Asphalt Demons MC My Boyfriend Cheated, Now Four Want Me At The Same Time

POV — LEXI There are exactly two things in this world that never lie to me: engines and my gut. Engines, because a motor can't fake a knock. My gut, because it's been screaming at me since seven a.m. that today is going to be a big day. I figured it meant the birthday. Eighteen. Legal, official, certified adult with grease under her nails. Spoiler from future me: my gut wasn't talking about the birthday. "Lexi. You listening or communing with the carburetor again?" I pull my head out from under the tank of a matte-black beast and look up at its owner. Noah. Two meters of quiet muscle, arms like he bench-presses trucks for cardio, and the softest eyes in this whole gasoline-soaked town. He's leaning on my workbench, chewing on a toothpick, watching me work the way some guys watch football finals. "Your idle was floating," I say, wiping my hands on a rag that used to be a t-shirt in a past life. "Someone — not naming names, giant — has been feeding this baby cheap fuel." "Gas station on Route 9 was closer." "Route 9 is where motorcycles go to die, Noah. That place doesn't sell gas, it sells slow-acting poison." He huffs. From Noah that's basically a standing ovation. I hit the starter. The engine catches on the first try and settles into a purr so clean I could put it on a meditation playlist. This — this exact second — is my favorite thing in the world. A machine that came in coughing and leaves singing. If I could fix people the way I fix motors, I'd rule this town. "Perfect," Noah says. Then, without missing a beat: "Join the club." "And there it is." I toss the rag at his chest. He catches it without looking. "That's — what, attempt number ninety-eight?" "Hundred and three. I keep count." "Of course you do." "Best mechanic in the state. Eighteen today." He says it slow, like he's laying out parts on a clean towel. "You've got your own bike. You ride better than half the guys who wear patches. The Demons want you, Lexi. Have for a year." For one dangerous second, I let myself picture it. Me. A patch. A column of engines on a night highway, wind trying to rip the thoughts right out of my skull. I've dreamed about that since I was six years old, standing on a curb watching a club roll through town like thunder with wheels. Then I hear Dylan's voice in my head. *Bikers, Lex? Seriously? Those clubs are a cult with extra chrome. You're MY girl. My girl doesn't wear someone else's name on her back.* "I can't," I say. "Dylan—" "Dylan." Noah repeats the name the way you'd read a diagnosis. Not mean. Just... flat. Like a compression test that came back bad and he doesn't want to tell me. "Don't." "Didn't say anything." "You said it with your whole face." He puts a folded bill stack on my bench — too much, it's always too much, and arguing with Noah about money is like arguing with a wall that cooks — and swings a leg over his bike. Helmet in his hands, he looks at me one more time. "Happy birthday, Lexi. When you get tired of being small for someone —" he pulls the helmet on, voice going muffled, "— you know our gate." He rolls out, and the purr of MY work fades down the street. I stand there in the middle of my garage — my kingdom of oil stains and secondhand tools — and tell my gut to shut up. It doesn't. * * * *two hours, one shower, and one very optimistic pep talk later* Here's the plan, and yes, I'm blushing just thinking it: tonight I'm giving Dylan the one thing he hasn't gotten in three years of us. Me. All of me. Eighteen felt like the right line to cross it on — my rules, my timing, my choice. I even bought a dress. Me. A dress. The cashier looked at my boots and my dress and visibly rebooted. Dylan doesn't know I'm coming. His shift got cancelled — his buddy let it slip this morning — so I've got a bag with the dress, a cake box balanced on one arm, and a heart running about two thousand RPM over redline. I park my bike — Phoenix, the first thing I ever rebuilt from actual ashes — around the corner from his building. Kill the engine. The evening goes quiet. Almost quiet. * * * His building has exactly one working light in the stairwell, and it flickers like it's sending morse code. I climb to the second floor, cake box in both hands now, running lines in my head. *Surprise. Happy birthday to me. Hope you like the gift, it's — well, it's me.* God, that's terrible. I'll improvise. I'm three steps from his door when I hear it. A sound. My hands know before my brain does — the box dips, I catch it. That's... that's a voice. A woman's voice. Through the cheap door, high and breathy, and underneath it Dylan's voice, low, saying something I can't make out and absolutely do not need to, because the tone says everything. My legs carry me those last three steps anyway. Traitors. The door isn't even locked all the way. It drifts open an inch under my knuckles before I ever knock. And I see them. Dylan. My Dylan. Three years of my Dylan. And under him, blonde hair spread across HIS pillow, is my sister. Chloe. The girl he swore he couldn't stand. "Your sister's exhausting, Lex." "Your sister's fake, Lex." *Your sister, Lex,* currently digging her nails into his back. The cake box hits the floor. Neither of them hears it. Of course they don't. I don't scream. That's the weird part. Some fuse inside me just — pops. Clean break. No spark. I walk down the stairs on legs I can't feel, past the flickering light, out into air that tastes like copper. Phoenix waits around the corner, patient as always. The only one who waited. I pull out my phone. My fingers are shaking so hard I miss the contact twice. Third try, I find it. The number Noah made me save a year ago. *Asphalt Demons.* I press call.