We eat sitting wherever there's space: toolboxes, overturned buckets, workbenches, the tailgate of Tucker's pickup parked outside the garage doors. Nobody seems particularly concerned with tables. Conversation bounces between motorcycles, football, club gossip and whether Diesel genuinely believes he can fix anything with duct tape.
"I fixed your exhaust,” he tells Brick.
"You ruined my exhaust,” Brick rejoined.
"It stopped rattling."
"It f*****g fell off."
“Bah. Bullshit details, man.”
Laughter rolls through the garage again, and I look around slowly. At Jade animatedly arguing with Diesel about whether eating a third brownie negates any of salad’s health benefits. At Mayhem stealing fries off my plate because apparently being my older brother still entitles him to what he’s called
