Ride With Me

CHAPTER 2

The workshop was unusually quiet after Tyler stormed out. Not because the motorcycles had disappeared, but because every member of the Iron Vipers seemed to be watching me instead. But I ignored them.

People stared all the time whenever they walked into Lawson Customs and found a blonde woman running the place. Some looked confused, others looked amused, and a few acted like I’d accidentally wandered into the wrong building.

Most of them changed their minds once I started talking about engines. I walked over to the first motorcycle and wheeled my tool trolley beside it.

“Who owns this one?” I asked, and a broad-shouldered biker with dark hair raised a hand.

“Mine,” he said.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Hunter. Most people call me Wrench,” he said, and I smiled.

“Ironic,” I said.

“Why?” He frowned.

“If you’re called Wrench, your mechanic should’ve been called Disaster,” I said, and a few men chuckled while Hunter laughed.

“That bad?” he asked.

I crouched beside the motorcycle and looked over the engine.

“Who worked on this last?” I asked.

“Garage two towns over,” he said.

“I’d ask for a refund,” I said, and Hunter blinked.

“You haven’t even taken anything apart,” he said.

“I don’t need to,” I said.

I reached over and lightly tapped the engine casing.

“The primary chain is loose, your rear cylinder isn’t firing evenly, and someone replaced your spark plugs without checking the leads,” I said, and he stared at me, stunned.

“You can tell all that already?” he asked.

“I can tell more if you stop distracting me,” I said.

That earned another laugh from the men, and I grabbed a socket wrench and removed the side cover.

Less than a minute later, I held up a badly worn chain tensioner.

“This should’ve been replaced months ago,” I said, and Hunter scratched the back of his neck.

“So… you weren’t guessing,” he said.

“No,” I said, and he grinned.

“I’m starting to like you,” he said.

“I wouldn’t get carried away,” I said, and the men laughed again.

I moved to the next motorcycle, and the owner was a mountain of a man with tattoos climbing up both arms.

“I’m Derek. They call me Razor,” he said.

I looked at his bike before looking back at him.

“Fitting,” I said.

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“Because whoever serviced this nearly murdered it,” I said, and his eyebrows lifted.

“I serviced it,” he said, and I smiled.

“My condolences,” I said, and the guys snickered behind him as Derek folded his arms.

“I think you’re bluffing,” he said.

“I think you’re about to owe your motorcycle an apology,” I said, so he leaned against the workbench.

“Go on, then,” he said.

I crouched beside the bike, ran my fingers over the brake rotor, and spun the front wheel.

“You’ve overtightened the axle. The front rotor is warped. The rear brake pads are almost gone. And…” I said, pointing to the chain as his smile disappeared.

“…you’ve adjusted that far too tight,” I finished.

“Impossible,” Derek said, shaking his head, so I handed him the spanner.

“Loosen it,” I said.

He hesitated before doing exactly that, and the wheel spun freely. His expression changed immediately.

“Huh,” he said, and I smiled.

“Huh indeed,” I said, and Hunter burst out laughing.

“Told you she wasn’t bluffing,” he said, and Derek looked down at his motorcycle again before slowly nodding.

“I’ll admit it. I was wrong,” Derek said.

“I’ll mark today on the calendar,” Hunter said, and the men laughed again.

The atmosphere inside the garage relaxed considerably after that.

One by one, each motorcycle rolled into my work bay.

I worked steadily, explaining every issue as I found it.

I didn’t need computers, and I didn’t need expensive scanners. Years of listening to engines had taught me more than any diagnostic mechanic ever could.

By lunchtime, every member of the Iron Vipers had gathered around while I worked.

Some asked questions, and others simply watched.

“This one’s running rich,” I said, pointing toward another engine.

“How can you tell?” Hunter asked.

“The exhaust note,” I said.

“You heard that?” he asked.

“I also heard your bearing complaining,” I said, and he laughed.

“I didn’t know bearings could complain,” he said.

“They complain loudly. You just haven’t learned to listen,” I said.

Jace hadn’t spoken much, and he stood slightly away from the others with his arms folded, quietly observing everything. And it was starting to bother me.

Most people either talked too much or not enough. He definitely belonged in the second group, and eventually I looked at him.

“You’re awfully quiet,” I said.

“I prefer listening,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“You learn more,” he said, and I narrowed my eyes.

“That’s suspicious,” I said, and his mouth twitched.

“So I’ve been told,” he said.

I looked away first because there was something about him that made me feel like he noticed everything.

People like that usually made me nervous, so I returned my attention to the next motorcycle.

“This one has been abused worse than a supermarket shopping trolley,” I said, and the workshop erupted with laughter. Hunter pointed toward another member.

“I told you to stop jumping gutters,” Hunter said.

“It wasn’t a gutter,” the guy said.

“It absolutely was,” Hunter said.

“It was a drain,” the guy said.

“It was a terrible decision,” Hunter said, and I shook my head.

“I don’t even want to know,” I said, and Hunter grinned.

“You probably don’t,” Hunter said.

An hour later, every motorcycle had been inspected, and I wiped my hands on a rag while Mia wasn’t there to complain because, of course, I hadn’t hired her yet. Jace stepped forward.

“How long?” Jace asked.

“A week,” I said.

“A week?” Hunter groaned.

“You brought me six motorcycles,” I said.

“We were hoping for magic,” Hunter said.

“I’m a mechanic. Not a wizard,” I said.

“Fair enough,” he nodded.

Without another word, Jace reached into his jacket and placed a thick envelope on the workbench.

“Half now. The rest when they’re finished,” he said.

“I haven’t even started yet,” I frowned.

“You’ve already earned it,” Jace said.

I opened the envelope, and my stomach nearly dropped. There was more money inside than I’d expected. Much more. I quickly counted it before looking back at him.

“This is way more than half,” I said.

“It covers the parts,” he said.

“I haven’t ordered them yet,” I said.

“You will,” he said.

I stared at the money again, and the overdue power bill sitting on the desk suddenly didn’t seem so impossible.

Neither did the insurance payment or next week’s mortgage.

For the first time in months, I could breathe.

I carefully put the envelope inside the office safe before locking it.

“Thanks,” I said, and Jace gave me a small nod.

“We’ll be back in a week,” he said.

The club climbed onto their motorcycles and rode away, leaving the workshop strangely quiet again.

I stood in the middle of the garage for a long moment, and then I smiled. It wasn’t a huge smile, just enough to remind myself what hope felt like.

The rest of the afternoon disappeared into work. And then I swept the floor, organized tools, placed parts orders, and checked tomorrow’s bookings.

By the time the roller door came down, the sky outside had already turned orange.

My shoulders ached, and my hands were covered in grease.

I wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Upstairs, dinner consisted of instant noodles and another mug of coffee.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it filled the hole in my stomach.

After washing the bowl, I opened the old wooden chest Uncle Will had kept beside the sofa.

Inside were dozens of photos.

I smiled as I picked one up where I couldn’t have been older than ten. I was sitting on the bonnet of an old pickup truck, holding a wrench almost as long as my arm.

Uncle Will stood beside me, smiling proudly, and another photo showed us rebuilding an old Harley together. I laughed quietly.

“You’ve got to listen. The engine tells you what’s wrong if you stop trying to talk over it.” His voice echoed in my memory as clearly as if he were sitting beside me.

“I don’t hear anything.” Twelve-year-old me had complained.

“You will,” he said.

“How?” I asked.

“You keep listening,” he said.

He’d been right. Eventually, every rattle, every knock, every vibration, and every tiny change became a language all its own.

He hadn’t just taught me to fix motorcycles; he’d taught me patience, confidence, and independence.

I carefully returned the photos to the chest before switching off the lights.

As I opened the apartment door to lock up for the night, something caught my eye.

A paper grocery bag sat near my door, and I frowned.

Slowly, I knelt down and looked inside. There was bread, milk, eggs, fresh fruit, and coffee. Enough food to last nearly a week.

There wasn’t a note or a name. Someone had simply left the groceries there before disappearing.

I looked down the empty staircase, but whoever had brought them was already gone.