CHAPTER 1
LARK
This is a bad decision, isn’t it?I wonder as I gaze up at the plain white façade of the dealership. The squat one-story building is bathed in fading sunlight, glowing an eerie purple.
Absolutely. It’s one of the stupidest choices you’ve made, which is impressive, considering your track record.
I clench my jaw and shove her voice out of my mind.
She’s not here. She doesn’t get to control my life anymore. Coming here tonight was a rare impulse decision. I’ve been waffling over getting my own motorcycle for a month now, still not feeling confident I have the necessary skills.
Nervously smoothing my hand over my black leather jacket and my matching jeans, I try to fortify myself to walk inside. It’s just a motorcycle dealership, not the gates to Hell. The worst that could happen is that the salespeople are assholes, and I walk out without buying a bike. There are countless dealerships in Willow Bend if this doesn’t work out.
Willow Bend is a midsize town close to the Atlantic. Like other southern cities, Willow Bend is chock-full of historic architecture and quaint streets lined with towering oaks andflowering shrubs. Other than the river cutting through the edge of the city, Willow Bend is average, which is a plus in my book.
Thanks to the perpetual heat and humidity here, I’m already sweating under my leather jacket. Standing out here like an idiot isn’t solving anything.
Blowing out a harsh breath and squaring my shoulders, I decide to just get it over with.
The ten feet I walk across the cracked pavement to the dealership feel like an eternity. By the time I reach the door, I have to readjust my grip on my helmet chin strap because my hands are clammy from nerves.
Pulling the door open, I’m smacked in the face with a blast of cold air. A bell tinkles over the door as I walk inside.
My gaze takes in the shiny white tiles, jarring fluorescent lights, and brightly colored motorcycles packed into every possible inch before landing on the two desks to the right of the door.
Behind the plain beige desks are two men who stare at me like I’m prey. One man is lanky with shoulder-length, greasy brown hair and matching brown eyes. The other man is short, balding, and has a rounded gut.
From their predatory smiles and beady eyes, I’d guess they were shifters. But I can tell from their scent that they’re just regular humans. Sleazy humans, but regular and magicless, nonetheless.
Unbeknownst to the humans that dominate the planet, supernaturals exist. We supernaturals are actually the originals. Every living organism used to be able to draw raw magic from the Earth’s core and shape it in some way. Mages shape magic into spells, fae create illusions and bargains with magic, shifters like me change forms with the help of magic, and so on for the other supernatural species.
Humans far outnumber supernaturals and would freak out if they ever learned about magic. So magic users tend to keep to themselves and live in supernatural towns.
The distinct lack of supernaturals is part of why I moved to Willow Bend. It’s refreshingly devoid of any large packs, unlike Oakridge Park, where I spent the first twenty-four years of my life.
Thoughts of my old life and everything I lost try to creep in, but I push them back into the dark pit in my mind where they belong.
Biting the inside of my cheek to anchor me to the present, I shake my head slightly and focus on the two men staring at me. I smile brightly to distract from the sorrow that’s constantly swimming in my deep green eyes these days.
“Hi. I’m here to buy a bike.” I cringe internally at stating the obvious. Why else would I be at the dealership? To buy a llama or take an underwater basket-weaving class?
Fortunately, the man with the longer hair doesn’t give me time to overthink it too much. He wanders over to me, stopping uncomfortably close. According to the dingy tag fastened to the pocket of his blue-and-white checked shirt, his name is Dave.
He roves his muddy brown eyes up and down my frame before looking behind me. Flicking his eyes back to my face, he flashes me a slimy smile. “Don’t you think we should wait for your boyfriend, sweet cheeks? It is his bike and his money, after all.”
My jaw drops at his audacity.
I’m not here to help someone else find a street bike. I’m here for me—to do something I actually want for a change.
And after what happened with the last one, I’ve sworn off men. Probably forever.
Rather than call him out on his comment or put him in his place, I do what I always do: Ignore it for the sake of preserving a peace I don’t even want.
Grinding my teeth until my jaw aches, I’m able to stuff down the frustration and paste a placid smile on my face. “I don’t have a boyfriend. I’m buying a bike for me.”
With my own money I made from my own business I started by myself, you half-functional coatrack.
Sometimes I hate how well I’m able to pretend I don’t hate someone. Because I hate Dave. A lot.
