The Man Who Shouldn't Exist
917 Words
Lena
I don’t drop the pipe. If anything, I grip it harder, letting the rusted metal bite into my palm. He’s close—too close. I can smell ozone from the storm clinging to his leather vest, and the faint, expensive scent of a man who doesn’t spend his days scrubbing grease from under his nails.
“I don’t care who lied to you,” I say, keeping my voice cold as the rain hammering the roof. “And I don’t care about your intake. It’s midnight, I’m alone, and you’re trespassing. Back off before I show you exactly how ‘good’ these hands are with a blunt object.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stares with those predatory eyes, a low hum vibrating in his chest. He looks like he’s peeling back my armor with a glance.
“Spitfire,” he murmurs, dark velvet on the tongue. “I was told you were talented, not suicidal.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive here,” I snap, taking a half-step back. “Who are you? And how did you find this place? This isn’t exactly on the map.”
“Names are for friends and enemies,” he says, smirking. “Right now, you’re a service provider. Max. Max Rossi. And as for finding you? When you ride something this specialized, you hear whispers about the girl who can make a dead engine scream.”
“Well, Max Rossi, the girl is tired. Shop’s closed. Mother’s waiting. Whatever is wrong with your bike can wait until morning.”
He glances over his shoulder, silver catching the dim light. “It can’t. Meeting in three hours. I don’t leave property in strangers’ hands overnight.”
“Then take it somewhere else,” I retort, arms crossed, pipe still in hand.
“There is no ‘somewhere else’ for a bike like this within a hundred miles.” His boots thud as he paces toward the machine. “Listen to the idle. It’s hunting. Fuel-to-air ratio is off. I suspect a vacuum leak.”
Despite myself, my inner mechanic twitches. I examine the bike. Lines aggressive, engineering bespoke.
“Custom manifold, isn’t it?” I ask.
He arches an eyebrow. “Recognized it through the rain?”
“Recognized the sound. Too clean for stock, even with the leak.” I drop the pipe on the counter. “Fine. Five minutes. I’ll look. But if I touch a wrench, after-hours rate is triple. Cash upfront.”
Max chuckles. “Triple? Nerve for someone in a shop held together by duct tape and prayer.”
“The duct tape’s structural,” I shoot back, circling the bike. “Take it or leave it, Rossi.”
His gaze weighs me like he’s measuring steel. Not like other men—this is assessment, calculation, scrutiny.
“Five hundred,” he says suddenly.
“For what?”
“To fix it. No questions. No receipts.”
“Seven hundred,” I counter. “Plus a hundred for the door you almost kicked off its hinges.”
“You’re an expensive little thing,” he says, flicker of respect—or challenge—in his eyes.
“I’m a professional. Difference.”
“Fix it,” he commands, folding his massive arms against the workbench.
I grab the diagnostic light, ignoring my racing heart. Leaning over the engine, heat from metal meets me, but nothing like the heat radiating from the man three feet away.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone, Lena,” he says, voice dropping.
I freeze. “How do you know my name?”
“Painted on the sign outside. Or what’s left of it.”
I swallow, focusing on the leak—a hairline crack in a stressed boot. “You’ve been pushing this thing too hard. Not a racing bike, a cruiser.”
“I don’t do slow,” he says. Skin prickle, not boast—fact.
“Your bike disagrees. It’s screaming to slow down. But men like you…” I glance up. He’s closer. Intense. Air thick, like the calm before lightning.
His hand flicks out, brushing grease off my cheek. Thumb calloused, touch fleeting. My breath hitches.
“You have grease on your face,” he whispers. Eyes drop to my lips for a heartbeat, then meet mine.
“I’m a mechanic. It comes with the territory. Fix or keep playing your game?”
He doesn’t answer. Watches, smirk returning. A man who just found a toy he didn’t know he wanted. Cold shiver crawls down my spine. Something is wrong here.
He glances between me and the bike, lingering on my pulse point.
“Tell me something, Lena,” he murmurs. “Do you really think a few hundred dollars and a closed door keep the world out of this garage?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
No answer. He steps back into shadows, silhouette melting into the storm.
“I’ll be back in two hours,” he says, voice drifting through rain. “Make it perfect. If not, we’ll discuss what you really owe me.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
I stand alone, rain drumming the roof, the black machine in the center of the garage, the money in my pocket heavy, my thoughts heavier.
If he’s not here for the bike—and not here for the repair—then what exactly is Max Rossi after… and how badly am I about to regret finding out?
- Writer
