Free Make Mine a Bad Boy by Katie Lane Page A

cook sure knew her way around a kitchen, but comfort didn’t compare to freedom. Which was why, before Shirlene rolled out of bed on Tuesday morning, he stole the keys to the Navigator and headed out on his own.
    On the way into town, he made a few calls on his cell phone, a phone Shirlene had retrieved from the leather bags on his bike, along with his aviators and extra clothes. He wasn’t much of a talker, so the calls only lasted a few minutes. Just long enough to make sure things were going smoothly back at his custom motorcycle shop in L.A.
    Colt had started Desperado Customs six years earlier in an old, abandoned warehouse. With his ability to hand-form sheet metal into unparalleled designs, wealthy customers had quickly lined up to own the hottest bikes on the street. His talented group of designers and mechanics didn’t build a lot of motorcycles, but the motorcycles they built were unique enough to attract a huge cult following.The majority of his followers couldn’t afford his bikes, but they were more than willing to shell out twenty bucks for a T-shirt or twelve for a ball cap. He made as much selling that crap as he did selling his motorcycles.
    After checking in with the shop, he fiddled with the radio until he found a station that played soft rock, which was about as far from country as he was going to get in this neck of the woods. He was singing along with a Bob Seger tune when he drove past Bramble High School.
    The school was small and looked even smaller compared to the huge football stadium next to it—a tribute to the town’s dedication to the sport. Colt hadn’t played football. Not because he hadn’t wanted to, but because school and work didn’t leave room for much else. But, occasionally, he would sneak into the games after he finished working at Josephine’s, to watch Slate Calhoun throw winning touchdown passes while Hope cheered him on with high kicks and straddles.
    It was after those games that he got into the most trouble.
    Up ahead, the faded and chipped sign of Jones’ Garage stuck out like a sore thumb against the gray skies, and Colt lifted his foot off the accelerator.
    “Hey, Colt,” Tyler met him as he stepped from the SUV. “I see you got some proper boots.”
    Colt looked down at the black lizard cowboy boots he’d purchased in Lubbock; a foolish whim egged on by a sassy sister. Luckily, he’d drawn a line at the snap-down plaid western shirt.
    “Yeah, well, you know how it goes.” He placed his hands on his hips and stared over at the garage, a garage he knew like the inside of a carburetor. “So I guess if Iwas to wander around a bit, I just might run into a custom bike.”
    Tyler grinned as he took the cap off the gas tank. “You might. But I sure hope you don’t.”
    Colt arched an eyebrow. “I thought we were friends, T-bone.”
    “Sure are.” He lifted the nozzle and slipped it in. “Which is why I hope you stick around for a while.”
    “And you and Shirl are about the only ones who feel that way.”
    Tyler spit out a stream of tobacco before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “And whose fault is that? I’ve never seen anyone work so hard to make folks dislike him.”
    “I didn’t have to try all that hard.”
    “Nope.” Tyler leaned against the side of the Navigator and crossed his arms while the tank filled. “You just had to be your obstinate self. If the town said white, you said black. Couple that with spending most of your free time bullying the town sweetheart, and that about did it.” He returned his attention to the pump. “It was your choice, buddy. Always your choice.”
    Had it been? Funny, but it hadn’t seemed that way so many years ago, when he was forced to scrap for everything he got. Growing up, he’d always thought it was the town that held him back, the town that kept him from being what he wanted to be. But he wondered if Tyler wasn’t right. Maybe it hadn’t been the town that held him back as much as his own