Hearts Ablaze (Forged in the City Book 1)

  Hearts Ablaze

  Forged in the City

  A.D. Ellis

  A big thanks to Cliff!

  Contents

  1. Chasen Steele

  2. Alexander “Xan” Copperfield

  3. Chase

  4. Xander

  5. Chase

  6. Chase

  7. Chase

  8. Xan

  9. Chase

  10. Xan

  11. Chase

  12. Xan

  13. Chase

  14. Xan

  15. Chase

  16. Xan

  17. Chase

  18. Xan

  19. Chase

  20. Xan

  Epilogue

  Also by A.D. Ellis

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  1

  Chasen Steele

  Quack, quack.

  I watched as the noisy water fowl made their way toward me, hungry for the duck food I’d bought from the vendor. I soaked up the sun as I stood at the little pond in a park just off Massachusetts Avenue in Indianapolis.

  Fall in Indiana was gorgeous. Thanks to my time in the Army, I’d lived in quite a few locations, but I always felt like Indiana did fall best.

  I’d come to Indianapolis that day to look into jobs since my most recent place of employment had, once again, not worked out.

  Eight years in the Army had not worked out as planned. I’d planned to make it a career, be a lifer. I’d started as a grunt and worked my way up.

  And then I fucked up my knee. Medically discharged after a grade two ACL injury. I was able to avoid surgery, but the injury earned me a ticket out. Although, I did get a small monthly payment that at least helped with groceries and a couple bills.

  After recovering from the injury, I immediately began the hunt for a place to stay and a job. I lucked out with a somewhat decent apartment far south of Indianapolis. The roommate situation was tense, and likely wouldn’t end up being a long-term thing, but the rent was cheap and I landed a pretty good job fairly quickly. But that didn’t last.

  I was now out of a job for a third time thanks to companies going under, changing to remote work—which I wasn’t set up for in my current rental situation—and losing a position because I was the newest on staff. Last hired, first fired.

  So, I was in Indianapolis on a beautiful, breezy fall day looking for a job and decent place to live. Maybe school. The Army was paying for classes, but every time I got ready to register or start classes, I lost a job and had to worry about a new one and making rent. For the time being, school was getting pushed off at least a semester or two.

  “You gonna keep teasing those ducks or actually feed them?” A deep voice to my right startled me from my thoughts.

  I jerked my head to the right and found dark hair, dark eyes, and a smirk. Glancing down at my handful of duck food, I looked to the pond and saw the ducks were not so patiently swimming around and scolding me. “Shit, got lost in my own head, I guess. Sorry, ducks.” I tossed the food into the water for them and smiled slightly as they gobbled it up.

  “Pretty sure they get fed plenty, but I started to wonder if they were going to come nibble your shins if you didn’t give them their food.” He smiled as he crossed heavily tattooed arms in front of his black t-shirt covered chest. “Ducks can be mean.”

  “Nothing like the geese, though.” I shivered.

  “Geese are nasty motherfuckers,” the guy agreed with a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his dark eyes.

  I laughed. “I wonder how they keep the geese away from here? I’m surprised they haven’t overrun the ducks.”

  He shrugged. “Who knows. Don’t question it. I come here on work breaks sometimes, I do not want to have to deal with geese. No goose poop, no hissing, no chasing, no honking.”

  My ears perked up. “You work around here?”

  “Over at Whitfield’s Motorcycles Sales and Service.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction of his place of employment. “Just started there about six months ago. You looking for a job?”

  I sagged slightly. “Yeah, definitely looking. But I know next to nothing about motorcycles. I mean, I can drive one, but nothing about selling or fixing them.”

  “I think there’s quite a few places hiring around here if you’re not against manual labor or food service.” He seemed to empathize with my job hunt.

  “Fucked my knee up in the Army, can’t do a ton of heavy manual labor I used to be able to do, but I can do a fair share and I’m not against any kind of work at this point. If it pays my rent, I’m in.” I looked back at the ducks before turning to the man again. “You got a place around here?” When he nodded, I continued. “What’s the rent like?”

  He winced. “Well, I think my landlord lets me pay a little less than what he could probably get for the place. But the apartment is above the shop. It’s small, but it’s nice. I think most places run anywhere from about $550 to $1200, with the average around $1000.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’s about what I’ve been thinking. Guess I’ll need to nail down the job first, then figure out the living arrangement.”

  “Where you living now?”

  “Way down south of town. Rent is cheap, but so is the living space. And my roommate is kinda an ass.” Although, I should have been grateful he let me borrow his car. Speaking of which, I needed to finish my job search and get Todd’s car back to him. “Well, I better get going. Lots of applications to gather.”

  He pulled out his phone and checked it. “Yeah, I need to head back to work. Glad I was able to help the poor ducks survive you.” He winked before turning to leave.

  My heart fluttered.

  What the hell?

  My heart fluttered? From a guy I just met—didn’t even know his name—winking at me? I rolled my eyes and watched him walk away. What the hell was I doing? I hadn’t noticed a guy’s ass since high school, and I’d proven to be as shit out of luck in the romance department as the job department. Male or female didn’t matter. In my defense, I hadn’t done a lot of dating.

  I’d been on my own since I was eighteen. Before that, being attracted to girls—or that one guy in my Gym class—and dating had been awkward and distracting. After I left home and joined the Army, I really didn’t have the time for dating even if there had been interested parties.

  So why was I checking out a stranger’s ass? My sexuality wasn’t something I gave a lot of thought to. I’d spent so much time drowning at home, then enlisted and deployed, and now just trying to survive, that I didn’t have much left to give to a relationship.

  Did I find girls attractive? Sure.

  I frowned.

  Did I find guys attractive? I had to think about that for a moment. The guy in high school—who, at the time, I chalked up to looking up to an upper classman—maybe a couple of friends or acquaintances in the Army, and now this guy.

  So, yes.

  But it didn’t matter. I needed a job and a place to live. I needed to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life. I didn’t even know his name and we’d met at a park in a city of almost 900,000; I’d probably never see him again. So, finding him attractive, even if it meant kickstarting a bisexuality I’d pushed to the back of my mind, was a moot point.

  I was alone. I’d been alone since I was eighteen. Who was I kidding? I’d been alone for a long time before that. Thanks to a shitastic mother—who may have been dead by now for all I knew and cared—I had no family; at least no family who knew where I was. After being required to leave the Army, I didn’t have friends around. No job meant I didn’t have coworkers. All I had was a sketchy roommate w ho didn’t like me, and a rent payment that needed paid. I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed before reaching in my pocket. I had just enough change for a soda and one more serving of duck food. And then I had to go get more applications.

  I gave the greedy ducks the last few pieces of food before sipping the last of my soda and tossing it in the trashcan. I glanced around the park trying to get an idea of which direction I should head as my phone buzzed with a text.

  1-317-555-0102: This is Virginia South. I’m trying to reach Chasen Steele. If this is Chasen’s number, you’d know me best as Aunt Ginny. I have some very important information to share with you. Can you please reply and let me know if I’ve found the right number?

  I stared at the phone screen for what seemed like forever. Aunt Ginny? I’d loved her so much. She’d been the only family I had aside from my mother. Aunt Ginny—my mother’s much older sister—was a flight attendant nearing an early retirement when I was younger and she only came to town a few times a year. But, when she was around, Mom was nicer and we always had a good time. I often wanted to catch Aunt Ginny alone and tell her about the shit Mom did, but then I’d feel guilty about putting her in the middle of it. Sometimes I wondered how my aunt didn’t recognize that Mom treated me like shit and was almost constantly under the influence. But Ginny—on a strict flight attendant’s schedule—always gave Mom a day or two notice that she was coming to visit, so Mom would clean up, throw away the trash, hide the pills and bottles, and send me for groceries. I loved when Aunt Ginny came because we had actual food and not just cereal, frozen waffles, pizza, and canned soup. Mom was almost nice to me when her sister was around. I always cherished the few days of peace and the time I got to spend with my aunt.

  When I left home on my eighteenth birthday, I didn’t give a damn about leaving my addict, alcoholic, abusive mother, but I did hate to lose contact with Aunt Ginny. I left my phone—the crappy one Mom let me use only to call her and find out what she wanted me to pick up on the way home—the debit card mom had me use for buying groceries, her smokes, and alcohol. I didn’t take the car because it was registered in her name. As far as I was concerned, I’d hoped Mom would think I’d dropped off the face of the earth.

  But I did miss Aunt Ginny like crazy those first few years I was on my own. When others were getting care packages and mail in the Army, I watched longingly as they opened the boxes and crowed over the items they received. Luckily, most of the guys in my squad were great about sharing. But I always knew that Aunt Ginny would have sent kick-ass care packages.

  What could she possibly have to tell me? A ball of tension grew in my belly, but a sincere curiosity buddied up to the apprehension. I thumbed in a reply.

  Me: This is Chasen. Chase. You found me.

  As I waited for her reply, I put her name in my phone. My heart warmed with the thought of having someone to talk to. And her number was a 317-area code, so she was likely living in Indianapolis. Mom and I had lived in a tiny little town in southern Indiana when I was younger, but Aunt Ginny had always talked about loving Indianapolis and how she loved when she’d get layovers there so she could enjoy the city. What were the odds that Aunt Ginny and I both had gravitated toward Indy despite having no clue where the other was located?

  Aunt Ginny: I’ve been looking for you for so long. Where do you live? Is there any chance you could come to Indianapolis? I can help a little with a plane ticket or gas money.

  I blinked at the screen and laughed before running a shaking hand over my face. Aunt Ginny was in Indianapolis. It was quite possible that I was only minutes away from her. Fate seemed to be working overtime today.

  Me: Believe it or not, I’m actually in Indianapolis right now. Do you want me to come to your place? Give me the address.

  2

  Alexander “Xan” Copperfield

  As I left the park, I fought the urge to turn around and check the guy out again. In my thirty years, I’d never entertained the attraction I had toward guys—based on how I grew up and the crowd I got in with, it would have been a dangerous situation—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate a hot guy when I saw one. And the blond guy feeding the ducks at the park definitely fit the bill for hot.

  He was about two inches shorter than my 6’1”, pale skin, light ice-blue eyes, pale blond hair in a style that was reminiscent of his service, and a killer smile, even though he seemed deep in thought and frustrated. Damn, I knew the feeling. Seemed like worried and frustrated had been my theme words for as long as I could remember. But I got glimpses of the stranger’s smile a couple times, and I stupidly had the urge to make him smile all the time.

  “You’re an idiot,” I mumbled to myself as I walked toward Whitfield’s. “You didn’t even get his name.” Not to mention, the guy hadn’t been giving off any interested vibes, so I needed to just stop that train of thought.

  Would you even recognize if a guy was giving off interested vibes?

  I pushed the thought away as I entered the shop and breathed deeply. A mix of scents hit my nostrils as the essence of the sales floor and repair bays mingled on the air. Leather, oil, rubber, gasoline, wax, paint, and the popcorn Bay Whitfield, my boss and the owner, kept popped for employees and customers alike. Most shops I’d worked for in the past would have had a musty smell mixed with beer, cigarettes, and weed. But Bay ran a very tight ship. Alcohol and pot were a major no-no on the job. Bay wasn’t against his guys partaking off the clock as long as they didn’t let it come to work with them or cause any problems. Cigarettes, vaping, tobacco of any kind were allowed, but not inside. Smoke breaks were allowed out back of the shop.

  The day I walked into Whitfield’s looking for a job, I nearly turned around the moment my eyes adjusted to the indoor lighting. No way a place like this would hire a guy like me. But, before I could hightail it out the door, a sexy silver fox—probably early fifties—smiled and headed my way.

  “Welcome to Whitfield’s. I’m Bay Whitfield, the owner. What can I help you with today?” Even in a black t-shirt and worn work jeans, Bay had a commanding presence and put me at ease somehow.

  I cleared my throat. “Um, Alexander Copperfield. Xander to most, Xan to some.” I stuck my hand out to shake. “I’ve worked with motorcycles since before I could even legally drive. Wondering if you’ve got a need for a mechanic?”

  Bay’s brow rose. “You any good?”

  I nodded. “One of the best.”

  Bay cocked his head. “Let’s go to the repair bays. Take a look around.”

  We walked through the large, open garage-type door between the sales floor and the shop. At least twenty bikes were in some state of repair or detailing. Various makes and models were lined up neatly in separate bays or sitting off to the side. My heart thumped at the thought of getting to work with these beauties every day.

  Motorcycles were what I knew. My dad left us for his “real” family when I was small. Then my mom left me. I ended up as a ward of the state and spent year after year after year in foster homes. Despite the great stories that come from foster care from time to time, I did not experience the good side of the system. I spent most of my time wandering the streets, no matter what shitty house I’d ended up in that month, and always gravitated toward motorcycle shops, guys working on their bikes in their driveway, bike enthusiasts meeting in parking lots, and motorcycle clubs. I couldn’t remember a time I didn’t have my hands elbow deep in a bike.

  The chance to work on bikes was how I ended up with a really bad crew. They had me running drugs, stealing, and other illegal shit. But they also gave me free reign to fix the club’s bikes, so I stayed. Until I couldn’t stay any longer. Until I knew I had to do better for myself before I ended up no better than my parents. No better than the thugs I’d fallen in with.

  I moved a couple states away and tried to start over. Had to change shops every three to six months for a while, and my last location had proven no better than the old crew, so I was in desperate need of a job.

  Whitfield’s would be a dream come true.

  We stopped near an area where three men were working on bikes. I took in the array of bikes and nearly sighed at the sight. A Harley Softail standard, a Harley custom Fatboy, and a Big Dog Chopper with a gorgeous raked out front end. The guy in the middle turned to Bay. “Gonna fire this bitch up, tell me what you hear.”

  The Fatboy roared to life and the sound vibrated in my chest.

  Bay and I listened for a few moments until the man raised his brow for an answer. Bay turned my way. “Got any ideas?”

  I closed my eyes and listened for a few moments longer. “Got the primary chain and valves tapping and smoke from the exhaust. Gonna need a primary chain tensioner, a valve job, and a ring job on your pistons.” The words flowed from me as surely as my next breath. “If you’ve got the parts, I could repair it if you want to see me work.”

  Bay smiled and nodded. “Cliff, can you get started on the Honda that came in earlier? I’m pretty sure it’s an easy fix, can probably have it done and out of here by the end of the day.”

  Cliff pursed his lips and looked me up and down. “Newbie?”

  “Gonna test him out on this job. See if he’s as good with his hands as he is with his diagnosing skills.”

  Bay showed me to the parts closet. Although, closet wasn’t exactly the right word. The area was huge. He gave me a moment to take in the organization of the parts and then crossed his arms and waited. I grabbed what I needed from the closet and then headed back to the bike.