WRECKED BY HIM

MIA The bike dies. Just like that. One second I’m flying down Highway 101, wind in my hair, freedom burning through my veins—and the next, the engine chokes, sputters, and gives up on life. I’m left rolling to the shoulder like the universe decided to prank me. “No, no, no—come on, my love.” I twist the throttle. Nothing. “Please don’t do this to me. Not today.” But she is done. My Suzuki. My escape. My three months’ worth of double shifts at the tattoo parlour. Dead on the side of the road. I rip off my helmet and scream. Loudly. Into the empty highway. Because apparently, this is my life. I left the house two hours ago after walking into the kitchen and seeing Mom’s new boyfriend—Kyle? Keith? Whatever—shirtless and making coffee like he owns the place. That look in his eyes…the same one they all eventually get. I had to leave. Before I said something. Before he said something. Before things became… uncomfortable. Now I’m stuck on the highway with a dead bike and no plan. Perfect. My phone has one bar. Of course it does. I could call Marcus—my overprotective older brother—but I’m not in the mood for the “you are reckless” lecture. A sign back on the highway said Exit 47—Food & Gas. I can walk. I’m about to start when I spot something down the ramp—chrome reflecting sunlight. A lot of chrome. A garage. I look at my bike. Then the sun dipping lower. “Alright,” I mutter. “One more try.” I start pushing all 470 pounds of her. My arms shake, sweat drips, but eventually—I make it. Chrome & Thunder Custom. Silver letters. Bikes everywhere. Beautiful ones. This isn’t just a garage. This is a shrine. Lights are on inside. Someone’s here. “Hello?” I call out. Music cuts. Footsteps. A voice, deep and annoyed: “We are closed.” I check the sign. “It says open till seven.” Then he appears. And my brain short-circuits. Tall. Dark hair. Grease-stained gray shirt stretched across his chest. Tattoos winding over his arms. A face that should be illegal. He gives a slow, trouble-making smile. “Guess I can make an exception for a pretty girl with a broken bike.” Pretty girl. Great. “I don’t need exceptions. I need a mechanic.” I point at the Suzuki. “She died.” “She?” He crouches beside the bike, casual like he owns the air around him. “Suzuki GSX-S750. ’09?” “Yeah.” “How many miles?” “Forty-two thousand.” He whistles. “You bought her like this?” “With my own money. Can you fix her or not?” Something shifts in his eyes. Interest. Real interest. “I can look. But I have got plans, so let me run a quick diagnostic. Twenty, thirty minutes.” I don’t trust men who look like him. Or smile like that. But I’m stranded. “Fine.” He stands and offers his hand. “Khalid.” I hesitate. His hand is calloused, oil-stained, strong. I still take it. Brief. Controlled. “Mia.” “Mia.” He says it like he is tasting it. “Alright. Let’s see what is wrong.” He wheels the bike inside effortlessly. The garage is spotless, organized, professional. This isn’t a hobby. It is a kingdom. He hooks his tablet to the bike, narrating as he works. “Fuel pump’s my first guess. Maybe electrical… bad relay, loose connection.” His fingers move confidently. “When was the last time you changed the fuel filter?” I stay silent. He glances up—no judgment. Just understanding. “Seller didn’t tell you.” “I have been managing fine.” “Until now.” He keeps working. “Let’s see.” He focuses like the world disappears when he is with a machine. It is… strange. Nice, even. After fifteen minutes he sits back and sighs. My stomach drops. “How bad?” “Fuel pump is failing. Your relay is almost gone. Connections corroded. And your clutch cable is fraying.” “Can you fix it?” “Yeah. Need parts. Wednesday, maybe. Whole job? Six to eight hours. Two weeks with my schedule.” “Two weeks?” My voice cracks. “I can’t be without my bike that long.” “You can’t ride her now either.” He meets my eyes. “She is not safe.” “How much?” “Twelve hundred. Maybe fourteen.” It hits hard. I have eight hundred—saved painfully over months. “I can’t—” I stop myself. “Never mind.” I move to take my bike, but he steps in front of me. “You are not riding out. That pump fails on the road, you crash.” “That’s my problem.” “Not if I let you leave like that.” He rubs his jaw. “What if we work something out?” My body goes cold. “No.” He rolls his eyes. “Not like that. A payment plan. Or trade work. Can you weld?” “No.” We stare at each other. Tense. “Look,” he says softly, “leave her here tonight. She’ll be safe. Think about it. Come back tomorrow if you want.” I don’t trust it. But the sun is gone. And I’m tired. “I want it in writing.” He smirks. “You don’t trust easily.” “Would you?” “…Fair.” He fills out a form. Signs it: Khalid Mansour. The name rings a bell. “I can give you a ride,” he offers. “I’m heading toward Marina Heights.” “I will call an Uber.” “With one bar? Text someone my plate if it makes you feel better.” Everything in me screams no. But exhaustion wins. “Fine. I’m texting my brother.” “Smart girl.” His truck is too clean. Too expensive. Too… him. I give him a fake address—habit. We drive quietly until he says, out of nowhere: “You will figure it out.” I blink. “What?” “Whatever you are stressed about. You’ll figure it out.” I don’t answer. He doesn’t push. He drops me off. Before I leave, he hands me a card. Chrome & Thunder Custom Khalid Mansour – Owner Owner? He is… young for that. I mumble thanks and head home. But when I unlock my apartment, the lights inside are on. I left them off. I freeze. Then— “There she is!” I jump. Marcus. My brother. Sitting like he owns the place. “Where have you been? Mom called—” “My bike died.” “Where?” “What garage?” “Who is the mechanic?” I toss him the business card. His eyes widen. “Chrome & Thunder? Khalid Mansour?” “You know him?” “Know of him. Mansours own half the dealerships in the state.” He looks up sharply. “Mia… Khalid isn’t just some mechanic. He is loaded. Like… loaded loaded.” My stomach twists. Of course. Because my life can’t just be simple.