Page 4 of Egg Me On
"Wait, from ‘Egg Me On’? I didn’t know you were so cute," Marcus exclaimed with a flutter of his eyelashes, confirming my guess about his sexuality as he leaned in, his voice turning flirtatious. "I would have done the food runs if I’d known.”
“No, you wouldn’t. You have never once done a food run in all the years we’ve worked together,” Silas muttered, and Marcus burst out laughing.
“He’s probably right. But only because he gets hungry first. But with you right here in our parking lot, I’ll be spending all my time out there! When can you start?"
I laughed, glancing at Silas. "We haven't actually finalized anything yet."
"Oh, please," Marcus waved dismissively. "Silas wouldn't have brought you in if he wasn't serious. He's been talking about your food truck for months."
I looked around the shop, taking in the diverse group of people, the comfortable atmosphere, the genuine enthusiasm. This wasn't at all what I'd expected. Instead of finding a stereotypical biker haven full of toxic masculinity, I'd discovered... a community. One that apparently really wanted breakfast food.
The free rent offer was too good to pass up. The location was close enough to my old spot that regulars could still find me. And everyone else seemed welcoming as hell. My eyes darted towards Cash.
Well, mostly everyone.
"You know what?" I said, making my decision. "I think this could work. Six months free with the option to renew at the rate you mentioned sounds fair." I extended my hand to Silas. "You've got yourself a food truck."
I was riding high as I climbed back into my car and swiped open my social media, snapping a quick shot of my new location. I’d been sharing the saga of the lot closing on social media, and many of my fans and regulars had been suggesting locations. That’s how the meeting with Silas had come about.
I posted the photo, sharing the address of the Front Range Motorcycle Collective, trying to sound excited about the move. New location! New customers.
Still, dread washed over me as I thought about the tasks involved in moving my truck. I had to rent a truck to tow it with, gather everything, pack it, and fold up all of my signage. I pulled open a notes app and started making a list. One week to move. One week to tell as many of my current customers that my new location would be only a few blocks away. Coupons, maybe? A freebie for anyone who stopped by on opening day? I added that to my notes app, then started my car.
It stuttered a few times as I shifted into reverse, but finally got going, and as I drove home, I wondered how many days I could stretch whatever this issue was before going to the shop.
Chapter 2
Cash
I gunned the Harley'sengine harder than necessary as I pulled into the food truck guy’s short driveway. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was hoping to irritate his neighbors. He lived in Congress Park, an older neighborhood not too far from downtown, filled with modest one-story homes that probably cost way more than they looked like they cost. I wondered if the food truck business was that lucrative, or if he had roommates.
Silas’s adorable breakfast chef had only been in the FRMC’s parking lot for a week, and already several of the guys were addicted to his food, which was why I was picking him up.
I was definitely not picking the kid up because of the cute, cheerful smiles he gave me every morning when I stopped by for a bagel. Or because of those freckles on the bridge of his nose.
Nope. That would be insane.
I was just doing the kid a favor because I hoped it’d keep the peace in the shop. No one wanted to see Liv or Silas hangry.
Besides, he only lived four blocks from Colfax, just a little ways down from where I rented a loft. It was practically on my way.
The Harley wasn't my usual commuter bike. My café racer was sleeker, faster, more my style—but it didn't have a passenger seat, and today I needed one of those. Fucking Silas and his fucking obsession with breakfast food.
I silently wished I hadn’t looked at my text messages this morning. Like I didn't have engines to rebuild, custom jobs piling up. But here I was, rolling up behind the most pathetic Subaru I’d ever seen. And Denver had a lot of Subarus.
No wonder this guy needed a ride. The car was more rust than metal, with a dent in the rear quarter that had probably been there since before Aiden could drive. I cut the Harley's engine and swung my leg over, boots hitting the pavement with a satisfying thud, wondering how this guy could run such a successful food truck when he couldn't even maintain his car.
I checked the address on my phone again. Yep, this was it. Small brick bungalow, weathered but tidy, with a sad attempt at a garden out front. Grandma chic, complete with those lace curtains in the windows. Not what I'd pictured for Aiden, who was almost aggressively cheerful and upbeat.
One week of parking his truck at Front Range Motorcycle Collective, and everyone was drooling over him—or his food, anyway. I didn’t get what the big deal was. I mean, sure, his bagel sandwiches had a perfectly cooked egg, but that wasn’t that hard, was it?
Before I could knock, the front door swung open, and a petite blonde in yoga pants wandered out. She was staring at the phone in her hand, not paying attention to where she was going. I cleared my throat before she could collide with me, and she startled, fumbled her phone, and backed up like I was there to rob her. Which, on one hand, I mean yeah, maybe it was a bit intimidating to find a huge guy dressed in leather on your front porch.
"Who are you?" she demanded, her slightly overdone eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "If you're selling something, we're not interested."
I crossed my arms over my chest. "I'm here for Aiden."
Her eyes widened further, darting from my face to my tattoos to the Harley at the curb. "Why? What did he do?"
