The next morning, Naomi walked into King’s Garage, officially and totally freaked out. She looked around, uncomfortable in this overly masculine environment bristling with testosterone and unfamiliar smells and loud noises. She knew it was ridiculous, but she half-expected to see a bunch of guys in fatigues and black face paint hiding behind every door, wielding machine guns. Instead of a bunch of Rambos, though, all she spotted was two large guys standing next to a bike, revving it.
“Hear that?” said the guy with blond hair.
“Hear what?” the other man replied.
“Listen.” The man hit the gas again. “The timing is off.”
“f**k, Chris.” The other guy wiped his hands on a filthy rag. “Only you can hear that, man.”
“Yeah, well, that’s the problem with it.”
“You can deal with it today?”
“
