The garage was quiet for once.
The mechanic stood over the frame of a half-assembled motorcycle, sweat dripping from his brow, his jeans stained with oil and c*m from the night before. He hadn’t slept. He didn’t need to. Bodies came and went. He used them. They crawled away. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the bench, breathing in the scent of metal and victory.
Then the door creaked open.
Heavy boots echoed on the concrete floor. Not heels. Not sneakers. Thick, steel-toed boots.
He didn’t look up. Not yet. He didn’t need another distraction tonight. He needed to finish the damn bike.
“You the one they call the dirty mechanic?”
The voice made him turn.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy.
It was cool. Deep. Calm.
She stood in the doorway like she owned it. Lean frame wrapped in bla
