2. Vanessa
CHAPTER TWO
VANESSA
Guys suck. Like for real. There is nothing they do that doesn’t involve them sucking at it.
Boden is the latest of the suckiest of dudes to come into my life, making false promises of commitment, only to cheat on me with the blonde airhead named Riley from his business administration program—the one woman he told me I didn’t need to worry about.
Ugh! I should’ve trusted my intuition when I noticed him texting her more in the last few months.
My gut was screaming at me when he hid his phone from my view.
And alarm bells were going off when I caught them sitting close together at the commons on campus, only to jump apart when I approached them.
All the signs of him cheating were there, but did I listen?
Nope. I talked myself down, told myself I was paranoid, just like Boden said I was every time I voiced my discomfort with their closeness.
Instead, I threw myself into our relationship, being the best damn unbothered girlfriend a guy could ask for.
If he went out, I wouldn’t get upset he didn’t invite me, nor would I blow up his phone with texts or calls while he was having fun doing lord knows what.
If he put his phone face down, I’d brush aside my unease, distracting myself with studying or work.
And when he’d mention Riley’s name in conversation, which was more often than not, I would swallow my pride and listen to whatever story he was sharing about her.
I desperately wanted to believe our relationship was solid, that he differed from all the losers before him who treated me the same way.
But of course, I was wrong.
Walking into my studio apartment after a hellish exam only to find the two of them fucking butt ass naked on my IKEA couch was the harsh reality check I needed.
It was like a switch flipped inside of me—I no longer cared about being the chill girlfriend who settled for scraps.
I was done, and they were going to experience a taste of my humiliation.
Seeing red, I grabbed Boden by his stupid broccoli haircut, yanked him off Riley, and dragged him out of my apartment with his pants around his ankles.
Where I found the strength, I’m not sure.
I’m only five-four and scrawny. But in that moment, I might as well have been André the Giant with the way I was whipping him across my apartment.
Riley was screaming, calling me crazy and jealous. I laughed in her face, scooping up her clothes from the floor and throwing them out my apartment window onto the lawn below.
Ignoring her shouting, I pulled out my cell and called the police to report an intruder. Riley panicked, suddenly remembering she was naked, and I had tossed all her shit. She ran out of my apartment to grab her clothes.
Boden pounded on my apartment door, pleading with me to talk to him, that I didn’t see what I saw, and how he loved me more than anyone. The gaslighting was astounding.
When I refused to let him back inside, he begged me to at least give him his clothes.
I denied him again, yelling at him to fuck off or I would tell the cops there was a naked man trying to break into my place.
Boden had no option but to tuck tail and run the four blocks back to his own apartment with Riley struggling to put on her clothes to chase after him.
That was a month ago. You’d think the asshole would have learned his lesson and not bother me.
No, again.
Boden quickly realized what he had lost and wanted me back.
He’d have takeout delivered to my place—mind you, nothing I’d like to eat since he couldn’t remember my food preferences.
Once a week, there would be roses propped against my apartment.
Boden never remembered that the smell of roses would trigger my allergies.
He’d even show up outside my classes or come into my place of employment to force me to talk with him.
I’d shoulder past him, telling him he sucked ass and to leave me alone.
But his favorite romantic gesture was leaving love letters in my mailbox that were clearly generated by ChatGPT.
The dude couldn’t generate a sincere thought of his own to save himself.
It was as if every kind gesture of apology only made me dislike him more, seeing how little he knew about me and making me question my judgment in picking partners.
I ignored his attempts at reconciliation, blocked him on socials and my cell, and changed my habits to avoid running into him on campus.
He’d grow tired of chasing me eventually—I hope.
And if not, I only have one more month in my graduate program before I walk across the stage in May.
The last few weeks, I’ve been putting myself first. I’ve focused on my coursework, enjoying the quiet of my apartment without Boden talking loudly on the phone with friends or laughing at the television on full blast. On a whim, I got a tattoo, something Boden told me looks trashy on women when I mentioned wanting one right when we started dating, meaning I definitely needed to get one out of spite.
I’ve increased my morning runs, going longer and building a solid base for a future 5K race.
Instead of going to the commons to eat my meals, I’ve started using my micro-size kitchen, meal prepping healthy options.
I dress how I want, wearing my faded blue jeans or leggings with band t-shirts without giving a crap about impressing anyone.
My flat iron went straight into the trash, opting to let my hair go natural in unruly waves.
And my makeup routine simplified, but with the addition of going bold with my lipstick—cherry red.
It may be only a few weeks since my life imploded, but I’m a brand-new woman, living my most authentic life as an independent, single woman. No more trash guys, no more settling, just me being happy with myself and returning to things that make me happy.
Speaking of things that make me happy…
With spring in full swing, the lowlands around Fort Collins are prime for riding. My Harley Street Glide hasn’t seen the light of day since I put her in storage at the end of fall. Any engine sitting that long without running needs service.
My grandpa had been the one who tuned her up and kept her running smooth.
He was my guardian after my parents passed away from an accidental drug overdose.
He wasn’t used to having a girl around, having only raised my dad on his own.
Instead, he bonded with me the only way he knew how—tinkering in his garage over old cars and motorcycle engines.
I was awful with mechanics, aside from changing oil and the occasional bald tire.
But I enjoyed spending time in the garage with my grandpa, riding around in the cars or on the motorcycles he fixed.
Before I left for college at Colorado State University to pursue my degree in addiction counseling, my grandpa gifted me my Street Glide, one he had customized himself.
I’d ride home to visit him in Colorado Springs as often as I could, but with a full-time class load and working part-time at a deli downtown Fort Collins, the trips were not as often as I would have liked and less often when the weather brought snow.
Unfortunately for me, he passed away over the summer from a stroke, leaving me alone in the world. Riding my bike makes me feel close to him again. Thus, maintenance is mandatory.
The bulk of the motorcycle mechanics in Fort Collins were already booked out several months when I called around to make an appointment, forcing me to look outside of the city.
Buck’s Garage was only thirty minutes out from Fort Collins in Loveland, not too long of a haul without a tune-up, and he had same-day service for basic maintenance. I took my bike straight there.
Buck seemed impressed when I listed the specifics of what I wanted done. “In my experience, few women understand motorcycle preservation, let alone know how to ride one.”
I smile. “There are plenty of us. You just haven’t met them yet.”
“I sure as hell hope I do. It would be a nice change instead of dealing with some of these royally cranky bastards.”
My wait isn’t long before Buck comes into the waiting area of his shop, handing me my keys. “She’s all good, ready to hit the road again.”
We chat a bit as I pay my bill, talking shop like I used to with my grandpa. I say my goodbyes and head for my bike.
The purr of her engine when I turn my bike over has me sighing with contentment. She sounds good. Grandpa would be pleased with her care.
With my mood lightened, I cruise around the outside of the shop, heading for the exit. It’s then that I see two bikers in leather exit the garage. One biker is so big, he’s built like a damn oak tree. But the other has me nearly stalling my engine.
He’s tall, over six-foot easily, with defined arms and thick muscular thighs filling out his jeans.
His hair is dark brown, cut short and wild on top from the wind blowing through it.
He has a royale goatee, showing off his sharp jawline.
He walks with an air of superiority, not cockiness but confidence.
And speaking of how he walks, you can tell the monster in his jeans is heavy. I fan myself internally, praying my flush isn’t obvious.
Unlike his companion who looks like a gentle giant, this biker looks hardened, like he’s seen some things in his life most wouldn’t survive. He’s at least a decade older than me, handsome and rugged in that red flag kind of way women swoon over, and completely out of my league.
But damn, is he easy to look at, eye candy for days on end.
Maybe it’s the warm sun shining or the fact that I’m in my happy place, riding my bike. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling spicy enough to flirt with danger.
When the biker turns his dark, hard gaze on me, my lips curl with mischief.
What’s the harm in a little flirting? It’s not like I’m in danger of being claimed by some hot as hell biker I’m passing in a parking lot outside a garage.