The proactive decision cheered Alec up as he pulled on his clothes. Today he’d spend some quality one-on-one time with his recent purchase. No harm in practicing kick starting the Harley before Tyler dropped by.
Alec punched Tyler’s name on speed dial with more force than necessary, hoping against hope that Tyler would answer.
Or not.
“Hello?” Tyler said.
Alec’s chest filled with molten lead. “Good morning, Tyler.”
“Alec.”
There was an awkward pause as Alec relived the first time they’d met, during a medical conference in Hawaii. With Tyler’s interest in treating HIV in indigent populations and Alec’s additional training in street medicine, pairing up to create the Front Street Clinic to achieve their long-term goals had only made sense. Both personally and professionally. Now that the personal had ended the professional had just gotten ridiculously hard.
Christ, no more work relationships. Ever.
“Noah told me you bought a motorcycle,” Tyler said.
Alec closed his eyes. Damn Noah and his big mouth.
“I did,” Alec said. “I’m calling about the boxes you left in the garage. I thought you could swing by and pick them up tomorrow evening.”
So far so good. He’d even managed a nonchalant tone.
“Can’t,” Tyler said. “I have plans.”
Great. Now what? A bead of water ran down Alec’s forehead, and he swiped at the drop. While Alec was trying to decide what to say next, Tyler went on.
“But I can come by today,” his ex said.
Alec bit back the word no, but now that he’d set the strategy in motion, he didn’t see a graceful way out. “Today’s fine.”
Today sucked.
Tyler said, “I understand if you’re too busy.”
“I can carve out a few minutes,” Alec said. “What time this afternoon?”
At least Alec would have the morning to—
“I’ll be there in an hour,” Tyler said.
An hour? Perfect.
That left Alec just enough time to panic.
Chapter Two
“I can’t get it—her—started.”
The frustration in Alec Johnson’s voice came across the phone loud and clear, and Dylan bit back a groan as, wearily, he raked a hand through his hair.
Hungry, tired, and up to his eyeballs in work, he didn’t have time for Dr. Clueless today. What Dylan did have was a broken air compressor to fix, a tune-up to complete, and a meeting with Noah to discuss the details of the Fifth Annual Vintage Memorial Poker Run in memory of Rick. Dylan’s chest gave a painful twitch.
Five years. His best friend had been dead for five years.
Dylan shook his head to chase away the thoughts. If Rick were alive today, he’d be laughing his ass off at the doctor’s screwed-up situation of his own making. Of course, being the proverbial softie, Rick also would have been the first to help Alec out.
“Have you even owned a motorcycle before?” Dylan asked.
The pause was telling.
“I had a dirt bike when I was a teen,” Alec said.
Dylan rolled his eyes. Figured. Most likely the Harley would wind up parked in Alec’s garage, unused. Left to fall into disrepair. What a waste. At least Alec hadn’t purchased a crotch rocket and gone out and gotten himself killed on his first day.
Alec went on. “I know you don’t have time for lessons, Mr. Booth—”
“Dylan.”
“Dylan,” Alec repeated. “But I wondered if you could stop by my place and help me get her started.”
Was this guy for real? Wasn’t adjusting the carburetor enough?
“I’m not a doctor,” Dylan said. “I don’t make house calls.”
“I know,” Alec said. “But my ex is dropping by today. And I’d really appreciate you making an exception, despite my…dumb-ass decision.”
Dylan gripped his phone, refusing to let the sincere words and hint of self-deprecating humor change his mind.
But Noah had sent the doctor to Dylan for help, and Dylan owed Noah big time. And despite his friend’s flippant attitude, Dylan knew the man had nothing but total respect for Alec’s work with the homeless.
The homeless, for fuck’s sake.
Dylan closed his eyes. From the ages of fifteen to eighteen, he’d lived on the streets, every day a fight to survive, his only “family” being Rick. They’d stuck close together. Looked out for one another. With Rick’s tendency to get sick and Dylan’s propensity to get into injury-producing fights… Jesus, they could have used the services of someone like Dr. Alec Johnson.
Dylan reached for his keys. “Give me your address.”
Ten minutes later he was motoring down the road on his favorite motorcycle, an Indian Blackhawk. As he turned off of Sloat Boulevard and onto Highway 1, he considered turning around. When he entered Alec’s family-friendly neighborhood, the urge grew stronger. Why had he agreed to this?
Just get the motorcycle started and then get back to your massively growing to-do list.
Alec’s well maintained home had been meticulously restored, like the rest of the 1920s-era houses that lined the street. The Mediterranean style residence had large bay windows, a brick driveway, and a beautiful yard, a nice combination. Kinda homey, if one was into that kind of thing.