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Across the way, something clattered to the floor. Bou stared at the offending wrench, then stammered, “I-it’s about supper time.” She pulled her ponytail over one shoulder, broke eye-contact, and beat a path through the kitchen door.
My stomach roared. For her? For food?
Not for her, fucker. Can’t be.
I had just finished rebuilding Betty’s master cylinder, so I set it gently to the side and stood. My bad leg was hot—hell, blazing was a better word. Everything was hot. My shin thrummed like someone was playing with a throttle. And the leg felt fat, as if it wanted to pop the cast wide open. When I tried to put down my weight, the ache revved enough that I stumbled. I gritted my teeth.
Just pain, Wilde. Deal. Suck it up.
I lurched over to my saddle bags and started digging. Where was my phone? Though I didn’t want to bring him into my mess, Angel would be there to help pronto if I asked. Hanging out in this shop was killing time. But with the bum leg, I sure as hell couldn’t ride. Hanging around Bou was also leading to a whole bunch of questions I didn’t want to acknowledge, much less answer. I pulled out my vest and started digging through the cut’s pockets. My phone had to be in there some-fucking-where.
Over the drone of the fans, an engine growled outside. Gravel crunched. “Fuck.” I dropped the vest and wobbled to the back where Bou had gone, through the two-way swinging door. I stopped short at the vision before me.
Bou was bent over, one hand on the open fridge door, one knee straight, and the other popped. She had a sucker in her mouth as she looked inside the fridge. I’d never wanted to trade places with a piece of candy so bad in my life.
I groaned, squeezed my eyes shut.
The swinging door swished, and the fridge door sucked tight.
“What?” Bou asked.
“Someone’s here.” My voice sounded strangled, pained.
“Shit. Didn’t want to cook anyway.” She pushed the kitchen door. “Oh. Back here guys.” Bou ducked back into the kitchen. “It’s just Doc and Kimmers. You should sit.”
“Who the fuck is Kimmers?” I ground out between steps to the nearest chair. Using the counter, I fell onto the seat and panted.
“Doc’s old lady. You good?” Bou asked, her brows raised.
Something thumped on the door. Doc pushed inside. He balanced a foil-covered pan on one palm and held the door open with the other. A little brown-haired woman waltzed in behind him with a grin. Kimmers, I assumed.
“Hey doll,” the woman said. Her voice rang like a bell. “Can I throw this in the oven?”
Bou smiled more genuinely than I’d seen yet. “Of course. You’re a life saver, Kim.” She opened a drawer and pulled out oven mitts.
“Well, doll, you’ve got your hands full here, so I’m told.”
Doc dropped the glass pan on the counter and eyed me with his lips pursed. “You look like hammered shit.” He reached a hand toward my face.
I flinched.
Kimmers, bent over the oven, said, “Don’t be that way, now. By my understanding, my man’s the only reason your leg’s gonna heal straight.”
She’d been focused on the stove. How did she... ?
Guess it didn’t matter. I eased back and let Doc feel my head.
“Sweaty.”
“No shit. It’s hotter than fuck,” I spouted.
Goatee raised a brow. “No. You’re pale and clammy. You taking the pills?”
Bou snorted and shoved the sucker back in her mouth. I fought the urge to groan.
Doc stepped toward the door. “Where are they? I’ll grab them.”
“Nah. Don’t need ’em.”
