CrossOver: a Motocross Mini-Mystery Romance

“Hey Vaughn! Your motorbike people are here!”

Vaughn Rogers looked up from where he crouched next to a pristine Harley-Davidson Nightingale.

For the hundredth time, he wondered how he’d let Laz talk him into wrenching on a dirt bike.

He glanced out the bay windows at the battered RAM truck; the dirt splattered all over the sides was a dead giveaway that he was about to meet Laz’s current charity case. His boss was always helping someone out; it was a wonder that Dream Machines turned a profit every year. But since Vaughn himself had been a recipient of Laz’s help, he could hardly say no.

As he sauntered toward the truck, a man who looked to be in his early forties jumped down from the driver’s seat. But Vaughn’s attention was drawn to a woman getting out of the passenger side. She was a petite thing, her hair in a ball cap with a ponytail pulled through it. She was dressed in a tight-fitting T-shirt and frayed cut-off shorts that revealed shapely legs. He’d bet his Jim Beam she had a shapely ass to go with those legs.

“Are you Vaughn?” the man said.

Vaughn tore his eyes off the girl’s legs. “That’s me.”

“Archie Johnston.” He held out his hand. “I really appreciate you taking a look at the Kawasaki.”

Vaughn shook the man’s hand. “No problem.”

Archie turned to the woman, who’d come around the front of the truck and stood with her hands in her back pockets. “This is my daughter, Gabby.”

Daughter? Damn. Vaughn would have to check his libido at the door…

“Good to meet you, Gabby,” he said.

She nodded, but her eyes were covered by sunglasses. Up close, he could see a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and Vaughn was distracted by a sudden urge to brush his lips over each one of them.

“Gabby, can you help Vaughn unload while I go talk to Laz for a minute?” Archie said.

“I think I can manage,” Gabby said with a hint of sarcasm.

“You have any questions about how the Kawi should ride, she’s the one to ask,” Archie tossed over his shoulder as he headed for the stairs leading up to Laz’s office.

“You mean she’s—?”

Vaughn’s gaze returned to the pixie-like woman. Gabby was the racer?

Gabby pulled the sunglasses off her face and tucked them in her ball cap. “Yeah, I race” she said. “You got a problem with that?”

Feisty. He liked that.

“Doesn’t matter to me one way or the other,” Vaughn said. “Just seems like a rough sport for a girl.”

“I think you mean a woman,” she said.

Wow. If eyes could shoot daggers, he’d be severely wounded right now.

Vaughn smirked. He preferred his women on the back of his Harley Deuce. Or on their back anywhere else, for that matter. “How old are you?”

Gabby scowled at him. “None of your business.” She pivoted toward the back of the truck. “I’ll get the ramp and back it off.”

“No need.” Vaughn physically lifted the bike out of the truck bed and set it on the ground. As he straightened, he caught her checking out his arms.

That was nothing new; women liked his biceps and tattoos. He resisted the urge to flex his muscles; instead, he lifted one eyebrow at her.

“What?” She crossed her arms. “Like you weren’t checking out my legs earlier.”

He grinned and tipped an imaginary hat. “Guilty as charged.”

His ready admission seemed to throw her for a loop, because she opened her mouth, then closed it again.

He found himself wondering what she’d been about to say. Amused and slightly flustered by his thoughts, he pushed the bike into the bay. “No kickstand?” he said.

She rolled her eyes. “Racing bikes don’t have kickstands,” she said. “You got a triangle stand?”

“Yeah, we got triangle stands,” he said, ready to give as much as he got. “For big-ass motorcycles like Harleys. Not for a tiny thing like this.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll get ours.” She headed for the truck and naturally, he couldn’t help checking out her ass. Yep, he’d been right about that, too.

But she was Laz’s friend’s kid, which meant she was off-limits.