Page 10 of Total Shutdown

I save him the job of looking up one of our best customers. “Mr. Moran?”

“Yes.” His voice is clipped.

I thumb over my shoulder, entirely too satisfied with myself. “He’s in the shop now. I was running through an oil change when you summoned me.” I make to leave. “Is that all?”

His jaw tics—something I previously found sexy, but now it just annoys the shit out of me. His face kind of annoys me in general.

He waves a condescending hand, and all I want to do is shove it in a starter clutch.

“Just make sure you finish up on Moran’s bike before you take a lunch.”

“You got it,” I reply in a faux bright tone.

Twenty minutes later, I’m handing the keys to Mr. Moran and considering if I have time to head back to my apartment for the lunch I prepped but left in my fridge when I overslept and tore out the door this morning.

“I’m looking for a pink-haired bombshell. Has anyone seen her?”

I look up from the form I’m filling out, my attention snapping to Kendra—pro soccer player and center back for the New York Storm.

I check over my shoulder. “No one fitting that description around here.”

Wearing training gear and a Storm beanie, Kendra lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “So, the pitch was frozen, and afternoon practice was canceled. Jack’s about to head on a three-day away series, and I’m feeling needy.”

I’m grabbing my bag, jacket, and keys before she even asks.

“How about a coffee date at Rise Up? I have a half hour before Head Dickface reams me out for being a minute too late.”

“Absolutely.” Kendra spins on her heel and makes for the door, me closely behind.

You can really feel the chill settling over Brooklyn as we walk the few blocks to our favorite bakery—one Kendra and Jack practically live in.

“He’s still being an ass to you then?” she asks as we wait to cross the street opposite the café.

“Yep,” I reply, exasperated just thinking about my boss.

It’s fair to assume this girl knows more about me than anyone, including my fling with Cameron earlier this year. Kendra is the only person I’ve spoken to about my past, although I’ve held back on a lot of information, specifically about my childhood and some of the painful memories that still eat away at me. It’s safe to say my relationship with bikes has not always been positive; sometimes, the easiest way to bury the memories is to not talk about them and avoid uninvited questions, as well-meaning as they may be. I’ve told her about my grandparents, who raised me before they died eight years ago, although, to be honest, there isn’t much to tell there. They were old, and both died from pneumonia in the same year. She knows I’m an only child, and I’m every bit true to the stereotype—I don’t like to share my food, and I’m pretty selfish when it comes to the TV shows I want to watch.

She asked me a few weeks back how my parents had passed, but again, I don’t like to talk about it, and, honestly, there’s very little backstory, only a tragedy I can’t change. A truck driver was more interested in switching the track on his Spotify playlist than he was on the road in front of him. My dad drove an F-250, but that was no match for the eight-wheeler that plowed into the back of them at sixty miles per hour. After my grandparents broke the news and my puking subsided, I had never been more grateful for my bratty self since, that day, I’d insisted I stay home with a sitter and watch movies rather than head to a family dinner.

I was a delightful child.

Five minutes later, I’m sitting beside my unusually silent best friend in a usually chaotic and jam-packed Rise Up. The owner, Ed, is hurrying around the place, trying to keep orders moving.

I drop sweetener into my black coffee and begin stirring, waiting for her to speak. “You’re quiet today.”

She takes a bite out of her British cheese scone, eyeing me carefully. “I’m waiting for you to go first.” She motions with her hand. “Tell me all about your ride the other night.”

Without warning or permission, a flashback of that night pushes to the front of my mind. I buried all memories of my time in Sawyer’s bed in the depths of my brain—or at least, I thought I had.

“And I think the coffee is ready.” Kendra points to where I’m absentmindedly stirring the sweetener that likely dissolved a good while ago.

Reaching across the table, I grab some more and continue stirring it into my coffee. I don’t look at her when I respond, figuring I can hide the lie more easily sans eye contact. “Nothing to report. He took me back to my place and went back to his.” I add a casual shrug to help sell the ruse. “I’d guess he was reading a bedtime story to his son fifteen minutes later.”

She tips her head to the side. “He’s twelve. I doubt Sawyer is putting him to bed withCharlotte’s Web.”She takes another bite of her scone, swallowing quickly. “Besides, you can’t even look at me. That tells me everything I need to know.”

The flush rises on my cheeks, followed by a wave of heat.

Kendra finishes her scone and leans toward me, arms resting on the table, blonde hair framing her doubtful face. There’s a mischievous glint in her brown eyes—one that dares me to deny it again. “You slept with Sawyer Bryce, didn’t you?”

---