The Black Reapers rode past the garage again the next morning. Four motorcycles, the same black leather cuts and the same slow speed.
None of them looked toward the garage and none of them stepped. They just simply rolled past before disappearing around the corner.
I watched through the office window until the sound of their engines faded into the distance.
“That twice in two days.” I muttered and Ben looked up from sorting spark plugs.
“Friends of yours?” He asked and I turned to look at him.
“If they are I clearly need better taste in friends.” I said.
He chuckled before returning to the shelves and business carried on as though nothing had happened.
Mrs. Henderson dropped off her son’s dirt bike after school and George stopped in for his usual coffee and somehow managed t
