Chapter 7 Secret Nights
The Hero of My Story
The next few weeks passed faster than they should have.
Maybe because I spent most of them with Jaxon.
Or maybe because happiness had a strange way of making time disappear.
Either explanation felt equally possible.
My car had been repaired nearly two weeks ago.
Technically, I should have returned to my apartment immediately.
That had been the original plan.
Instead, I found myself making excuses.
Some were reasonable.
The garage was closer to one of my classes.
Kane Customs had reliable internet.
The guest room was quieter than my apartment.
Others were significantly less convincing.
For example, wanting to wake up and see Jaxon every morning.
That one felt difficult to explain without sounding completely ridiculous.
Not that I tried.
The truth was simple.
I liked being here.
More importantly, I liked being with him.
The relationship itself remained private.
Not secret exactly.
Just ours.
The people closest to us knew.
Or suspected.
Mason definitely suspected.
The man possessed the observational skills of a detective and the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
The first time he'd met me after Jaxon and I started dating, he'd taken one look at us and grinned.
Then he'd spent twenty minutes making comments that forced Jaxon to threaten him repeatedly.
I liked Mason immediately.
Mostly because he found Jaxon's irritation hilarious.
Watching them interact felt like watching brothers argue.
Loudly.
Constantly.
Affectionately.
The garage had become familiar now.
Comfortable.
Customers greeted me by name.
I answered phones.
Organized appointments.
Handled paperwork.
Somehow I'd accidentally become part of the business.
Not that Jaxon complained.
In fact, several times I'd caught him looking suspiciously pleased when customers specifically asked for my help.
The realization made me smile every time.
At the moment, I sat behind the front desk attempting to work on my manuscript.
Attempting being the important word.
Across the garage, Jaxon worked on a vintage motorcycle.
The sunlight pouring through the open bay doors highlighted the tattoos covering his arms.
Grease stained his hands.
His concentration remained entirely fixed on the motorcycle in front of him.
Or at least that's what it appeared to be.
Because every few minutes he glanced toward the office.
Toward me.
The first time it happened, I'd assumed it was coincidence.
The second time, maybe curiosity.
By the twentieth time, the pattern became difficult to ignore.
I wasn't complaining.
A warm feeling settled in my chest whenever our eyes met.
One that made concentrating impossible.
My laptop sat open in front of me.
The manuscript waiting patiently.
A chapter remained unfinished.
Unfortunately, the hero refused to cooperate.
I stared at the screen.
Then toward Jaxon.
Then back at the screen.
A realization slowly emerged.
One that should have been obvious much earlier.
"Oh."
The word escaped quietly.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard.
For several seconds, I simply stared.
Then I laughed.
Softly.
Disbelieving.
The hero in my story wasn't inspired by Jaxon anymore.
He was Jaxon.
Not exactly.
Not completely.
But close enough.
The evidence sat right in front of me.
Every description.
Every conversation.
Every habit.
All of it.
Without noticing, I'd gradually transformed a fictional biker into the man I loved.
The realization should have worried me.
Instead, it made me smile.
I opened the manuscript and scrolled backward.
Page after page passed beneath my eyes.
The similarities became impossible to ignore.
The hero rebuilt motorcycles.
Jaxon rebuilt motorcycles.
The hero hid kindness beneath a rough exterior.
Jaxon practically specialized in that.
The hero believed he didn't deserve happiness.
Jaxon still struggled with that belief sometimes.
The connections continued.
One after another.
Until I finally closed the document and dropped my head onto the desk.
This was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
And somehow incredibly sweet.
A shadow appeared in the office doorway.
I looked up.
Jaxon stood there holding two cups of coffee.
Perfect timing.
Terrible timing.
Possibly both.
"What happened?"
I immediately sat upright.
"Nothing."
His eyes narrowed.
"That answer usually means something happened."
I accepted the coffee.
"Writer problems."
Understanding appeared.
At least partial understanding.
Jaxon didn't always understand writing.
But he understood frustration.
"Bad chapter?"
"Something like that."
He leaned against the doorway.
Waiting.
Patient.
The way he always waited whenever he thought I needed time to explain something.
Another reason I loved him.
Though I wasn't quite ready to say those words yet.
Not out loud.
Not even to myself.
The feelings existed.
Strongly.
But they still felt fragile somehow.
New.
Important.
"I realized something."
Jaxon raised an eyebrow.
"Should I be worried?"
"Probably."
His expression immediately became more suspicious.
I laughed.
The sound echoed softly through the office.
For a brief moment, neither of us spoke.
The comfortable silence returned.
Familiar now.
Easy.
One of my favorite things about us.
Eventually, Jaxon glanced toward the laptop.
"Story going okay?"
I followed his gaze.
The manuscript remained open.
Waiting.
Patient.
The hero's name stared back at me from the page.
Not Jaxon.
But close enough.
A strange warmth spread through my chest.
"Yeah."
The answer came softly.
Honestly.
"Actually, I think it is."
Jaxon nodded.
Satisfied.
Then returned to work.
The conversation lasted less than two minutes.
Yet somehow it improved my entire day.
The hours passed quickly after that.
Classes.
Writing.
Garage work.
Coffee.
Conversation.
Normal things.
Extraordinary things.
The line between them grew blurrier every day.
Later that evening, after the garage closed, I sat alone in the apartment with my manuscript open once again.
The television played quietly in the background.
Jaxon was downstairs finishing paperwork.
The familiar sounds of movement drifted upward through the floor.
I smiled automatically.
Then returned to the chapter.
This time the words came easily.
Effortlessly.
The Rider looked dangerous to the world.
People saw the tattoos.
The scars.
The reputation.
They never noticed the way he fixed broken things.
The way he remembered tiny details.
The way he quietly carried everyone else's burdens while pretending not to care.
The words flowed faster.
Natural.
Certain.
Because I knew exactly who I was writing about now.
Not a fantasy.
Not an idea.
A person.
A real person.
A man who made coffee every morning.
A man who held my hand during storms.
A man who believed he was difficult to love.
A man who was completely wrong.
I paused.
Read the paragraph again.
Then slowly leaned back in my chair.
The realization settled fully into place.
Clear.
Undeniable.
The hero I'd spent months creating had changed.
Somewhere along the way, the fictional biker I'd imagined on lonely nights had disappeared.
In his place stood Jaxon Kane.
Not perfect.
Not idealized.
Not fictional.
Real.
And somehow, that made the story infinitely better.
Dangerous Happiness
Happiness turned out to be a surprisingly suspicious feeling.
At least for me.
Most people probably welcomed it.
Trusted it.
Enjoyed it without questioning every detail.
I wasn't most people.
Years of disappointment had taught me an important lesson.
Good things rarely lasted.
The better something felt, the more likely it was to disappear.
That belief had followed me for most of my adult life.
Long enough to become part of me.
Which was why the last few weeks felt so unsettling.
Because I was happy.
Actually happy.
The realization should have been simple.
Instead, it felt almost alarming.
I noticed it one morning while making coffee.
Nothing special had happened.
No major milestone.
No dramatic moment.
Just an ordinary morning.
Sunlight through the kitchen windows.
Coffee brewing.
The familiar sounds of Elliot moving around the apartment.
Yet standing there, waiting for the coffee machine to finish, I realized something had changed.
I wasn't merely surviving anymore.
For years, survival had been enough.
Work.
Sleep.
Repeat.
The routine kept me moving forward.
It kept the past manageable.
It kept the loneliness quiet.
Then Elliot arrived.
And somehow everything shifted.
The apartment felt different now.
Warmer.
Lived in.
His books appeared on tables.
His notebooks appeared on counters.
Coffee mugs mysteriously multiplied.
The kid had somehow invaded every corner of my life.
The disturbing part?
I liked it.
A lot.
Footsteps approached behind me.
Right on schedule.
I didn't need to turn around to know it was him.
My body recognized Elliot before my brain did.
The realization remained embarrassing.
"Morning."
His sleepy voice immediately made me smile.
I hid it before turning around.
Mostly.
"Morning."
Elliot wore an oversized sweater and looked approximately five minutes away from falling back asleep.
The sight did ridiculous things to my heart.
Which was becoming a problem.
A serious one.
He reached for a coffee mug.
Missed.
Then tried again.
I caught the mug before it fell.
His cheeks turned pink.
"Thank you."
"Maybe wake up before operating heavy machinery."
His eyes narrowed.
"This is a coffee cup."
"Dangerous equipment."
That earned a laugh.
The sound settled warmly inside my chest.
God help me.
I loved hearing him laugh.
The realization arrived so casually that it took several seconds to register.
Then I froze.
Loved.
Not the word itself.
The feeling behind it.
The implication.
I quickly looked away.
Not ready for that conversation.
Not even with myself.
Fortunately, Elliot remained distracted by caffeine.
The crisis passed.
Mostly.
The day continued normally after that.
Garage work.
Customers.
Paperwork.
The usual routine.
Except now the routine included Elliot.
And every time I saw him, the same strange warmth returned.
He spent part of the morning working on his manuscript.
Another part helping organize invoices.
At one point, I caught him arguing with a printer.
The printer eventually won.
Barely.
Watching him threaten office equipment should not have been entertaining.
Yet somehow it was.
Around lunchtime, Mason arrived.
Unfortunately.
The man walked into the garage carrying enough energy for six people.
"Lovers."
I immediately regretted being awake.
Mason grinned.
"Elliot."
"Hi, Mason."
"Elliot."
"Hi, Mason."
"Still adorable."
"Mason."
The warning accomplished nothing.
As usual.
The tattoo artist dropped into a nearby chair.
His grin widened.
I hated that grin.
It usually meant trouble.
Today proved no exception.
Mason spent the next hour pretending to help while actually annoying everyone around him.
Including customers.
A talent he'd spent years perfecting.
The worst part?
People liked him.
I still hadn't figured out why.
Eventually, Elliot left for campus.
A class he couldn't skip.
Something about deadlines.
Or professors.
Or educational responsibility.
I wasn't entirely listening.
Mostly because I hated watching him leave.
The realization was pathetic.
We'd see each other in a few hours.
Yet the garage always felt emptier without him.
Apparently I was becoming unbearable.
Wonderful.
Mason waited exactly three minutes after Elliot left.
Then he struck.
"So."
"No."
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
He looked offended.
Fake offended.
The worst kind.
"I was merely observing."
"Dangerous."
"Very."
Mason leaned against the workbench.
A grin slowly spreading across his face.
The expression made me immediately suspicious.
"You know," he said casually, "I've never seen you like this."
I continued working.
Mistake.
Acknowledging him only encouraged further conversation.
Unfortunately, ignoring him did the same thing.
"There is no winning with you."
"Correct."
I hated him.
A little.
Maybe.
"What exactly am I like?"
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Mason looked delighted.
Damn it.
"Happy."
The answer landed harder than expected.
I stared.
He shrugged.
"You're smiling again."
"I smile."
"No."
His grin widened.
"You tolerate things."
Fair.
Annoyingly fair.
Mason folded his arms.
"For years you've looked like someone attending their own funeral."
"That's dramatic."
"That's accurate."
I considered arguing.
Couldn't.
The problem with old friends was that they knew too much.
Mason had seen every version of me.
The angry version.
The grieving version.
The empty version.
The man standing here now looked different.
Apparently different enough to be obvious.
The realization unsettled me.
"Leave it alone."
His expression softened slightly.
Not much.
Just enough.
"He makes you happy."
The statement wasn't a question.
That made it harder to dismiss.
I looked toward the office.
Toward the empty chair Elliot usually occupied.
Toward the notebook he'd accidentally left behind.
A smile appeared before I could stop it.
Mason immediately saw it.
Of course he did.
The man missed nothing.
"Oh my God."
I closed my eyes.
Too late.
Way too late.
Mason pointed dramatically.
"You're gone."
"I'm not gone."
"You are absolutely gone."
I hated how pleased he looked.
"Relax."
His grin somehow widened.
"You only smiled like that after three deployments."
I frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
Mason waved dismissively.
Then he studied me for a second.
Long enough to become annoying.
Eventually, he spoke again.
Quieter this time.
More serious.
"You're falling for him."
The words settled heavily between us.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Neither of us joked.
Neither of us pretended.
The truth sat there.
Visible.
Impossible to ignore.
I should have denied it.
That would've been the smart response.
The safe response.
Instead, I looked toward the office again.
Toward the place Elliot occupied every day.
Toward the life he'd somehow built around mine.
Then I sighed.
Long.
Slow.
Completely defeated.
And without thinking, I said the one thing I'd spent weeks avoiding.
"Yeah."
Mason's eyes widened.
I immediately regretted speaking.
Too late.
The damage was done.
Because the moment the word left my mouth, I knew it was true.
Not attraction.
Not infatuation.
Not temporary happiness.
Something deeper.
Something far more dangerous.
I was falling for Elliot Reed.
And for the first time in years, that truth scared me almost as much as it thrilled me.
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