CREEPER
I had been elbow-deep in the guts of my father's incomplete restoration project, a stripped-down Harley— a project abandoned, much like myself, when he retired and left.
My phone buzzed wildly on the steel bench beside me.
I ignored it at first.
Most people didn't call me; anyone with half a brain and didn't have a death wish knew to text unless something was on fire or bleeding.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
A growl tore through me as I wiped my hands on a rag, snatching the phone. The cracked iPhone screen was just a constant reminder of how much I hated unexpected phone calls.
Looking at the cracked screen, my brow furrowed instantly. The number wasn't familiar; it had an international prefix, though. I almost let it go to voicemail until a cold sensation shook down m
