Saturday mornings usually began with the sound of impact wrenches and engines warming up. This one began with pancakes.
I stood in the apartment above Lawson Customs flipping another pancake onto a plate while Diesel watched every movement I made from his spot beside the refrigerator. His ears perked up each time I reached for the spatula and his hopeful expression suggested he firmly believed breakfast belonged to both of us.
"Nice try." I said as his tail thumped once against the floor.
"You've already eaten." I said but another hopeful look.
"I admire the commitment." I added.
After finishing breakfast, I showered, brushed my teeth, tied my hair into a ponytail and pulled on a pair of faded jeans with a black Lawson Customs polo shirt embroidered with the shop logo across the chest
