandoned warehouse with his best friend, drinking a forty from a paper bag. Like his mother, he turned to alcohol and drugs to dull the ache. But numbness was fleeting and quickly wore off, leaving the ache worse than before. He was only a kid, but life had already knocked him down hard enough that he was ready to give up.
But then he met Carl.
Carl was in his late twenties and lived in a trailer on the other side of the park. He was always out in his yard, fixing cars. On his way home one evening, Ethan walked by Carl’s trailer. Carl peered out from beneath the hood of a car and asked Ethan to hand him a socket wrench.
And that was it—the moment Ethan was hooked.
Carl insisted Ethan go to school, but after the school day was over, Carl welcomed his help fixing up old beaters to sell. Ethan learned quickly, and soon Carl started to pay him for his time. Everything was turning around for him. He had met a girl at school, and with money in his pocket, he could take her out and treat her right. His mother was still a mess, but at least he knew if shit hit the fan and his stepdad walked that Ethan could support them. And it was all because of Carl. More than that, Ethan could talk to Carl. He talked to him about his father, and Carl would listen and offer advice.
But Ethan soon learned that nice guys weren’t always good guys.
Almost a full year after he met Carl, Ethan was helping him install a new timing chain when Carl got a phone call.
“Hey, I have to run out for a few minutes. You okay here?” Carl said after pocketing his phone.
“Yeah, I got this,” Ethan said, feeling pleased that Carl trusted him to finish the work on his own.
“All right. Cool. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Carl drove off and not two minutes later, three cruisers raced up the narrow park road, flashing blues and blasting sirens and stopped right in front of Carl’s trailer. Before Ethan could blink, guns were aimed at him, and he was cuffed and shoved in the back of one of the cruisers.
Turns out, Carl had been fixing cars he had stolen off garage lots. A cop-buddy who Carl had grown up with had tipped him off. Carl left so that Ethan could take the fall. In the end, Carl was caught and sent to prison, but with Ethan’s fingerprints all over the cars, the judge didn’t believe Ethan was as innocent as he claimed. He was sentenced to two years in juvie. After he did his time, the state ruled his druggie mom an unfit parent, and so he got caught up in the system and was placed into foster care for another two years.
But when he turned eighteen, he became his own man. He left New York behind and moved to Boston where he got a job wrenching and vowed not to look back and never to trust or rely on anyone else ever again.
And he had kept that promise to himself, except at night when his dreams took him back to those dark places.
But like his father, he had other dreams. He had vision. When he first moved to Boston, he rebuilt bikes in his spare time, and soon, he started designing his own custom bikes. At twenty-two, he sold his first few bikes and invested the money in his own garage. Soon he was winning awards for his designs. Now, at twenty-nine, his bikes sold for hundreds of thousands of dollars, and he had a waiting list for a decade.
But he never forgot his roots. He still ran his simple garage and always would.
He walked over to the rack of Calloway jumpsuits along the wall just as Brooke brought him the details on the girl’s car. He yanked off his white t-shirt and handed it to her. Then he stripped down to his boxer briefs and gave her his jeans. “Take care of these for me.”
She brought his shirt up to her nose. “Gladly,” she said as she intently watched him pull on the loose, charcoal jumpsuit with silver lettering.
“Thanks,” he said, ignoring Brooke’s perusal of his body. She was hungry for him, but he made it a point not to sleep with the desk girls. He preferred the company of strangers. The few times he had fooled around with women he knew, they ended up becoming possessive of him, and he had to put an end to the fun. He didn’t do relationships, and he definitely didn’t do commitment.
“You know I love when you wear that,” she purred and circled around him. “I just wish it was tighter.”
“Is the girl here, too?” he asked,
Brooke stiffened at his question. “How did you know it was a girl?”
“Lucky guess,” he said.
“She’s not your type,” Brooke said quickly. “Not much to her. Totally forgettable.”
Ethan had found the girl anything but forgettable.
There had been something in her eyes, something vulnerable—not needy—he had no time for needy women. He sensed her fear was more than just being broken down in the worst possible spot imaginable. Her vulnerability surfaced, but she had tried to mask it as if she was used to keeping everything within her under wraps. And for some reason, the look in her eyes had made him worry, and he made it a point never to worry about anyone other than himself. Hell, he had barely checked over the new bike, worrying about her still out on the road.
“Hey, we’ve got the boss in here today,” Nathan, his head mechanic, called out to the other guys. He clamped his hand on Ethan’s shoulder. “How’s it going, man?”
Ethan smiled. “It’s a good day for wrenching.”
He turned his attention to the girl’s wreck. “That’s not good,” he said to Nathan, pointing to the antifreeze dripping out the tailpipe.
Ethan opened the hood.
“Whew, that’s hot,” Nathan said, waving away the steam.
Ethan bent at the waist to examine the engine. “Block’s cracked.”
Nathan raked a hand through his long, blond hair and pressed his lips in a grim line. “That’s too bad. Do you want me to deliver the bad news?”
Brooke crossed to stand alongside Ethan. “I’ll do it,” she said, looking only too eager the break the girl’s heart.
Ethan took the clipboard from her hands. “I’ll talk to her.”
He began skimming over the page. Her name was Angel Sullivan.
Angel.
Pushing open the rubber-coated door, he stepped into the waiting room.
∞∞∞
Angel’s mouth fell open. Her eyes darted to the floor, then the ceiling, anywhere but on the tall, broad-shouldered man who had just entered the room.
It was unmistakably him.
Even though her window had been rain-spattered, she knew those deep-set, piercing blue eyes. His black hair was effortlessly tousled, and his massive shoulders and narrow waist were on exquisite display in his work clothes. She swallowed hard, trying to fight down her anxiety over her car and now her nerves at being in the company of her gorgeous would-be rescuer.
“Hi again,” he said, his voice low and unhurried.
“Hi,” she answered stiffly.
He was staring at her from across the room, his gaze probing. It was not the usual kind of male I’m undressing you with my eyes look that always made her instantly wary. His gaze was intense yet somehow still distant, like he was studying her.
Behind him, the door swung open, and the black-haired bombshell returned, her eyes locked on Angel with open hostility.
Confusion, anxiety, and nerves were colliding within Angel, promising a reaction of full-blown panic.
He took a step closer. The intensity of his gaze penetrated her core defenses, leaving her feeling more vulnerable than ever. She squeezed her bag harder. “Listen, just tell it to me straight,” she blurted. “My car is shot, right?” Please, say it’s not.
“It’s salvageable, but it will take some work.” His deep voice carried a soothing tone that caressed her from across the room, but despite his best intentions, she was beyond soothing.
She pressed her lips in a tight, grim line to keep from cursing out loud. Damn it.
She shook her head. Now what was she going to do? Tears stung her eyes, but she tensed her body against the rush of emotion. She didn’t want to lose it in front of the world’s most gorgeous man, and his smug plastic counter girl who looked like she couldn’t be more pleased by Angel’s distress.
He crossed the room and stood in front of her chair, too close for comfort. She had to crane her neck back to look up at him. He slowly squatted down in front of her but didn’t speak. He continued to look her hard in the eyes. She fidgeted with her bag, her gaze darting around the room. God, he made her uncomfortable. He was too beautiful to look at, and all she really wanted to do was sprint away so she could cry in peace.
∞∞∞
“I’m Ethan,” he said. He loved how she blushed every time her flitting gaze landed on him. She exuded innocence, but at the same time she carried herself with scrappy self-assurance. She was a world of dichotomies bound together in a simply beautiful package. The artist in him loved her wide mouth, her bright amber-brown eyes and dark brown hair. Her distress was apparent to him, despite how she tried like hell to hide it.
“Don’t worry about your car,” he said. “We can hook you up with a loaner while we fix it.” She had looked at him while he spoke but then cast her eyes to the side the instant after he glimpsed her heightened distress. He leaned closer and brushed a lock of fallen hair from her eyes. It was then he caught a whiff of her. He smiled. “You smell like fresh baked bread.”
“I work at a bakery,” she said in a quiet voice. Her lip trembled.
“Hey, Angel, look at me,” he said softly.
He waited for several moments. He knew she was gathering her strength so she didn’t cry. When she looked up at him, it was with clear, tear-free eyes. But it was all there—her fear and anxiety. Damn, he had to respect her courage.
“You really don’t have to worry,” he said. “We have solid loaners, and we’ll get your car back on the road in a couple days.”
She shook her head. “I can’t afford that,” she said, clearly straining to keep her voice level. He looked at her hands white-knuckling her bag.
“You can pay me when you have the money.”
He couldn’t believe what he had just said. He never did work without payment, but he felt some inexplicable need to protect her. He tensed his jaw as two strong desires battled for domination in his own mind—the fierce urge to protect her and the part of him that kept everyone at a safe distance. Damn it, he should just shrug her off and let Brooke sort out getting her a taxi and junking her car.
But then words poured unbidden from his lips. “It’s not a big deal.”
Helping this lost, little girl was a very big deal! He didn’t do intimacy. What the hell was wrong with him?
She shook her head harder. “If it was a couple hundred dollars, maybe, but I assume you’re talking about thousands. I can’t do that.”
He could feel the emotion building within her. The dam was going to break, and it near killed him. He put a hand on her thigh. “Don’t worry, Angel,” he said, his voice low. “It will be all right.”
∞∞∞
Once more, Angel choked back her tears. Damn, how she wanted to believe him. He was so big and strong. She wanted nothing more than to slide into his arms and listen to him tell her everything was going to be all right. But she couldn’t. She was too afraid. Life had taught her that men could not be trusted. She shook her head. Then she straightened her back and steeled her shoulders. “What do I need to do to get rid of it? Do I need to pay for it to be towed to the dump?”
His hand left her thigh and swept another lock of hair from her eyes. “We can work something out.”
She shook her head again, trying not to cry. She wished he would just let her go and stop making promises that couldn’t possibly come true. “I have to leave right now. Just tell me what I need to do.”
He rocked back on his heels and canted his head as he looked at her for several moments longer. Then, at length, he stood. “We’ll take care of your car.” He walked to the counter and grabbed a set of keys. “There’s a blue hatchback out front. Tank’s full.”
She shook her head, still fighting back the tears. “A loaner is a substitute for a car being fixed. Mine isn’t going to be fixed. Now you’re just giving me a car.”
He shrugged. “Take it.”
She shook her head. “I have to go.” She zipped up her threadbare, navy hoodie against the rain and pulled open the door.
∞∞∞
Ethan watched her head out in the storm, resisting the urge to somehow force her to take the car, or tell her to get into his. He would drive her anywhere she wanted to go.
Nathan threw open the door and strode into the waiting room, wiping his oily hands off on a dirty rag. “What’s the deal with the car? Junk yard?”
Ethan continued to look outside, although she had passed from view. “No,” he said. “It’s a rebuild.”