“You can maybe trust me for once.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Maybe because I don’t treat you and your asshole friends like they’re hot garbage after all the shit you’ve put me through.”
“I haven’t been that bad,” he protests.
“No, you aren’t the worst. If Brett came here with his bike looking like this, I would laugh in his face and not give a shit if he tried to run me over again.”
Shane glances away.
I step up to his bike to get a better look at it. A chunk of metal from the frame is digging into the back wheel. It’s not going to be easy to try to dislodge it, but it looks smooth enough on the edge that maybe, just maybe, the tire might be salvageable.
Although he doesn’t give me permission, I start to work around Shane. Since I was officially hired, Max gave me a small tool belt that is very handy. When I pat my belt and reach for a tool I don’t have, Shane grunts.
“What do you need?”
“A long-handled wrench and pliers.”
“Fucking pliers,” he mutters, but he gets me what I need.
In between working on his bike, I glance over at Shane. “How did this happen?”
He sets his jaw and looks away.
I'm guessing the damage is self-inflicted. He caused it, and he's hurting himself because of his mom. I can understand being self-destructive. In a way, my running away hadn't been in my best interest. I could've been a bit smarter about it, maybe. I definitely could've gotten myself more money if I had stuck around a little longer, but then I would've risked my father…
I shudder.
“What it is?” Shane asks.
“Just a chill.”
He snorts. “You aren’t cold.”
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, glancing at him.
“Because.” He walks around his bike so he can stare at me. “You’re sweating, for one thing.”
"It's hard work trying to salvage this hunk of junk," I tease. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm, disgusted to learn that he's right. I am sweating.
"And when you're cold or when you're horny, your nipples get all hard."
I gape at him. “When have you become an expert on my nipples? And I don’t think I’ve ever been horny in your presence.”
“Lie to yourself all you want.”
“Hmm. Is it better to lie to yourself or to keep everything bottled up inside?”
“Don’t try to act like a shrink with me.”
“Maybe I’m not referring to you.” I shrug one shoulder. “Or not just referring to you.”
“You mean the Mutineers?”
“Or maybe myself,” I admit softly.
I want him to open up to me. He clearly needs help, and I don't know if there's any help I can offer, outside of fixing his bike, that is. It's not going to be a quick, easy job, but I'll do it.