He’d gotten the idea of opening his own business when he stayed for a month and a half with his friend Sven in Iceland. He’d learned how Sven did his books, serviced bikes, took on pet projects like restorations, and moved a small number of new models. Though there would certainly be hiccups to being a new business owner, Cain had been reading up on small business ownership in Kentucky, and he felt ready to tackle a new future.
It felt strange to think of leaving the service after six such life-changing years, but Cain had enrolled in the active Reserves with a December 1 start date, which kept his leg in and meant he could still enjoy some of the perks of military life: medical insurance, training at a GI Bill–approved learning institution should he decide to seek out some technical courses, local commissary use, and a modest ancillary income relative to his retirement rank of seaman first class.
And sure, he’d still travel when the wanderlust bug bit him. He was dying to see the Pacific Ocean, a place he hadn’t been able to visit during his active service in the U.S. Sixth Fleet. Cain had seen a lot of the Eastern seaboard of the United States and the coasts of Africa and Europe, not to mention the harbor lights of the Mediterranean from the vantage point of a flight deck. But he’d never gotten to the Pacific. Being his own boss meant that, after Woodman’s wedding, Cain could close his garage for a few weeks, jump on his bike, and spend some time riding from Washington State to Baja.
For the first time in his life, he had a plan for himself that felt grounded in his interests but would still give him the freedom he needed when he craved it.
Fast approaching Lexington, he stepped on the gas, bypassing the exit that would take him north of the city to Apple Valley and continuing west toward the exit that would take him home. But of course his eyes tracked the exit, and his mind shifted seamlessly back to Ginger like a homing pigeon whose cage is gone but who can’t seem to find a new home.
Would it be awkward to see Ginger?
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” he snarled, looking back at the highway ahead.
As far as he was concerned, she was dead. She didn’t exist. And he certainly didn’t plan to spend any time near her. He’d never crush Woodman by relating the events of that terrible day three years ago, and if he couldn’t stand there with a cheerful fucking smile plastered on his face while Woodman said “I do,” he should have just said no to his cousin’s letter.
A promise is a promise, he thought ruefully, so he would show up at the Valley View Presbyterian Church and stand up next to his cousin as Woodman made the biggest mistake of his life. Mistake because Cain knew one thing for certain in his gut, and it burned like acid: Woodman, who’d been in love with her since childhood, deserved much better than fickle, faithless Ginger McHuid.
***
As he pulled his bike into the drive bay, Cain’s phone buzzed. He plucked it from his back pocket as he pulled off his helmet and swung his leg over the saddle.
JAW: What’s your ETA, cuz?
Cain grinned. Damn it, but he was looking forward to seeing Woodman again.
CW: Can be there tonight. You got plans?
No one, not even his cousin, knew that Cain had signed a lease in Versailles, and for the time being Cain wasn’t interested in sharing the news. He could just imagine his aunt Sophie’s disapproval when she discovered he was doing something as menial as opening a garage to service motorcycles. He wasn’t in the mood for anyone to piss on his dreams.
JAW: Firehouse dinner. BBQ. You still like ribs?
CW: Fuck yeah. What time?
Not only did Cain like ribs, but a firehouse dinner seemed like a safe bet for pulling off his reunion with Woodman while still managing to avoid Ginger. Besides, hanging out with a bunch of firemen sounded like a solid way to spend an evening—he was accustomed to the company of men, and he’d enjoyed enough * in Virginia that he didn’t feel the need to track down Mary-Louise Walker on his first night home.
JAW: Six o’clock.
CW: Aye, aye, shipmate.
Shoving his phone back into the hip pocket of his jeans, he pushed his sunglasses on top of his head, unzipped the pocket of his Kevlar jacket, and pulled a pair of keys from their depths. There was still a key fob that read “Versailles Realty,” but he’d get a new one soon enough that read “BMW” or “Harley-Davidson.” He shoved the key through the lock and twisted, a feeling of anticipation making his heart beat a little faster.
This place is mine. All mine. I’m not a worker here, like my dad was on McHuid Farm. I’m the owner. The boss.
He pushed the door open and stepped into the empty space, taking a deep breath that smelled of motor oil and fresh paint. The Realtor had arranged to have the floors painted a gleaming battleship gray for him, but Cain looked forward to doing any additional work himself. And hell, maybe he could even get his dad and Woodman to leave McHuid’s for a few hours and give him a hand . . . help him make Wolfram’s Motorcycles a success.