Free Phase (Phoebe Reede: The Untold Story #1) by Michelle Irwin

You’re right. And I think I’m going to have the time of my life while we’re here.”
     
    AFTER THE week at Disneyland, where Angel and I ate far too much crap, rode on far too many rides, and just generally enjoyed our time together, I left her to her own devices while I flew to Sacramento to pick up the bike Flynn had arranged for me.
    I was going to be collecting and paying for it and then shipping it home at the end of the trip so Flynn could fix it up and sell it off for a decent markup. It was one good thing about the business Flynn and his brother, Cain, owned together—a smash repairer that was always well recommended—they had car and bike enthusiast contacts all over the world. They’d both done it plenty of times before, always with a profit. It was my first time being involved, and I was just giving his latest find a slight detour on the way home.
    When I arrived at Flynn’s friend’s house, and he led me around to the shed, a tragic sight greeted me: a 1979 Honda CB750K that someone had left to rot. Probably in the back of a shed somewhere, or worse—out in the open in a paddock.
    What a goddamned waste.
    As I took my time to examine her, running my hands over the neglected contours of her body, I could see why Flynn was interested. Underneath the dust and surface rust was an absolute beauty.
    “Does she run?” I asked Flynn’s contact, Henry.
    “We had it going earlier. It definitely needs a bit of TLC though.”
    He tossed me the key, and I stuck it in the ignition, ready to start the bike. After a couple of spluttering attempts, she kicked into life. “So long as it can get me where I need to go, that’s all that matters I guess.”
    “Where are you headed?”
    “I’m not really sure yet,” I said with a laugh. “But I’m due to meet a friend in New York in a little over a month and have a few things I want to check out on the way there.”
    We talked a little while about some of the better roads for riding before I handed over the money and grabbed the receipt. It meant half of my physical cash spending money was gone because I could only bring so much into the country, but I had my debit card to top up my funds if I needed to. And worst-case scenario, if I tore through the money in that account, I’d just have to call Mum and Dad in a few weeks and tell them I was having too good a time. I’d get a lecture about being more responsible with money but then they’d help me out. They always did.
    Once the transaction was finished, I redistributed what I could among the storage on the bike and strapped my half-empty bag to the sissy bar. Then I started her up and took off.
    Completely free and unaccounted for, for the first time in my life.

 
     
     
    “YOU’VE GOT TO be kidding me!” I dropped the kickstand and climbed off the bike.
    I’d made it all of twenty miles before the bike had spluttered, choked, and died.
    At the side of the road, I tried some basic diagnostics, but through the dirt and caked-on grease, it was too hard to tell exactly what was causing the engine to stall. I should have known better than to try taking the bike out for a good run without cleaning it up first.
    I tried the engine again; it burbled to life, and my hope soared, only to fall again less than a minute later when it spluttered once, coughed twice, and died again.
    Fuck .
    I had very few choices. I could either return to Henry’s and beg the use of his garage for a few days to get the parts, or try to find alternate transportation across the country. Either one would take time and money. I’d have to have a word with Flynn about checking out the ride-ability of bikes before sending people off to collect them for him.
    Grabbing my phone, I dug out the number I had for Henry. As I pressed the buttons, I could only presume I was dialling it right. I’d set my mobile to international roaming at Dad’s insistence. Seeing as though he was footing the bill, I didn’t mind. I just couldn’t remember