LEXIE
Monday morning my bike wouldn't start. I stood in the lot for a good five minutes trying everything I knew, which admittedly wasn't much beyond turning the key and hoping, before I accepted defeat and went back inside.
Chaos was at the bar with his coffee. He looked up when I came in with my helmet still under my arm and my expression clearly saying something had gone wrong.
"Bike's dead," I said.
"Crow just serviced it," he said.
"Crow's excellent work notwithstanding, she is not starting."
He set his mug down. "I'll drive you."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know," he said, which was becoming his standard response to that particular sentence and which I had stopped arguing with weeks ago.
The truck smelled like coffee and leather and something faintly like engine oil that
