Chapter One

Flashback to one year ago

They say money can't buy happiness, but fuck everyone who has ever said that. Those people have never been in unimaginable debt.

Like me.

I'm staring at one of many bills that has a big red stamp on the front that says, "Past Due." The amount owed keeps getting larger, the minimum payments keep increasing, and the money Royals' Garage makes is barely enough to keep the lights on and food on the table.

"Fuck." I wipe a hand over my mouth, picking up another bill that has too many zeroes for me to count before my eyes cross.

I'm not sure when times got so hard. Maybe it's always been like this. I've been in survival mode for so long, for so many years, I've forgotten what it is like to breathe without worry.

I've had to fire most of my crew because I couldn't afford to pay them. I hated to fire them because they were friends too. Now, it's just me and Fitz. My best friend. I think he knows that his time is limited here, but he has never once complained. He is always ready to work.

"How many more months do you think we got, Royals?"

I lift my head from the bills that have ‘Rhett Royals' plastered on the front, and ‘OVERDUE' stamped right next to it. Seeing how I went from having the dream to nearly nothing at all is embarrassing. Royals' Garage was my dream.

When I first opened the shop ten years ago, business boomed. Everyone brought their cars here, but then gas prices went up, people started losing their jobs, and they couldn't afford to bring their vehicles to Royals' Garage.

I stare at Fitz, the man who has been by my side since we were kids playing in mud puddles and learning how to ride bikes. He's wiping his hands on an oil-stained rag, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes locked on the overdue bills scattered across the desk.

Sighing, I lean back in my chair and lace my hands behind my head. "Maybe two more months? Even that is a stretch. I'm debating on just shutting the doors for good. This isn't fair to you. You need to be working at a place that's stable, Fitz."

"Why won't you take me up on my offer? I can be your partner. Let me invest. We can turn this place around. I believe in it, Royals."

A half, tired smirk crooks my mouth. "I know you do, Fitz. I'd love to do that one day, but this isn't the business to do it with. You'd be throwing your money away. There is too much debt to climb out of. I'm thinking a different town, a way to start over, maybe. I'm not sure how I'll be able to do it or if I can at all."

He steps into the office and throws the rag onto his right shoulder. "You can do it. This was a damn good business. The economy is hard right now. It will bounce back. We just have to hang on a little bit longer."

I stand, pushing out of the chair, and hold out my hand. "We have been hanging on brother. It's time to let it go."

He slaps my hand away and points a finger at my face. "No. Giving up is never an option. Moving on is, but giving up? No way in hell will I ever let you do that. We will figure out something." He looks at the clock and tosses the rag in the bin to get washed. "I have to head out. Meet me at Dilly's at nine?"

I shake my head. "Wish I could. I can't afford a drink, Fitz." My face flushes with shame, and I have to look away from Fitz's eyes.

"It's on me," he offers, his gaze softening with understanding.

I raise my brows, shaking my head. "You can't afford it either. Not with what I pay you."

"I have a savings account. Let me get you a beer, Royals. It's the least I can do for all the work you've done over the last year to keep this place afloat."

"Thank you. I promise I'll pay you back one day. I won't take this for granted."

"It's a beer, not a thousand-dollar loan. You don't have to pay me back." He looks at his wrist when his watch begins to beep. "Okay, I'm late. I have to go pick up my nephew from school and drop him at my sister's house. Nine, okay? You better be at Dilly's."

"I'll be there. Promise."

"Good. Now go home and shower. You reek of oil." He wrinkles his nose as he backs away.

I shove him out the door. "As if your kettle doesn't whistle," I mumble my sarcasm, slamming said door in his face.

He knocks on the glass for me to let him back in and I yank the blinds down, so I don't have to see him. It's all fun and games. If we didn't joke around, we would be too depressing to be around. Well, I would be. Fitz is always positive, but I let every problem weigh me down.

"Nine! Be there!" he shouts from the other side before the gravel scrapes and kicks from his footsteps as he walks away.

I run my fingers through my hair stressfully, my eyes straying back to the desk that holds all the reasons my life is falling apart. I know in my heart that my dream of having Royals Garage has shattered and there is nothing I can do. I have no savings. I have no retirement account. I have drained everything to keep this business alive— to keep me alive.

And it hasn't been enough.

I glance around the main lobby where customers used to sit and wait for their cars to be done, listening to the silence. There's a window that allows everyone to see out into the garage. Kids loved watching the cars being worked on. Every time a car would be lifted into the air by the hydraulics machine I have, they would press their faces against the glass and gasp in awe.

I couldn't wait to have my own kids. I wanted to show my sons or daughters how to maintain or fix their cars. I wanted to teach them. I wanted this garage to be my legacy, but that's not something I have to worry about now.

In the decade of owning this shop, I never met the right woman. I never settled down. I never had kids. I'm pushing forty years old. Who would want to be with me now? A man who has no money, a failing business, and a lot of debt.

A heavy sigh escapes me and fills the room. "Yeah, I'm a real fucking winner," I grumble.

The longer I stare at the desk, the angrier I become. I am not this man. I am not a fucking loser. How is this my life?

In a fit of rage, a gut-wrenching roar filled with every damn emotion I've kept inside echoes all around me. I swipe all the bills from the desk. Papers fly everywhere, floating through the air like a feather before hitting the floor. I grab pictures hanging on the wall, pictures that show happiness and success, and I throw them on the floor.

The glass protecting the picture shatters, scattering across the floor. One by one, I rip everything from the walls, wrecking everything I've ever worked for.

Next is the lamp. I rip the cord from the wall and toss it across the room where it crashes into the window. The bulb breaks and the window cracks.

And I don't even care.

Sweat beads across the top of my forehead. The reality of my life crashes down on me and I stumble backward, my back thudding against the wall so hard, that another photo drops from its place, clattering to the floor.

I slide to the ground, running my fingers through my hair until it is standing up on its ends. The back of my head bangs against the wall and my elbows sit on my knees while I stare into the empty lobby.

Empty.

That's a word I should be used to by now. Everything in my life is gone.

I bury my face in my hands and take a deep breath, my mind racing with ideas to salvage this business, but there's nothing.

The bell above the door jingles and without looking up, I grumble, "We're closed. There's another shop fifteen minutes from here. They will help you."

"I'm not here for service."

I sigh, rubbing my eyes as they begin to burn from exhaustion. "Listen, I know I owe money. I'll get it somehow, but coming here and harassing me isn't going to get you a dime when I don't even have a dollar. Please leave."

"I'm not here for money either."

I scoff, finally looking up to see a man with long thin brown hair. It's pulled back in a low, pathetic ponytail. His glasses make his eyes look bigger than normal because of the strong prescription.

Taking a deep breath to calm myself because the last thing I need to do is lose my temper and force myself to stand. No matter how low I feel, I won't ever have a man look down at me while he speaks.

"What can I do for you?" I ask, crossing my arms. "I'm closed so if you could make this quick, that would be great." That sounds rude, but I don't have it in me to care. Not today.

I'm done pretending everything will be okay.

"Of course, I understand." He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm from Shallow Cove Pharmaceuticals. I've been traveling the country searching for volunteers to try our new drug. I will admit, that I do my research and look for failing businesses because this is a paid drug trial. You'll get one hundred thousand dollars for participating. Granted, there are risks, including death if the drug and your body do not agree." He takes his middle finger and pushes his glasses up his nose again. "I know it is random. A too-good-to-be-true kind of deal. We do not want any volunteers from the street. We want to help people. We want to change lives. This drug could extend someone's life by decades. It can slow the aging process. I can't promise anything though. There is no guarantee you'd survive."

I scoff, my boots scuffing against the floor as I walk behind my desk. "You must think I'm stupid if you think I'm going to agree to that when I don't know you. I know more about my absent father who left my mom after I was born, so no offense, but you're the devil dressed up to portray a blessing. I know a scam when I hear one. I might have fallen on hard times, and I might be desperate." I reach under my desk and grab my gun, pointing it directly at his face, and pull the hammer back to cock it, the bullet sliding into place. "But there is one thing I will never be, and that's dumb. So get the fuck out of my shop before I bury you in it."

A smile takes over his face.

It isn't the nervous kind of smile.

It's the kind that sends shivers up the spine. The hair on the back of my neck stands up in warning. My instincts are telling me to run but my pride won't let anyone run me out of my shop.

Not yet, anyway.

"You'll be perfect, Mr. Royals. Just…" A giddy sigh escapes him as he looks me up and down, evaluating me. "Perfect."

"Listen, I don't know who the fuck you are—"

He straightens, his kind expression morphing into a statuesque slate, frozen, unnerving, and sinister. The man steps forward, pressing his forehead against the gun, a wicked gleam in his eye as he cocks his head.

"You don't have it in you, Mr. Royals."

I hold in a snarl, pressing the barrel harder against him, my finger idling on the trigger. "Try me and find out." I want to say his name, but I realize he never gave it.

And I don't care enough to ask.

"A man who has a failed business and is doing what he can to stay afloat shows just how cowardly you actually are. A successful person would do anything, lie, cheat, steal, and kill," his voice lowers an octave on the last word. "To save what they love."

I grind my teeth together, fighting the urge to pull the trigger for talking to me like that. I've done everything in my power to save the garage. I have loans that are unpaid. I took a second mortgage out on the house. I have so many credit cards that I've lost count. They are all maxed out.

I've sold my motorcycle, every possession I hold dear, my grandpa's truck, his watch, my mother's pearls, her engagement ring— anything and everything.

It still wasn't enough.

"A man like you doesn't have the fucking courage to kill a man, to watch the blood flow from his body, to hear him exhale his last breath, and to watch his pupils expand in death. If you did, do you really think I would be here? Hunting pathetic men who can't keep their lives together? I have stooped so low, but I have to do what is best for my study. It will change the world and you will be part of it."

"You're fucking insane. I'm not going anywhere with you."

He chuckles, then locks eyes with me. "That's where you are wrong." His gaze drifts over my shoulder, a slow nod tilting his chin, and the sense of someone behind me has me swinging around.

The man grabs my arm, slams it against the wall, and my finger pulls the trigger. Pieces of the ceiling fall down on us, dust getting into my eyes, and my attacker takes that slight moment of weakness.

A sharp pain enters my neck as a rush of something cold slips through my veins, my heart pumping it through my body. Whatever drug was in that syringe sends me to my knees quickly.

"I see you've met my bodyguard, Allen." The guy steps around the front desk and looks down at me as if I am beneath him in a way that is more than physical. He takes his glasses off and cleans the lenses on the hem of his shirt. "He's always been a little…" He hums loudly as he pretends to think. "Aggressive. You know, you should really be more careful when it comes to locking all your doors. Allen got in so easily. He didn't have to break anything, so unlike him."

"Fuck. You," I struggle to say. The words slur and my head begins to spin. The gun falls from my hand and Allen kicks it away. My only saving grace just slid across the floor.

"No." He grabs me by the roots of my hair and yanks my head back. "Fuck you."

Spit lands on my face from the force of his words.

The lobby begins to spin. My eyes begin to hood. It's getting more difficult to keep my body upright.

"You should be thanking me. You should be worshiping me for what I'm about to give you. You'll be better than this," he hisses, then glances around my garage. "You'll be unstoppable. You'll be more than what the world is ready for. So, fucking. Thank. Me!" he roars until he is red in the face. He backhands me across the face next, causing me to fall onto my back.

"You'll see." He stands over me, his face a swirling blur as my eyes try to focus. "I am your savior, your last hope, and your dream. I am going to transform you, Rhett Royals and you will thank me."

The drug takes over. My body becomes heavier. The floor opens and swallows me whole, plunging me into darkness.

But there is one thought that holds strong.

I will kill myself before I ever mutter those words to him.

Or better yet, I'll kill him before he has the opportunity to beg for forgiveness.

Only then will I be thankful.