Sarah Mayberry - She's Got It Bad

He discussed options and solutions with his chief designer and lead fabricator, Vinnie. He wrangled suppliers. He put a rocket up one of the assembly teams to ensure they kept to schedule. At a quarter to seven, he shrugged into his leather jacket and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Vinnie asked in surprise. It was a rare day when Liam wasn’t the last one to leave the workshop.

“There’s something I have to do.”

“I need to talk to you about this biker build-off comp. You still want to enter?”

Vinnie sounded doubtful. Liam gave him a cuff on the shoulder.

“I know it’ll be a pain in the ass, but we have to keep pushing the PR.”

Vinnie’s disgust showed on his face. “What a load of BS. Why can’t we just make great bikes like we always have? That’s how we got to where we are today.”

“Don’t you listen to the marketing eggheads? We’re building a brand now, my friend,” Liam said on his way out the door. “I’ll sort out our entry first thing tomorrow. Make sure you reserve time in the production schedule so we can give it our best.”

He palmed his car keys as he crossed the parking lot. Masters Mechanics had taken on a life of its own over the past three years. Through word of mouth they’d doubled, then tripled in size. Turnover was in the millions. He had more than thirty staff working for him, including a marketing manager. The days of simply shutting himself in the workshop and bending metal until it looked good to him were over. He had responsibilities, commitments. And—even though it had always felt like a dirty word, given his background—ambitions. Not world domination, but definitely he wanted Masters Mechanics to be the go-to shop for custom motorbikes across Australia and New Zealand. Definitely.

The V8 engine of his vintage Mustang burbled to life as he turned the key in the ignition. He took the tollway across town to save time and was pulling up in front of the Blue Rose at a quarter to eight. The lights shone inside and he could see Zoe talking to a couple of customers at the front counter. Good. She hadn’t gone home. He’d taken note of the parlor’s opening hours when she’d kicked him out and taken a punt that she’d be working till close at eight. If she hadn’t been here, he would have simply come back another time.

He watched her for a moment, the way she propped her hip against the counter, the way she tilted her head back and shook it to draw her hair away from her face. He’d wait until the customers left then go in to talk to her again. Try to keep things calmer this time, not get her back up. He winced every time he remembered asking her what had gone wrong. Zoe had always been proud. No surprise that she’d cut up at him.

But he needed to let her know that if she needed help, he was there to give it. It was the least he owed her and her family.

He smiled humorlessly. Yeah, he was a real freaking saint. Pity he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about that painting, about those shadows between her thighs, about the wealth of breast spilling over the top of her tank top even now as she leaned an elbow on the counter and sketched a design on a piece of paper. Her two potential clients were no doubt copping a decent eyeful. Probably thought all their Christmases had come at once. He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

It was nearly eight when the two men exited the parlor. He watched them break into laughter the moment they were outside, slapping each other on the back. One of them looked back over his shoulder at Zoe, and Liam knew without a doubt that they were talking about her, about what they’d like to do to her if they were lucky enough to get her naked.

The car door was open before he could think twice. He crossed the road, hands curled into fists. At close quarters, he could see they were young, barely old enough to drive. He stopped in his tracks and let them walk away, still laughing. He forced his hands to relax.

He’d almost lost it there for a minute. What the hell was wrong with him?

He took a deep, rib-expanding breath, then let it out slowly. He prided himself on the fact that it had been many, many years since he’d thrown a punch in anger. For a bunch of other reasons, sure, but never because impulse urged him to. It was one of the abiding tenets of his life—never lose control. That, and his determination to remain single.

He turned his focus back to the tattoo parlor and strode to the front door. He frowned when the handle refused to give beneath his hand. Shit. She’d shut up for the night while he was wasting time on the sidewalk. His guess was confirmed as the lights were switched off.

Fine. He’d come back tomorrow. He made his way back to his car and was about to pull away from the curb when a seen-better-days Subaru WRX drove past, Zoe behind the wheel.

He fell in behind her automatically. He already knew she had an unlisted telephone number and address. At least if he followed her home, he’d know where she lived.

LIAM TRAILED ZOE through the night-dark city for twenty minutes until they were driving through the graffiti-covered streets of North Melbourne. He almost gave himself away by braking sharply when she pulled over to the curb without indicating. He pulled over when he found a parking spot half a block up. He twisted in his seat to watch as she exited her car.

She was carrying a gym bag and walking with purpose, her long legs eating up the sidewalk as she approached the front door to a nightclub.

Not going home, then. He watched the entrance for five minutes, but she didn’t come out. He shrugged and exited his car. He’d talk to her in there. The venue didn’t matter, what he had to say—and offer—did.

He locked the Mustang and walked toward the club. A big guy in a tight black T-shirt blocked the entrance, arms crossed over his chest. Liam glanced at the club name—Thrashed—before eyeing the bouncer in front of him. The guy eyed him back for a long beat before moving aside. Liam passed through into a small foyer. Loud music leaked out from the club proper and he paid a ten-dollar cover charge to the guy behind the counter.

He pushed through double swing doors to find himself in a dimly lit space dotted with tables and chairs, one wall all bar, the opposite wall a stage. It was early and there were only a handful of people at the tables. Zoe wasn’t one of them.

He scanned the bar, but she wasn’t there, either. Where the hell was she? He waited ten minutes to see if she’d gone to the bathroom, then walked outside to make sure her car was still in the street. It was.

He returned to the club and bought a beer. Over the next twenty minutes, the club slowly filled. And still Zoe hadn’t appeared. The loud music was getting on his nerves by then and he decided to call it quits and look Zoe up again tomorrow. After all, she’d survived twelve years without him. She’d survive one more night.

He was shouldering his way to the exit when the lights flashed and the audience began to clap and whistle. The room dimmed and the stage lights came up as a band sauntered onto the stage: a drummer with long stringy hair and too many piercings; a bass guitarist with big biceps and the crookedest nose Liam had ever seen; and a lead guitarist in tight leather with a bare chest. His guitar slung across his shoulder, the lead guitarist leaned in toward the mike stand.

“Yo! We’re Sugar Cane and you know what you got to do, people. Tell Vixen how much you want her!” he hollered.

The crowd went nuts. Screaming, whistling, stomping their feet. Liam turned toward the exit, glad to be leaving before his eardrums started bleeding.

“Relax, boys and girls. Vixen is more than ready to come out and play,” a sultry female voice said.