The Black Reapers didn’t drive past the garage the next morning and that should have made me feel better. Instead, it somehow made everything worse.
At least when they rode past, I knew where they were.
Now I found myself glancing toward the highway every few minutes and I was almost expecting the sound of motorcycles to roll through town again.
It was ridiculous and I had work to do.
An old Indian motorcycle sat on the lift waiting for new brake pads while Ben was busy learning the difference between organizing tools and created what he called ‘creative storage’ and my appointment book was fuller than it had ever been.
Life should have felt normal but it didn’t.
I tightened the last bolt on the brake caliper before stepping back.
“Ben.” I sang out.
“Yeah?” He said looking up
