Taming Cross - Ella James Page 0,6

where I've worked on so many bikes along with Wil and Napo, the other two members of Team Cross Hybrids.

Guilt nags me. I've heard from both of them, and I know they'd like their old jobs back, but I haven't offered. Shop's closed—for now, at least.

I'm scowling as I balance on my left arm, using the fingers of my right hand to poke at the garage remote attached to my key chain. I can hear the warning beeps of the alarm, telling me I've almost taken too long. Nearly eight minutes to get a bike out of the garage. This is why the damn shop’s still closed.

I stare out at the field that stretches behind my building, then turn to my right to look at the backside of the row of shops next door to my freestanding building. Downtown Napa, California, is quiet and peaceful, which makes me want to fucking scream. My neck is tight and my hand feels weird and the panic is still just below the surface. I remember when Napa used to seem too tame. I could do anything. The roads and the shops all seemed so small. Even the vast vineyards in Napa Valley seemed small. I wonder how long it would take me to get down to the valley now, driving the Mach one-handed. Probably forever.

The garage door closes behind me, and there's nothing else between me and the road. I look down at the band around my left forearm and suck back a few deep breaths. Like this is the fucking Sturgis Rally. Like I'm green as grass.

I don't have a watch, but I can tell I'm late already, and I'm annoyed that it bothers me.

I hear my phone ring. “Satisfaction” by the Stones. Lizzy. Great. I look down at myself and feel like such a helpless freak. There's no way I can answer the phone in my pocket. Not if I want to keep this bike upright.

I wonder why the hell she's calling, and I tell myself I don't care. I can worry about Suri and Lizzy later—and I know I will, when I get back to the shop tonight. I wait another second for the burst of the tingling pain that starts in my neck and shoots down my arm and sometimes up the side of my face. Neuralgia, they call it. Otherwise known as a ‘suicide headache’. But at the moment, I feel okay.

I bite down on my lip and jam my forearm as tightly as I can into the leather band, straightening out my elbow so I can lean into the band with the full weight of my left shoulder. Without any more stalling, I white-knuckle the handle with my right hand and ease my thumb onto the accelerator.

The ride to my parents’ house is short and heart-pumping enough to make me worry that in addition to all the other shit, maybe I lost my balls in the accident as well. By the time I glide through the massive, black iron gates and slow the Mach in their tree-lined, semi-circle drive, I'm drenched with sweat and gritting my teeth.

I wobble a little as I try to balance the bike using my toes. I hiss another curse as I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I was the kind of guy who could just let things lie. But I refuse to let them off so easy. I refuse to let my father get away with what he did. I refuse to be complicit in this kind of sick shit.

I glance at the massive graystone, built to look like an English manor house. My gaze tugs in the direction of the regal double doors, and at that moment, one of them swings open.

I can barely breathe as I wait for the familiar combed-over black hair, laughing blue eyes, hook nose, thin lips. Renault is the man who raised me, a Frenchman who introduced me to classic rock, bought me my first box of condoms, taught me how to puff on a cigar. He drove me to junior high school dances and showed me how to loop a tie. I feel breathless as I wait to see his face—and then the shadows flicker, and instead there is a stern-looking woman with tightly upswept gray hair and sharp blue eyes. It takes me a long, baffling second to realize it's my mother.

Of course it is. Dark blue dress—Dior, her favorite—paired with silver heels and diamond-pearl earrings that sparkle in the porch light. But her