Page 86 of Redline Baby

"You've got a drawer."

His whole face changes.

"I've got a drawer," he repeats, delighted, like it's still new information even though it's been true for over a month now. "That's such a small thing to be this happy about."

"It's not small."

The light changes.

Kit grins at me flips his visor back down and pulls away first.

Fast.

Confident. Disciplined. Heading toward something worth arriving at instead of running from whatever is behind him. I follow. The way I always do now. The way I plan to for a long time yet.

Chapter 22. Kit

The therapy appointment was at two o'clock. Her office was on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like carpet cleaner. I sat in the parking structure for twenty minutes, made it as far as the elevator lobby, and then left before the doors opened. I told myself the session was going to be a waste of time. I told myself I'd reschedule. I told myself a lot of things on the drive back, and none of them fit quite right.

I knew Soren was going to have my ass for it.

Wednesday morning, I'm crouched beside a Triumph Sprint that needs a new rear caliper. Soren is at the front counter doing intake paperwork on a customer's Ducati, his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead, his pen moving steadily across the form. My bike is still being fixed, but I'm not rushing it anymore.

Then his phone buzzes.

I look up from the caliper. Soren is holding the phone at an angle I can't read from here, his glasses now down on his nose, making him look dangerously hot. The expression on his face shifts by some fraction. Then he looks directly at me.

Fuck. My stomach drops.

He sets the phone facedown on the counter. "Finish the caliper," he says. "We'll talk when I'm done with this intake." Then he picks up his pen and finishes the form.

I go back to the caliper bolt. I turn it. Try not to freak out.

It takes him eleven minutes. I know because I time it. The difference is that I know what the eleven minutes mean. He told me. He's finishing his work, and then we're talking. There is an endpoint.

I still hate every second.

I'm washing my hands at the utility sink when Soren appears beside me.

"How was your appointment yesterday?"

Fuck.

His voice is level. Conversational. But he can already read the answer on my face. My hands keep moving beneath the water. Soap foams between my fingers and runs toward the drain.

"Therapist was running behind," I say. "I ended up having to cut it short."

"How short?"

I stare into the sink. "Didn't make it in."

The water keeps running.

"I see."

I shut off the tap and reach for the paper towels. My reflection in the metal dispenser shows me a man who looks approximately twelve years old, which tracks.

"Allie texted you."