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I raise my beer to the sky, in a sort of cheers to Grandad. Building the shop is for me, but running the bar will be for him. I’m one step closer to honoring his memory the best way I know how.
Grandad ran a biker bar by the beach in Ventura until the day he died. I spent more time behind that bar than a kid has any business to because he couldn’t drop work to raise me. He died when I was fifteen, but before that he helped my mom with everything.
She sold the bar almost immediately after he was gone. I had to know what the new owner did with it, so I rode over on my dirt bike—a Yamaha 125 two-stroke with a duct-taped seat and bald tires, that I’d bought from a friend’s dad with money I’d saved up doing odd jobs and mowing lawns.
When I got there, the building was boarded up and marked for demolition. Whoever bought it felt the community would be better served by a strip mall than a classic biker bar. They knocked down his legacy, and I decided then that I’d open a new one to honor him one day.
I knew cheap beer, leather cuts, and lines of Harleys wasn’t what I wanted, which is why I knew I had to have Station 19. I’ll have a bike shop and a bar that work together, but each will have their own identity.Voyeur Motorscan be entertainment for people at the bar, but they won’t have to be bikers to enjoy a drink there. The windowed wall between is the key that makes it work, and the reason I moved to Palm Springs.
Betty and I sit in relative silence for quite a while, her sleeping with her head against my hip, and me resting my forearms on my bent knees, holding the beer suspended loosely between my fingertips while I reflect on Grandad. The only sounds are the subtle buzz of neon and Allie’s Taylor Swift playlist coming through the windows.
Her place is closed, but she hasn’t left yet. She was already here when I showed up at six-thirty this morning, making this the third time this week we worked simultaneous twelve-hour days. She’s dancing to the music, ponytail bobbing to the beat, lighting up the whole place. She’s got to be exhausted, but her mouth is stretched into an electric smile, anyway.
I wait to leave until she heads out, so she’s not in the parking lot alone at night. I wave to her, and she lifts her hand in the least enthusiastic version of a wave a person could muster. Chuckling under my breath, I open the passenger door for Betty. I’ve earned myself a place as the only exception to Allie’s kindness.
I shouldn’t let myself dwell on it. She won’t be the girl next door for long, but I spend the whole drive home trying to figureout how to get in her good graces without giving her the one thing I have that she wants—Station 19.
Chapter 7
Allie
Take time today to reflect on this saying, ‘Can’t see the forest for the trees’ -Allie’s Horoscope, March 12th
“You need a break,” Devon says to me over her laptop screen.
I take a quick scan aroundTurbine. “Seems like it’s about that time, doesn’t it?” Grabbing my latte from behind the counter, I sit down on the barstool next to Devon’s.
She holds her hands palm-side up and swivels on her stool. “No, you need a break fromTurbinein general.”
“Yeah, that won’t be happening,” I laugh.
Devon rolls her lips together, thinking before she responds, “It needs to.”
“Why, though?” I copy her earlier motion with my hands palm-side up, gesturing around me atTurbine. “I want to be here.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “When was the last time you went twenty-four hours without coming through these doors?”
“When was the last timeyoutook twenty-four hours off of work, Ms. Friday West Interiors?” Devon is the last person whoshould be lecturing me on work/life balance. “When was the last time you ignored an email or a text from a client?”
“I can’t ignore my clients.” Devon’s tone is unamused.
“You could let them wait for more than twenty minutes.”
“You know I’m trying to hire an assistant designer. After that, I can consider a day off.” Devon has been conducting interviews atTurbineall week since she hasn’t found an office yet, either. “Quit changing the subject.”
I try to glare, but it comes out more like a pout. “I like it here.”
“You haven’t answered my question. When was the last time you spent twenty-four hours away from this place?”
I consider it for a moment and can’t remember.Dammit.“I don’t know, Dev.” I wave my hand dismissively.
“You’re more thanTurbine.”
“Of course, I am.” I snap back, my tone more defensive than she deserves.
She isn’t fazed. “Name one thing you’re passionate about that isn’t this coffee shop.”
This shouldn’t be hard. I’m a passionate person. I’m passionate about lots of things.Except none of them are coming to mind at the moment for some reason.If I wasn’t on the spot, I’d have a long list of passions. Devon’s face gets a teensy bit smugger with every second that passes. I look down at the drink in my hand, and it comes to me.
