Eclectic, Not Electric
Griff
Cranberries. Were they better than raisins? Sure, why not?
But nobody – and I mean nobody – should have to survive on a diet of pastries infested with those things. Cranberry muffins. Cranberry cookies. Fucking cranberry bagels.
I hadn't even ordered bagels. But there they'd been – three plain ones, slathered with cream cheese and topped with the closest thing to raisins.
The bagels had been my breakfast. I'd eaten them first, figuring they would be the first to go bad, considering that my fridge was better at making noise than keeping anything cold.
Of course, the bagels themselves might've been fine if not for those globs of cream cheese, which I hadn't ordered or wanted.
A dumber guy might've blamed the barista. Me? I blamed Ryder. He'd practically asked for it, and here I was, collateral damage.
Well played, you devious bastard.
In the twenty-four hours since I'd landed on Mackinac Island, I'd eaten too many cranberries, learned that I was far too big for any single bed, and reached a sobering conclusion. It would be a long-ass month if I didn't grab the bull by the horns.
Yesterday had been a royal shitshow. This place, the challenge, Ryder's needling – all of it had conspired to give me one hell of a headache.
And yeah, the hangover hadn't helped.
But yesterday was gone, and I wasn't that guy – the kind who blamed everyone else when things got rough. And I sure as hell wasn't the type to take out my mood on strangers, especially earnest ones with pretty eyes and zero concept of self-preservation.
So I'd hiked into town to make things right.
Step one. Apologize to the brunette.
Step two. Score a sandwich that didn't involve cranberries.
Step three. Find some decent transportation – and no, I didn't mean off the island. I was no quitter. But it would be nice to find something with wheels so I didn't spend half the day cooped up in the fish-reeking house of horrors.
Walking along Main Street, I'd traded the smell of dead fish for the scent of live horses – an improvement by any stretch, sweetened by the aroma of fresh fudge drifting out from nearby shops.
I almost stopped when I saw the burger joint – a narrow restaurant tucked between a hotel and souvenir shop. "Later," I told myself. Ten bucks a day wouldn't go far in a tourist town of any size, and I'd be a fool to splurge on day one.
So I kept going, navigating the crowded sidewalk as I kept an eye out for the place where she worked. Pickett's Pedals – I recalled the name on her shirt. In such a small town, it shouldn't be hard to find.
Ten minutes later, I spotted the place along with the familiar brunette – the same one I'd pissed off yesterday. She was standing just outside the main door.
I slowed to a stop and felt my eyes narrow as I took in the scene. Something was off.
Her back was straight, and her jaw was tight. She was locked in conversation with a lanky blond guy sporting high-end athletic wear along with a spray tan that must've come with a warning label. He was waving his arms like he was directing traffic at O'Hare.
His agitated voice carried through the crowd. "Don't you know who I am?"
I moved closer. I knew who he was – a total douche. It didn't take a genius to know the type, complete with over-styled hair and more swagger than sense.
The brunette glanced down at an old-fashioned clipboard. "Of course. Chadwick Kensington."
He puffed out his chest. "The third."
She looked up. "Sorry, what?"
"Chadwick Kensington. The third. My friends call me Chad."
"Uh, okay, Chad…"
His nose wrinkled. "I didn't say you could."
What an asshole.
And he wasn't done yet. "I run a premier lifestyle blog. Premier. I was promised a premium motorized experience, and this? This is a bike. " As he said it, he gestured toward a bicycle parked within kicking distance.
I did a double-take. This wasn't just any bicycle. It was the most absurd bike I'd ever seen.
Molded to the front fork was a big, toothy shark face, complete with jagged teeth and predatory eyes. The frame was painted bluish-gray with raised gills. The seat sported twin sharklike fins. And the kickstand was a mini-surfboard with a big chomp taken out of the side.
I almost laughed out loud. No wonder the guy was pissed.
Still, it was no excuse to be a dick.
With a shake of my head, I edged closer and caught her reply. "I told you, there are no motorized bikes. They're not allowed. You can Google it if you want."
"I don't need to Google it," the guy huffed. "I spoke to someone from this shop a week ago – a really chill dude who totally got my vibe. I told him I wanted something eclectic, and he said he had just the thing."
Her brow furrowed. "Right." She pointed toward the shark on wheels. "That's from our eclectic series."
"It can't be," he said. "It has no motor."
Her face scrunched, but then her expression cleared. "Ohhhhh."
"Oh, what?" he demanded.
"The bike. It's eclectic . Not electric."
Listening, I bit back a laugh. Chadwick Kensington the Third probably thought that "irony" was the thing you used to press your shirts.
He threw up his hands. "But that's the same thing."
"It is not," she said. "Eclectic – that means a bike with personality." She gave the bike a furtive glance before adding, "It even has a name." She cleared her throat and finished in a mumble. "Shark Attack." She brightened. "But you can call it anything you want."
He looked toward the bike in question. "I don't care what you call it. I'm not driving that thing."
"You don't drive it," she said. "You ride it. Like I said, it doesn't have a motor."
"I wouldn't care if it did," he said. "I still wouldn't take it. What am I? Twelve?"
The guy's age looked double that, maybe more. Even so, I would've paid a small fortune to watch him ride that thing. The bike was nearly as ridiculous as he was.
"Fine." She gave him a smile that looked downright desperate. "Do you like bumble bees? Or maybe disco?"
His expression curdled like bad milk. "No. And double no. Why?"
"I'm just wondering if you'd like a different bike. Maybe something more…dazzling?"
At the suggestion, he looked anything but dazzled. "Sure, if it has a motor."
"Which it won't," she said. "Because they're not allowed. I already told you."
"I want to talk to someone else," he said. "Your manager. Or the owner. You know…your boss."
"There is no one else," she said through gritted teeth. "I am the boss." She was holding steady, but I could see it – the flicker in her eyes, the crack in her patience. She needed backup . And the way it looked, none was coming.
He rolled his eyes. "Come on. That's adorable, but I'm no idiot."
The hell he wasn't.
As far as the brunette, I still didn't know her name. I hadn't come here to get involved. But suddenly, I found myself moving toward her at a pace that wasn't exactly casual.
I was nobody's hero. But watching her hold the line alone, I couldn't exactly stay put.
Whatever else I was, I wasn't that kind of guy.