Chapter One
My phone buzzes on the desk, and I lift it to seeTuckerbefore putting it back, face down beside me.
The door from the shop opens, and JT steps in, taking up the entire opening before slapping down the plastic sleeve with keys in it on the desk.
My brows pinch when I lift it, and I whine, “No. You have to check him out this time. I can’t!”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No. He’s a weirdo. J, he bought me dead lady perfume.”
He scowls. “What?”
“Nothing, don’t worry about it. Just do me this one favor, pretty please.” Clasping my hands in front of me, I bat my lashes and add, “I’ll owe you one.”
He groans but moves behind the desk as Mr. Watson approaches the glass door.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I say, scrambling through the door to the back.
It just barely closes when the bell chimes in the waiting area.
It’s a little pathetic to be hiding from a customer at my job, but this guy really gives me the heebie jeebies.
I didn’t think anything of him at first. But he always tells me how much my copper strands remind him of his dead wife. Then, he bought me a bottle of her favorite perfume for Christmas.
Talk about creepy.
I promptly regifted it. Let someone else smell like the dead lady.
Standing with my ear pressed to the door between the shop and the clubhouse, I listen as JT checks him out before saying, “Have a happy New Year.”
The bell above the door dings again.
Thank God!
I’ve got about a hundred things to do before this party tonight.
JT’s already headed back to the garage as I enter into the waiting area again.
“Thanks again!” I shout just as the swinging door snaps closed.
After closing the appointment book on the old beat-up desk, I slip it into the drawer.
I think I could close this place up with my eyes shut as long as I’ve been working here.
Today was nuts.
It always is this time of year between being closed on Christmas and again tomorrow for New Years Day. Normally, I’d be exhausted, but instead, anticipation thrums under my skin.
My boots tap against the black-and-white tile as I scurry across the waiting room to the front door. Turning the lock, I stare through the white Ravens Ridge Auto lettering into the parking lot.
Taillights shine in the darkness as Mr. Watson drives away with his four brand-new tires. That’s the third time he’s had it in the shop in the last couple of months.
The light above the garage flickers, and I make a mental note to tell one of the boys to change it before turning back to the counter. After picking up the remote to the television in the corner, I push the button three times, then smack it on my hand, before it finally turns off. The damn thing’s a piece of shit. Honestly, no one really watches it anyway nowadays. They just scroll on their phones. We could probably just get rid of the stupid thing, but it’s one of those things that’salways been here.
I toss the remote down on the desk, then kick off the lights before heading through the swinging metal door and into the back of the shop where the clubhouse is.
When I moved here with my mom during my freshman year of high school, everyone in town warned me to stay away from the Ravens Ridge Riders. They said the Riders were dangerous, and wherever they go, death and mayhem follow.