Page 94 of Detour

I wink over at him, then lean in closer so only she can hear me, and steady my voice when I say, “He isn’t up for grabs.” Maybe Coty should see what other options are better suited for him, but this one isn’t it and I’m happy to let her know.

Her lips dip in a patronizing way that I’ll never be able to unsee, sneering, “For now.”

A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead watching her slink away. Isn’t that what I’ve been saying all along? That Coty’s interest would fade once he figured it out. Once he figured me out.

Marc’s story was inspiring and all, but what he fails to see is some things are beyond repair. The dirt bike he acquired had good bones. All he needed to do was improve what he already had. I’m starting from square one. From absolutely nothing. These guys may be skilled mechanics, but that doesn’t change the fact that you can’t fix what isn’t there.

Coty approaches me, eyes already in search-and-recover mode. “What’d she say to you?”

I pop a shoulder, stepping around him. “Nothing really.”

His hand reaches out to stop me and I look up, focusing on his matted hairline instead. Not finding what I’ve tucked out of reach, he lets me go, but only after a hard kiss on the mouth—a punishing kiss because he knows I’m holding back. If only he knew exactly how much.

Only Marc and Coty resume their show while I watch somewhat distracted until Beckett calls me over to a half-circle of cars. Breaking from my frozen stance, I join him as he hands me a spiked lemonade to replace my empty bottle. I down half the tangy drink before wiping my mouth and thanking him. He makes introductions while I keep one eye on the black bike racing alongside the red accented one in the distance, the boys’ bikes kicking up tails of dust as they compete heartily. I worry my lip when both brake lights disappear from sight.

I hear, “we already know each other,” and turn my full attention to the man closest to Beckett.

“We do?”

After getting a good look at him, I realize his face does look vaguely familiar.

“Yeah, we work together. I’m over in detailing. Angela, right?”

He sticks his hand out and Beckett looks from the hand to me and back. I reach for it, still trying to place him. Shaking his quickly, I wrap both hands around my drink again.

“Sorry, what’s your name?”

“It’s all good, you’re a busy girl. I’m Steve.” I scowl at his comment and notice Beckett do the same.

“Working the front definitely keeps me busy,” I joke, trying to keep my voice light but he shakes his head.

“I wasn’t talking about that.” His tone takes on an accusatory edge.

I look to Beckett again, finding him just as confused as I am. Quickly recovering, he places his hand on my shoulder, teasing, “Neighbor girl has a lot going on. It’s not easy juggling us three.” I slap him off which delights him immensely.

My smile falls when I see Steve raptly watch my neighbor’s hand fall away.

“Does Joe know that?”

At my boss’s name, Beckett stiffens.

And it hits me. Steve is the one that walked in that night in the bay. I only caught a glimpse of his face before I booked it out of there, but there’s no doubt in my mind it was him. His harsh tone is as baffling as it is unappreciated.

“How do you mean?”

Steve drains his beer before carelessly tossing it aside. An asshole and a litterer. What’s his problem? He pushes away from the car, bringing us closer. Beckett stays quiet, but inches my way, keeping his focus solely on Steve.

A couple feet away, he stops, sticking his thumbs in his front pockets. “Everyone knows who Joe’s pets are. He calls dibs and we wait ‘til he’s done to get ours. He’s been yapping about you for a while though and from the look of things,” his gaze touches on Beckett before returning to mine, “he’s okay with sharing this time. I’m just wondering what I gotta do to get a piece, too?” His tongue darts out, licking his bottom lip and I feel my stomach turn.

“The fuck? Angie, what’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know.” I throw my hands up. “Joe’s my boss and that’s it. Whatever he does with other girls is none of my business. The sick pact you guys have with each other is news to me, but I promise I want nothing to do with Joe or anyone else at Hot Spots, so you can leave me out of your demented game.”

Steve springs forward, but Beckett sticks his hand out, catching his shirt in a massive fist between us.

“Bro, you don’t want to do that. Step. Back.”

The tempo of “Blood In The Water” builds from a nearby car as Steve assesses Beckett, then looks back to me, a sinister smile marring his face. An engine revving cuts off, then in the next instant Coty is at my side—helmet off, fists clenched.