Claimed by the Playboy MC President

Tightness

Miles

The roar of my custom bike rolled through the narrow streets of Fourth and Main, bouncing off cracked brick walls and rusted fire escapes.

This wasn’t my side of town.

The storefronts were faded, the sidewalks uneven and chain-link fences seemed to outnumber trees.

As I pulled up to the curb, the smell of burning rubber and motor oil hit me, and the tight knot that had been sitting in my chest all morning finally loosened.

Ahead of me, a rusted neon sign flickered weakly in the daylight.

Sam’s Moto Repair.

I killed the engine. Silence rushed in, broken only by the clank of metal and the low hum of an old radio drifting from inside the garage.

Classic rock. Cheap speakers. The soundtrack of every honest repair shop in America.

I swung off the bike and walked into the dim garage.

An older man stood bent over the open hood of a battered sedan, his broad shoulders filling the space. Gray threaded through his dark hair, and his grease-covered hands moved with the calm efficiency of someone who had spent decades turning broken machines back into working ones.

I cleared my throat. “You Sam?”

The man paused, wiping his hands on a filthy rag tucked into his belt. He turned around, his sharp eyes evaluating me, then sliding past my shoulder to take in the gleaming chrome and matte black finish of my bike parked out front.

"I am," he said. "What can I do for you, son?"

"My engine's been acting up," I said, slipping my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket. "It's running rough on the lower gears. Sputtering a bit when I throttle up. I need someone to take a look at it."

Sam walked out of the garage and into the sunlight, circling my bike. He crouched down, examining the custom exhaust and the intricate, high-performance engine block. He reached out, tapping a knuckle against the metal.

"Fire it up.." he ordered.

I obliged, turning the key and giving the throttle a twist.

The engine roared, a deep, aggressive rumble. To the untrained ear, it sounded flawless. But I knew exactly how to feather the clutch just enough to force a slight, unnatural rattle in the block.

Sam held up a hand, signaling me to cut it. He stood up, shaking his head with a heavy sigh.

"You have definitely got an issue with the intake valves, and probably the fuel injectors too," Sam diagnosed instantly as he crossed his thick arms over his chest. "But I’m gonna shoot it to you straight, kid. I can't fix this."

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the handlebars. "Why not?"

"Because this is a seventy-thousand-dollar piece of custom machinery…" Sam said flatly. "I run a neighborhood shop. I don't stock the parts for something this high-end, and even if I ordered them, it would take weeks. You need to take this back to the dealership or a specialized shop."

"I don't want to take it to a dealership…" I countered. "I went to three other specialized shops this morning. None of them could figure it out, and the ones who claimed they could wanted to keep it for a month."

Sam frowned, clearly unconvinced. "Look, son...”

"A friend of mine recommended this place…" I interrupted, dropping the lie effortlessly. "They told me you have got a mechanic working here who has absolute magic hands. The best in the city. I am not taking it anywhere else."

Sam let out a dry chuckle, though a hint of pride flashed in his eyes. “Well, your friend ain't wrong about the talent we got here. But the fact remains, I don't have the parts."

"I can get the parts." I said immediately. "Whatever you need, I'll have it shipped overnight. I just need your shop to do the labor."

That earned me a longer look. He was trying to figure out why a rich kid with a top-tier bike was so dead-set on having it serviced in a gritty, back-alley garage.

Before he could give me an answer, the sound of light, rhythmic footsteps crunched on the gravel directly behind me.

"Hey, Sam. Sorry I stepped out, just had to return the clothes to Clara." A voice called out.

And without any logic, my heart began racing. Every muscle in my body locked.

Vanilla drifted through the air, soft and sweet against the heavier smells of gasoline and grease. The exact scent that had been haunting me since the club.

I didn't turn around. I stayed perfectly still, facing Sam with a slow, predatory smirk creeping onto my lips.

Sam’s stern face instantly softened into a warm, paternal smile. He looked past me. "Perfect timing, Thea," Sam called out. "Come take a look at this bike."

I slowly turned around, bracing myself for the fierce, glaring girl who had haunted my thoughts all night.

But the woman standing on the gravel looked nothing like her.

Her face was bare of makeup, revealing smooth skin and softer features than I remembered. Her brown hair was twisted into a messy bun, with a few stubborn waves escaping around her neck. Instead of that ridiculous, sticky purple dress, she was wearing a pair of simple, tight jeans that perfectly hugged the curve of her hips, paired with a loose, faded gray T-shirt.

And she was chewing a piece of bubblegum.

As her jaw moved, I caught a brief, distracting glimpse of her little pink tongue poking out to wet her lips.

It was such a simple, unconscious gesture but it sent a hot, sudden jolt straight to my chest.

She didn’t even glance at me.. She walked right past me, too focused on the motorcycle and crouched beside the engine.

Her hands moved confidently over the chrome and exposed components, checking connections, tracing lines, studying the aftermarket setup with a level of concentration that made the rest of the world seem to disappear.

I found myself watching her instead of the bike.

The way she balanced on the balls of her feet. The grease already smudging her fingertips. The complete absence of self-consciousness.

After a minute, she stood and popped a small bubble with her gum. Only then did she look at me.

"You have quite an expensive bike…" She said. "The latest Harley-Davidson."

I leaned against the garage frame, crossing my arms. "I like things that go fast."

Nothing. Not even a courtesy smile.

She just pointed a slender finger at the engine. "Your engine doesn't have a regular issue. It's a problem with the aftermarket parts not integrating well, and it looks like you have got some dust trapped inside the intake. Most mechanics don't dare to touch it, fearing they might make it worse."

I raised an eyebrow.

She had figured out in sixty seconds what three other mechanics couldn't diagnose in an hour. Reed wasn't lying. She was a genius.

She wiped a smudge of grease off her thumb and looked back up at me. "I can give it a try, but I can't guarantee it will be fixed."

I held her gaze, letting a slow smile form. At this point, the motorcycle was the least interesting thing in the garage.

“Go ahead and try..” I said. "The worst-case scenario is it doesn't get fixed."

For a second, she just stared at me. Then, a sudden, genuine laugh escaped her lips.

It burst out of her before she could stop it, and the transformation was almost unfair. Her eyes crinkled, her shoulders loosened and suddenly she looked younger, lighter, nothing like the wary girl who had been ready to throw a knee into someone’s ribs the night before.

The sound hit me harder than it should have.

I forgot, briefly, what I had come here to do.

Grease on her hands. Wrench sticking out of her back pocket. Sunlight catching the loose strands of her hair.

Without warning, an intense tightness pooled directly below my belt.

Shit.