Page 11 of Fallen Angel
Chapter Five
After a few days of solid work, Angel’s car was nearly complete. Ethan finished attaching the battery to the new engine.
“Hey, boss. It’s ten o’clock. Is it cool if I take off?”
Ethan didn’t look up. “Yeah, you go ahead, Nathan.”
His guys had worked tirelessly all day. The others had left at six, but Nathan stayed on to help him with Angel’s car.
Nathan released his blond hair from its tie. “I’m gonna go home to grab a shower, then head over to Tidal Wave. You up for a beer?”
Ethan stepped out from beneath the hood and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. Releasing a long breath, his head fell back. He stared up at the black piping and hydraulics scattered across the ceiling and decided he could use a cold beer, several cold beers, or, better yet, whiskey. And Tidal Wave was always packed with women in skimpy skirts aching for a good time.
In that instant, amber eyes and slim, soft curves filled his thoughts, but he shook Angel from his mind. He had spent enough time thinking of her over the past few days. What was it about that girl that made her so unforgettable?
“Yeah, I could use a drink,” he said to Nathan, who was looking over Angel’s car.
“This is gonna be a record rebuild,” Nathan said approvingly. “I dig the new seats. I can’t believe she wanted to invest so much back into such a piece of junk.”
Ethan didn’t reply. He wasn’t going to tell Nathan that he had taken it upon himself to fix the car without the owner’s consent. He dropped the hood and smoothed his hand over the new paint job. He chose cherry red paint and white leather seats. He had upgraded her engine to the newest model the frame could handle. Brand new tires boasted performance alloy rims.
Yeah, she was a beauty, like her owner…
And, he did it again.
His mind had once more returned to Angel.
He raked his hand through his hair. Worrying about her was driving him crazy. He had to forget her, at least for a little while.
“I’ll meet you down there,” Ethan said, tossing the wrench he still held on top of the workbench.
“Sounds good, boss.”
Ethan crossed the garage and made his way up the stairs to his office. Once inside, he walked straight to a simple black table by the window. It was a piece from the prohibition. As he slowly opened the lid, a bottle of Johnnie Walker, the Founder’s Blend, and a set of tumblers rose to the surface. He removed the crystal decanter, poured a tumbler full and went back to his desk. Sketches from his newest motorcycle design scattered the desktop. It was for some guy in England claiming to be a lord. He certainly would need to be royalty to pay what Ethan planned to charge him. But it would be a killer bike—he was certain his best yet. Piling the plans together, he uncovered Angel’s paperwork, which he had read a dozen times.
Angel Sullivan.
Works at Bake Off Bakery and Cafe.
Lives in Dorchester.
Catching himself again, he opened one of the desk drawers and dropped her file on top of the other papers and shut her away, out of sight, out of mind. One woman had never dominated his thoughts before—and he would prove there wasn’t actually a first for everything.
He threw back the rest of the whiskey and looked through his design. As he checked over the pages, he spotted a flaw. Pouring himself another drink, he set to work fixing it.
After an hour passed, he looked up and realized the night was no longer young. Still, he had time to get cleaned up. Crossing the room, he slid open a translucent door, which was framed in cedar, and stepped into a bathroom. A spacious multi-jet shower, ideal for removing oil and the scent of exhaust, awaited him. He unzipped his jumpsuit and stepped free. Standing in just his boxer briefs, he looked down. He was hard but not just for any girl.
“Damn it,” he muttered and stepped into the shower. He washed away the sweat and grease of the day. When he was clean and dry, he dressed in jeans, steel-toe work boots, a white T-shirt, and black leather jacket. He ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it out. Then he made his way back through the garage and into the showroom where he kept some of his personal bikes. His most prized bikes were stored up north, but he had a few choice rides at the garage and a few more in the garage of his city house. He swung his leg over the seat, folded the kickstand up and peeled out, blending perfectly into traffic.
Narrow, winding roads were the telltale signature of Boston. The city had not been planned. It was born out of the dreams of immigrants who came by ship and rode on horseback. The city’s history surrounded him, but also its growth and progress—an expression of contrast—something he imbued in every bike he made and every canvas his brush touched. He then thought of Angel’s vulnerability and fear and her unwavering courage. It was no wonder he was drawn to her—she embodied his preferred aesthetic.
He parked his bike near Tidal Wave but on a side street. Landon Street became rowdy when the bars let out, and if he witnessed someone breathing hard on his bike in his present mood—pent up desire and mental distraction produced a lethal reaction deep inside him—he might do something he would later regret.
Up ahead, Tidal Wave’s sign undulated above the door, the letters shaped like a wave, lighting one at a time, an alluring and languid pulse. A man with broad shoulders and a shaved bald head, which glinted beneath the shifting lights, stood in front of the door, his heavily tattooed arms crossed over his beefy chest. The rest of his tattoos were hidden beneath his leather vest, but unlike his ink, his strength could not be concealed.
Ethan bypassed the line of people waiting to get into the club and walked right up to the bouncer. “Hey, Props.”
Props smiled, revealing two missing front teeth. “Good to see you, Ethan.” He stepped back and unhooked the velvet rope and motioned for Ethan to enter. “The Wave is full of biting fish tonight.”
