Page 1 of Alpha's Touch
Chapter One
Preston just stood there on the cracked sidewalk, squinting against the glow of the early evening sun as motorcycles thundered past. The first guy led the group like a predator, his bike all polished pipes with a custom paintjob that looked black until the sun caught the blood-red undertones. The rider seemed totally at ease, a man comfortable in his own skin. In his mind, Preston imagined himself sprinting into the street to jump on the back of his bike.
You wish you had the guts.
The rumble from the motorcycles traveled through his sneakers, up his calves, and vibrated deep inside his chest. All that chrome gleamed in the fading light, and Preston could practically feel the powerful thrum between his own legs.
Stop fantasizing about him. Guys like him never noticed someone like Preston, and he probably wasn't even into dudes, anyway.
Bummer.
The group, about a dozen strong, each one rocking the same look. Jeans, boots, tight T-shirts, and the kind of casual confidence that came with knowing they could take a punch and throw one harder.
Not that Preston wanted to find out. As big as the lead guy was, Preston valued his jaw unbroken, thanks.
Still, he was just in awe of them. Well, only one of them. There was just something about a guy on a motorcycle, arms extended toward the handlebars, legs stretched out in front of a solid machine.
He sighed dreamily.
A traffic light stopped them for a breath. The lead rider swung a boot to the ground and tipped his head toward Preston.
Black aviators, a cut jaw, arms bronzed to perfection, and hair so unfashionably long it had to be intentional… Wait. Crap! His vision of lust was looking right at him!
Preston tried to look away, failed, and felt his face flush under the intensity of the guy’s stare. If that muscled hunk wanted to stare, Preston would let him. Why not? He was doing the same damn thing.
Trying to pull off the casual look as well, Preston leaned a hand toward the light pole next to him. He missed, stumbling forward and off the curb, nearly becoming a flat pancake as a box truck honked its horn.
Nope. Preston was not looking to see if the handsome devil had witnessed such a humiliating moment. If Preston pretended it didn’t happen, then it didn’t happen.
You wanna stop making a fool of yourself and get to work? Not yet. Preston clearly had a kink for mortifying situations. Who knew?
The bikes idled, the air filling with their collective exhaust and the hot, animal tang of summer. Preston was still watching the lead guy, still marveling at the muscular frame in the casual slouch, when the light changed. The engines roared in unison, the formation snapped back together and rolled down Main, and the street settled into its normal, sunbaked quiet as if the whole thing had been a mirage.
Preston exhaled, and now his chest felt hollow, rinsed clean. He wasn’t sure why he was feeling that way. He didn’t even know the guy’s name, yet he stood there and watched until they were out of sight.
Pull it together and get your butt to work, you horny toad!
Work. Right. Preston started moving again. The Frothy Pine was only three blocks away. The town, Crimson Hollow, was new to him, but the ecosystem of main streets, bars, and bored summer people wasn’t. He tried to walk like someone with somewhere to go, not like someone who’d been paralyzed by the sight of a stranger who looked like he’d fallen out of a cologne ad and straight onto a Harley.
You’re hopeless.
He turned down the alley shortcut behind the bakery, where the dumpsters stunk of sourdough and delicious sugar and the only sign of life was a stray cat licking jelly off its paw.
“Hi, kitty.” Preston waved.
The cat meowed loudly and took off, rounding the corner.
“I was just saying hi.” As he began walking again, his mind looped the image of the lead biker—shoulders, arms, the lazy flick of the head—until he almost convinced himself he’d imagined it.
Stopping under the brown awning outside the Frothy Pine, he checked his reflection in the window and tried to flatten his hair.
It never did what he wanted, sticking out in every direction no matter how much product he used. Giving up, Preston swung open the door.
Holy crap. The music slapped him back a step.
Inside, it was a different world from the blinding, quiet street. The music was so loud it vibrated the glassware on the shelves. Now Preston wondered how many glasses actually had fallen or broken because of it.
If you asked him, it had to cost a pretty penny to replace broken glasses. Ash needed to either turn the music down or consider a better glassware arrangement.
