A Biker's Ruby Amongst the Tools
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Raven Wimberley
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1.5M
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Ruby—Saturday at the Bookstore
RUBY
I always thought of myself as someone plain, if not grotesque. I have always been the fat girl with glasses. I never saw myself as anything more than someone’s daughter or older sister.
My parents are two attractive people by social standards. My mom is an Irish beauty with her porcelain skin, bright hazel-green eyes, and naturally straight honey-brown hair. My father, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. He has olive skin, big brown cow eyes, high cheekbones, and wavy dark brown hair.
My sister is a perfect combination of the two. Dad’s eyes, skin tone, and cheekbones with Mom’s hair and build. She is gorgeous, and I have been jealous of her for as long as I can remember. Everyone is always saying how pretty she is, and she never has issues with confidence. She has never even had to try to get anyone’s attention.
Then there is me. I have Mom’s Irish skin, with, like, one hundred times more freckles. I also have her eyes, but I have Dad’s hair, cheekbones, and, unfortunately, also his build. Meaning I have my dad’s plus-size frame with my mom’s short stature. Not a great combination. We still don’t know where the horrible eyesight came from.
Everyone views me as one of the guys and nothing more. It probably doesn’t help that my sister is the fashion-forward preppy type, and I’m the nerdy tomboy who works on cars and reads everything from textbooks to comic books.
So here I am in a bookstore on a Saturday afternoon looking for an automotive book—because, hey, what else is there to do, right?—and I’m standing here glancing over several books on the mechanics of the newer builds when I catch a glimpse of a sinfully delicious biker. He’s with another, much older guy wearing an identical MC patch. Knowing I’m not any guy’s type, let alone this Adonis-looking man’s, I turn away. There’s no sense staring and my face has probably turned red anyway.
“Excuse me, sweetheart. Do you know where the section on mythology would be?” God, even his voice is delicious!
The old guy looks me up and down and snorts at the term of endearment and, of course, any little pleasure I might have derived at playing those first three words—Excuse me, sweetheart—over and over in my head on the way home are now gone.
See? I told you I wasn’t pretty. It still hurts when it’s emphasized, but I’ve been telling myself that my worth is so much more than my looks. One day, I’ll believe it.
I pretend I don’t see either of them, like I just happen to look up to stare into space for a second, and then I drop my head and pretend to continue reading through the book. I’m good at pretending.
“Must be some book if you don’t notice someone talking to you,” says the Adonis as he lifts my book slightly.
A shiver, not an unpleasant one, runs down my spine as the deep timbre of his voice echoes in my head. As I raise my eyes, I find myself ensnared in the intensity of his gaze. Seriously, it’s like I’m transfixed. I don’t even think I’m breathing. The man is gorgeous.
“Isn’t this a little advanced for you, girlie?”
I close my eyes, thankful for the old guy’s tactless sentiments, and when I open them again, he’s looking at me, perplexed.
I smile. This is what I’m used to. It doesn’t even bother me. On the contrary, I always take these types of situations and use them as a teaching moment for the person.
“Actually, it isn’t. My neighbor just got a new electric car, so I’m learning about how the motor works compared to the one in his previous car. I’d like to retain him as a customer at my shop. You see, you’ve got your AC motors, DC motors, and then you’ve got your special-purpose motors that—”
“Sweetheart,” the old guy interrupts, and when he says it, his voice isn’t even close to being swoon-worthy. “I doubt you know how to work on an engine.”
I smile again, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement—mainly frustration—as I try to explain myself to a guy who clearly doesn’t believe I know my shit simply because I’m a woman.
“Well, it depends on which engine needs to be worked on,” I say. “There are the engines with gas and diesel.”
The older man crosses his arms and leans back on his heels. He’s got a glint in his eye, a patronizing smile on his face, and it’s easy to see he’s the type that can’t wait until I say something wrong so he can swoop in and tell me exactly why women should essentially stay in their own lanes and respect the boundaries of men’s work.
“You know the type I mean?” I ask, trying to sound unsure.
He nods, and his smirk grows.
I nod, too, and straighten my shoulders. “Those are easy. I’ve been doing conventional internal combustion engines for years.”
The Adonis laughs and slaps the old guy’s back, but the fact they came in together has my hackles rising, so instead of winking and sharing the fun, I give him the cold shoulder as I close the book in my hands and get ready to finish teaching his friend a thing or two.
“Now, in an electric engine, where you’d normally see the engine block and all the associated parts of a gas engine, you’ll find fewer moving parts. I mean, yeah, you’ve got your standard batteries, controller—which is what takes power from the batteries, converts the power, and passes the current to the motor—and the motor itself. But what kind of motor is it?”
I lean in as if taking him into my confidence. “My neighbor had an AC motor, and as you know, there are only two types, the synchronous and the induction motors. But now, he has the DC motor, and out of the five different types, he had to go and get the compound DC, so of course it’s going to combine the series with the shunt!”
The older man stands there, his jaw opening and closing as he tries to find the right words. Finally, his brows lower, and he lets out a frustrated grunt. The younger, sexier man lets out a light chuckle before I turn to him.
“Oh, and the section you are looking for is the back wall all the way to the left. Have a good day, gentlemen.” Proceeding to open the book in my hands once more, I take in a breath and let it go slowly.
The older man walks away in a huff while the other man remains rooted to the spot, his eyes locked onto me. I can feel his gaze like an electric charge.
I raise my eyes to his. “Are you needing something else?”
“I’d actually like to learn your name.”
“Why? It’s not like you’re ever going to see me again.”
“My name is Damien. I’d just like to know a pretty girl’s name.”
And that’s what guts me. He doesn’t say, “I’d like to know the name of the girl who just kicked my friend’s ass on car knowledge,” or “I want to know who I should give credit to when I tell the rest of the guys about this.”
No. He effortlessly feeds me a line every girl wants to hear from a guy who looks like him—if it’s sincere. And how could anyone who looks like him say something like that with sincerity to someone who looks like me? It just adds to the cheapness and reinforces the fact that it’s just another generic line.
I roll my eyes and turn away from him. “Oh please, like I believe that. Go find your friend, Damien. I’m sure he’s off sulking somewhere.” I quickly gather the other books I have stacked on the floor before heading to the front to pay for my purchases.
For a brief second, I wish his flirtation was real before chastising myself.
