Phase (Phoebe Reede: The Untold Story #1) (8 page)

“Yeah. I know. I just hope when it happens that I’ll be able to figure out whether I can trust him.”

“You know what your problem is?” she asked a second later.

“What?”

“Your parents.”

I bristled at her words, and I had a hundred defences ready on my tongue. Maybe they could be overbearing and oppressive at times, but my parents were the best.

She laughed. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. It’s just that they’re this perfect couple. They’ve set the bar far too high for you. Given you unrealistic expectations.”

Her parents were the exact opposite. Without me and my parents there through her senior years at high school, her parents’ lessons would have taught her to fight hard, fuck hard, and hope that you made it out alive. Her mum was an example of what might have become of Dad if he hadn’t given up the alcohol for Mum and me—an empty husk of a human, able to walk and talk, but not feel or love.

“Maybe,” I conceded Angel’s point, “but that doesn’t mean I want to be some pussy for hire down at the local track either.”

“My dear, I pity anyone who tries to use you as a pussy for hire.”

THE JOURNEY over the Pacific was pretty uneventful. Angel and I watched a few movies, including laughing along together at the ridiculous plot of some cheesy romance movie, and then we tried to get some sleep. She found it easier than I did because of the tablets she washed down. Between Dad’s stories, the amount of medication I’d been on over the years, and wanting to be careful with my brother’s gift, I wasn’t overly keen on using any medicinal sleeping aid. I had some in my bag just in case, but I was content to close my eyes and listen to the music on my phone instead.

When we landed in LA, it was early that same morning; four hours before we’d taken off, in fact.

“Look at us,” Angel said with a laugh as we waited by the baggage carousel. “Put us together long enough and we can achieve anything. Even time travel.”

An hour later, we’d fought our way through the terminal with our baggage and headed to find a taxi to take us to our first destination—the one place we would be together during the trip, at least until New York and the flights back home.

The first part of our trip was a gift from my parents actually—a week-long stay at Disneyland. I think it was Dad’s way of reminding me that even though I was out of the country on my own, I was still his little girl.

And always would be.

“SO GIRLIE, are you enjoying the freedom of the trip so far?”

I chuckled. “It’s been all of . . .” I glanced at the clock on the bedside table of the hotel. “Seven hours, Angel. I think I need a little more time to decide whether I enjoy my freedom.”

All we’d managed to achieve so far was a taxi ride to the hotel, a shower each, getting some food—in the form of Mickey Mouse shaped waffles from the themed restaurant downstairs—and settling into our hotel room. That included an argument over who would take which of the two queen-size beds. We managed to settle it by agreeing to share the one we both wanted—the one closest to the window.

She threw herself onto the bed, rested her hands behind her head, and crossed her legs at the ankles. “Well, I have to admit it was nice not having everyone flock around us, chasing a piece of the great Phoebe Reede.”

She winked, no doubt trying to temper her words and show me she wasn’t completely serious. Still, there was enough truth in her statement to cause my stomach to twist with excitement. There hadn’t anyone here asking about Dad, trying to get my autograph, or expect anything of me. It was refreshing.

I climbed onto the bed and curled in beside Angel, tucking my head against her shoulder. “You know what, my Angel. 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 whether I needed to use the country code or not. After I pushed in the number I’d been given, I hoped for the best.

When he answered, I explained what had happened. He apologised, telling me he’d only got the bike a few weeks ago and hadn’t worked on it. That he was just flipping it because he didn’t have the money or time to do it properly. It was probably exactly the reason had Flynn grabbed it, but it meant I was stuck with a bike that was utterly fucking useless.

There wasn’t much I could do but wait until Henry came to tow me and the bike back to his shop—and then hope that it wasn’t anything too serious.

When he turned up, he was still genuinely apologetic. Not that it was his fault really, he was just doing what a hundred other dealers did when they found a semi-decent barn find. It was a risk I’d known could eventuate, even if I’d been hoping for the best.

“I’ve got other bikes,” he said on the second day. “You can take one of them if you like? Bring it back after you finish your trip.”

“Nah, Uncle Flynn has this beast booked on a ship in New York the day after I fly out, so I really need to get it fixed.”

“Okay, let me know what I can do to help.”

I nodded, secretly hoping the fix would be something small. The last thing I needed was to waste most of my trip on repairs. Especially when I had a few things booked for later.

I’D HAD my bike for almost two weeks but still hadn’t done any cross-country travelling yet. The damned thing had needed more work than any of us had known, so I’d spent the better part of the last ten days working on it at Henry’s garage. Every time I’d diagnosed and fixed one problem, another would crop up.

At least Henry was a good sort. He let me camp up in the corner and use whatever tools I needed. He’d even gone so far as to order the parts in for me at cost and let me sleep in the sleep-out upstairs.

Of course, working in the shed left me open to a constant flow of pickup lines from his team of helpers. Each of the attempts consisted of just two unoriginal thoughts. The first was linked to me coming from “down under” and then discussing either their down under or mine, and the second comprised entirely of offers to use their “tools” to help “tune my engine.”

Suffice to say none of them won my heart or a date. In fact, all their stream of catcalls earned them was my ire. I was already irritated enough because my limited days were ticking away and I hadn’t even seen any other states.

When I got the word that the new clutch cable had arrived, on my birthday of all days, I was over the fucking moon. It was the last thing—the last piece of the puzzle. Almost every other component of the engine had been stripped down and machined, replaced, or cleaned to within an inch of its life before being ready to return to its rightful position. For some bizarre reason, the clutch cable had been the hardest thing to find.

I was in the middle of fitting it and putting the finishing touches on the bike, bopping and singing along to a song on the radio—one of my favourite songs by a slightly obscure punk rock band, Robbin’ Blind—when Mike, one of the panel beaters, approached me.

“You like this song?”

I grinned. “Yeah, it’s one of my favourites of theirs. Although ‘Take It All’ probably tops the list.”

“You know they’re playing tonight at Barb’s Shack, don’t you? It’s just a few miles up the road in the hills.”

“No way!” I wiped my grease-coated hands on a nearby rag.

He grinned at my enthusiasm. “Yeah. I don’t suppose you want to go?”

Is this his way of asking me on a date?
My excitement dipped a little and I watched him as I said, “I guess. I mean, I’d love to see them live.”

“They’re so good.”

The fact that he wasn’t pushing me for an answer left me a little less suspicious. “You’ve seen them before?”

“Yeah, they play at Barb’s all the time.”

“That’s awesome. Maybe it was fate that the bike was so jacked up.”

“So you wanna go?”

“Yeah!” It was impossible to contain my enthusiasm because I was finally old enough to go out to the sort of places those bands tended to play—ones with liquor flowing freely and an age limit of eighteen.

Then it hit me like a Mack truck. The drinking age was twenty-one in the States. Did that mean that I would be so close to seeing Robbin’ Blind and not be able to see them?

“Wait,” I added. “It’s not a nightclub is it? What I mean is, does it matter if I’m not twenty-one yet?”

“Nah, they keep the restaurant open, so it’s all good. You just won’t get a wristband, that’s all.”

“Well, count me in!”

“Good, I’ll tell Brittany we’ve got one more for the night, she’ll be thrilled. There aren’t too many Robbin’ Blind fans around these parts.”

“Brittany?”

“Yeah, uh, my girlfriend.”

“Oh.” I was actually a little relieved that it wasn’t a date. I hadn’t come to the States looking for love any more than I’d come to spend two weeks in a garage fixing a bike.

“You didn’t think it was a date, did you?”

“No. Of course not,” I lied as smoothly as I could, although I could feel the heat rising up my cheeks.

“Uh, aren’t you into girls anyway?”

My eyes flared at his words. Was he really suggesting . . .?

“Why? Because I can fix and tune a bike?” With the wrench gripped tightly in my hand I pointed at my accomplishment. Without thinking, I advanced on him and poked him in the chest. “I can’t get grease under my nails and still like guys? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No. I didn’t mean that.”

“Funny, because that’s exactly what it sounded like you meant.”

“I just prefer girls who are into having make-up on their face rather than grease.” He pointed to a spot on my cheek, which was no doubt coated with the grease and grime that came with working in the shop. “Most guys are.”

“I’m not feminine enough, is that it?”

He held his hands up in surrender.

I shook my head as I threw the wrench back into the toolbox. I should have expected it really.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s been a blast having you around the shop.”

For every guy who turned into a head-to-toe hard-on watching me around an engine, there were at least two who thought I had to be a lesbian just because I liked getting in the thick of it. As though getting dirty were somehow linked to sexuality.

“Whatever. I’m kinda glad it’s nothing more. The last thing I need is any potential for attachments on this trip.”

“We cool then?”

I shook off the irritation. It had pissed me off when I thought he wanted a date, so it would be hypocritical of me to be annoyed that he didn’t. “Yeah, we’re cool. What time should I get there tonight?”

“I can pick you up if you like?”

What a ridiculous suggestion!
“Are you kidding me? You said it’s up in the hills, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

I glanced pointedly at my bike. “Do you honestly think I’m going to miss the chance at letting her stretch her legs a little before we take off together?”

He chuckled. “Okay, okay,” he relented, before giving me directions. “Be there at seven.”

“Awesome. Thank you for the invite.” As I finished up the last touches on my bike, including cleaning up her bodywork as best as I could, I thought about the fact that the night would mark the real start to my trip.

I couldn’t wait.