Chapter 3
GAUGE
Riley lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “I’m just passing through.”
Maybe she really had meant to roll through Crossbend, get her Mustang fixed, and disappear before anyone remembered her face. But the second the sentence left her mouth, my instincts dug in hard.
I’d spent most of my life listening for the thing beneath the noise—the shift in pressure before something blew apart.
Riley had a wrong vibration running under all that sass and talent, and I didn’t like it.
Whatever had put that tightness in her eyes had already gotten too close to something my gut had decided was mine.
The Pit raged around us with its usual afternoon chaos. A grinder screamed from the fabrication bay, throwing sparks in bright orange arcs against scarred concrete. Somewhere near the dyno room, a bike barked hard enough to rattle the glass in my office window.
I could usually track every piece of my shop without needing to look.
I knew which mechanic had a bad habit of leaving a torque wrench two inches off its marked spot, which apprentice was about to strip a bolt because he rushed when watched, and which customer was going to argue over a bill before they opened their mouth.
Today, I was tracking all of that and still watching Riley, as if my attention had been welded to her.
She looked worn down in a way that pissed me off for reasons I hadn’t earned the right to feel yet.
Dust clung to the knees of her jeans and the worn leather of her boots.
Her black hair fell loose around her shoulders, a little tangled.
A faint smear of grease marked the side of her hand from when she’d checked the Mustang herself, and there was something about seeing it there that hit me harder than it should have.
Most women who walked into The Pit avoided touching anything dirty unless they had to. Riley had cut me off before I could finish diagnosing her car because she already knew exactly what was wrong with it.
That was the part I couldn’t shake. Her looks were enough to make any man with a pulse take notice, and I wasn’t going to pretend my cock hadn’t noticed the way her fitted tank clung to the soft weight of her tits or how those worn jeans hugged the curve of her hips when she shifted her stance.
She was probably around five-six, toned from real work, with a small scar through her left eyebrow over deep brown eyes.
Pretty wasn’t a strong enough word for her, not when there was nothing delicate about the way she stood in my shop with grease under her nails, a duffel strap digging into one shoulder, and enough attitude to make me want to see exactly how much of that mouth she’d keep once I had her pinned under me.
The thought hit hard, tightening my body until my jeans felt too tight. I wanted to know if she’d argue when I put her where I wanted her or if all that sassiness would melt into something sweet when I got my hands on her.
I wanted to strip away the road weariness, set her on the edge of my workbench, spread those thighs, and find out if she tasted as good as she looked.
The image came fast enough that I had to drag my attention back to the conversation before I did something idiotic, but even that didn’t cool me down much because the attraction wasn’t only physical.
The thing that really had its hooks in me was the way she knew machines.
She hadn’t memorized terms to sound impressive, and she sure as fuck hadn’t guessed.
There weren’t many things in this world hotter than a woman who could look at a broken engine and diagnose the problem before most people knew there was an issue.
Riley glanced toward her Mustang sitting in bay two, and the slight tension that moved through her face told me plenty. She was considering the job.
I could see it in the way her gaze moved from the car to the shop floor and then back to me, measuring what staying would cost her.
The way her eyes tracked the lifts, tool chests, bikes, the half-stripped race car in the next bay, and the organized mess of a shop that ran on pressure and precision told me she liked what she saw more than she wanted to admit.
Her hesitation came from somewhere else. Taking the job meant stopping, and that clearly hadn’t been part of her plan.
The woman needed work if she couldn’t afford to fix her ride. Any mechanic with half a brain would have jumped at an offer from a place like The Pit if they were stranded and broke. Riley looked like she wanted to say yes but couldn’t quite bring herself to.
I didn’t think it was pride, though. More like fear. She was good at hiding it, but I still saw the pressure building behind those pretty eyes.
She finally blew out a slow breath, tightened her fingers around the strap of her bag, and nodded. “Okay.”
The satisfaction that rolled through me was strong enough that I had to lock down my expression.
I’d made deals worth more money than most men saw in a lifetime, handled engines that cost more than houses, and watched racers win because of work I’d done with my own hands.
But a half-broke woman agreeing to temporary work in my garage made me feel like I’d just won something more important.
“Okay?” I asked, because apparently I was enough of an asshole to want to hear her say it again.
Her eyes narrowed, and the look she gave me had heat moving through me all over again. “Don’t make it weird.”
I laughed before I couldn’t stop myself. “Too late.”
The corner of her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile but didn’t trust the impulse.
The slight curve of her lips hit me straight in the chest and made me want to earn a real one, which was dangerous thinking for a man who’d known her less than an hour.
But I’d never been the kind of man who needed years to know when something mattered.
Machines told you what they were if you knew how to listen. People did too.
Riley had walked into The Pit with a busted Mustang and trouble behind her, and my body, my instincts, and every possessive piece of me had lined up around one conclusion before my brain bothered pretending to argue.
She was mine.
Then she asked, “Where’s the nearest motel?”
Every bit of humor drained out of me, but I didn’t let it show in my expression because losing my shit would have tipped my hand too soon. I hated the idea before she finished asking.
Crossbend belonged to the Redline Kings MC,, but even in the surrounding towns, most people with sense knew better than to start trouble in our territory.
That didn’t mean I wanted Riley alone in some roadside room with weak locks, bad lighting, and nobody between her and whatever the hell had made her look ready to run.
The Crest was the only motel in the area. While it wasn’t the worst place I’d ever seen, no way in hell it was safe enough for a woman my instincts had already put under my protection.
The practical side of my brain ran the numbers right behind the possessive side and came to the same conclusion. If she couldn’t afford repairs, then she couldn’t afford to burn through money on a room while waiting on parts.
She acted casual, but she’d gone too still when she asked, like she was trying to make the question sound less desperate than it was.
I didn’t call her on it. Riley struck me as the type to dig her heels in if pushed too directly, and I wasn’t interested in giving her an excuse to bolt when I could keep her exactly where I wanted by letting her think she had choices for another few minutes.
“The Crest is about five miles east of town. Head out of the lot, take a right and that street will take you to the beach. Turn left and follow the main road until you see the faded blue sign with a wave.”
Her lips twitched again, quicker this time. “That sounds promising.”
“It has doors and beds. I wouldn’t call it promising.”
“Glowing endorsement,” she muttered, shifting the duffel higher on her shoulder. “Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She turned toward the open garage door, and I watched her go because I couldn’t seem to do anything else.
The late-afternoon light hit her as she moved, catching in her hair as she walked with the tired stiffness of someone who’d spent too long behind the wheel.
But there was still strength in her stride.
Stubborn woman. And mine, even if she didn’t know it yet and would probably try to throw a wrench at my head when she figured it out.
She made it a few steps before she stopped so abruptly that the duffel bumped against her hip. Her shoulders tightened, and her head tipped slightly toward where her Mustang sat dead in my bay instead of waiting to take her anywhere.
I saw the realization move through her. The motel was several miles away, her car wasn’t running, and she had no way to get there unless she planned on walking along the shoulder in the Florida heat.
For half a second, I considered letting that problem do the work for me, but the image of her stubborn, sexy ass actually walking down the road was enough to kill that idea fast.
“Riley,” I called.
She turned back, her expression already guarded, like she expected me to point out the problem and make her feel stupid for missing it. That pissed me off too.
I grabbed a set of keys from the hook near my office and tossed them across the shop. Her hand came up automatically, catching them without fumbling. The kind of reflexes that came from being around fast-moving parts.
She looked down at the keys, then back at me. “What are these?”
“One of the shop trucks.”
Her brows pulled together. “I’m not taking one of your trucks.”
“Yeah, you are.”
“I don’t need—”
“You need to get to the motel, your Mustang isn’t moving, and you’re coming back here tomorrow morning anyway,” I cut in, keeping my voice even because arguing with her was already doing things to my blood that had nothing to do with irritation.
The spark in her eyes when she got annoyed made me want to crowd her against the side of her car and see if her breath hitched when I got close. “Bring it back when you show up.”
Riley stared at me long enough that I could practically hear the fight in her head. She wanted to argue because taking the truck meant accepting help. To refuse because the woman clearly hated needing anything from anyone. But she was also smart, which won out over stubborn after a few seconds.
Not gracefully. Definitely not happily. But it won.
“You always this bossy?” she asked, shoving the keys into her pocket like she was doing me a favor by taking them.
“Only when people are being difficult.”
Her mouth flattened, but there was color in her cheeks now, and the sight of that faint flush did not help the situation in my jeans. “You mean when they don’t immediately do what you say.”
“Same thing.”
She muttered something under her breath that I didn’t fully catch, though “asshole” was definitely in there.
I grinned because I couldn’t help it, and she shot me a look before heading toward the lot again.
This time, she didn’t stop. She climbed into the shop truck, adjusted the seat, backed out carefully, and drove away like she’d rather chew glass than admit borrowing it had solved a problem.
I waited until the truck disappeared beyond the edge of the lot before pulling out my phone.
The Crest answered on the third ring, and the bored voice on the other end perked up fast when I gave my name.
That was one of the benefits of living in a town where the Redline Kings owned enough businesses, land, protection, and favors that people understood refusing us rarely ended well.
We didn’t throw our weight around for the fun of it, but when I needed something done, I expected it to be handled.
“If a young woman with black hair comes in looking for a room tonight, you’re full,” I grunted.
The silence lasted only a second before the man answered, “Absolutely, Gauge.”
“Don’t tell her I called, and don’t suddenly find a vacancy because she gives you attitude.”
“Understood.”
“Good.”
I hung up and slid the phone back into my pocket, feeling entirely too satisfied with myself.
A better man might have felt a little guilty about interfering with her plans, but I’d never claimed to be one.
Riley wanted a cheap motel because she thought she had to keep moving on her own.
I wanted her somewhere safe, close, and behind security I trusted.
Between the two of us, my plan was better.
Still, I knew better than to let her see that when she came back.
Riley had enough pride to power a small city, and if she suspected I’d arranged this, she’d probably try sleeping in the truck out of spite.
I headed into my office, shut the door halfway, and dropped onto my chair with a stack of work orders waiting on the desk.
I approved parts, shifted schedules, and answered three messages from racers who all believed their emergencies mattered more than everyone else’s.
My hands moved through the work automatically, but my attention kept drifting toward the front lot while I waited for Riley to return.
Because she would come back.
And when she did, I was going to make damn sure she stayed.