Page 7 of Wrecked By Rev

Her mouth opens. Closes. For a second, she looks like she might cry, and something in my chest twists hard.

“Why?” she asks quietly.

Because I’ve been thinking about you for six years, and I never stopped. Because you’re standing in my garage asking for help, and there’s nothing in the world that could make me say no.

“You’re Wheels’ sister,” I say instead. “You’re family.”

She flinches at his name. Just slightly, just for a second, but I catch it.

“Right,” she says. “Family.”

“So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll come by the café. Morning, afternoon, whenever works. Let people see us together. He hears you’ve got a biker hanging around, he’ll think twice about showing up.”

She nods slowly. “And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we figure out step two.”

I don’t tell her what step two looks like in my head. She doesn’t need to know that yet.

She lets out a breath, and some of the tension bleeds out of her shoulders. “Thank you. I didn’t—I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“I’ll always say yes.” The words come out before I can stop them. Too honest. Too much.

She looks at me. Really looks, like she’s trying to read something in my face.

“I should go,” she says. “I’ve got the lunch rush starting soon.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

She turns to leave, then stops at the door. Looks back.

“Rev?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad it was you. That Jonah knew you.” She swallows hard. “He talked about you sometimes. Said you were solid.”

Then she’s gone, and I’m standing alone in my garage with my heart pounding and my hands shaking and the absolute certainty that I am in deep, deep trouble.

This isn’t about Wheels. It was never about Wheels.

It’s about her. It’s always been about her.

And now I have to spend God knows how long pretending to be something I actually want to be, keeping my hands to myself, keeping my distance, while she looks at me like I’m doing her a favor.

You’re a fucking idiot, I tell myself.

But I’m smiling when I pick up the wrench.

CHAPTER 3

ANGEL

He shows up at seven the next morning.

I’m behind the counter, refilling Marta’s coffee and half-listening to her complaints about her neighbor’s dog, when the door opens and Rev walks in.

The café goes quiet. Not completely—forks still scrape plates, the coffee machine still hisses—but there’s a shift. People notice. Of course they notice. He’s six-two and built like he’s spent his whole life hauling engines, covered in ink, wearing a leather cut with a grinning reaper on the back. He doesn’t belong here, surrounded by elderly regulars and nurses coming off shift and moms grabbing lattes before school drop-off.