Chapter 6: The Mechanic’s Mercy
1248 Words
The adrenaline didn't just fade; it abandoned me. One minute, I was standing firm against the Iron Skulls, and the next, the walls of the warehouse felt like they were shrinking, closing in until there was no oxygen left to breathe. My knees gave out, and I had to grab the edge of the bar to stay upright. My hands, still stained with that stubborn, engine-black grime, wouldn't stop shaking.
Vance was there in a heartbeat. He didn't wrap me in a hug—that wasn't who he was. Instead, he gripped my elbow, his fingers calloused and firm, and guided me toward the back of the building.
The garage.
It was his sanctuary, the one place in the world that actually made sense to him. The air here was cooler, cleaner, smelling of sharp ozone and the metallic tang of fresh steel. Rows of tools hung on the walls in perfect, surgical order, and in the center sat a motorcycle—a massive, stripped-down frame that looked like it had been through a war.
He sat me down on a heavy metal stool. "Breathe," he ordered, his voice steady. "The past is just a engine that blew a gasket, Jolene. Staring at the wreckage won't fix it."
I looked at him, my eyes burning with unshed tears. "My whole life was a lie, Vance. Every party, every dress, every 'perfect' moment... it was all just cover for a debt. I wasn't even a person to him. I was a transaction."
He walked over to a workbench and tossed a heavy, cold wrench into my lap. It hit my thighs with a solid thud, forcing me to snap out of my spiral and reach for it.
"Yeah," he said, his voice flat. "That’s the realization that breaks most people. You can sit there and drown in it, or you can get to work."
He pointed to the bike frame. "This thing hasn't run in five years. Someone treated it like trash, ran it into the ground, and left it to rust. If you want to survive, you need to understand the machine. If something’s broken, you don't cry over it. You take it apart, piece by piece, and you see what’s actually worth saving."
I looked at the wrench, then at the bike. The cold weight of the steel in my hand felt grounding. It wasn't soft, it wasn't comforting, but it was honest.
"I don't know how," I whispered.
"Then you learn," he said. He stepped behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, and placed his large, rough hands over mine.
His skin was like sandpaper, his touch firm and focused. He guided my hand to a stubborn, rusted bolt on the engine casing.
"Lefty-loosey," he murmured, his breath ghosting against my ear. "Apply pressure. Don't force it. You have to feel where the metal wants to give."
We worked in silence for a long time. The only sound was the clink of metal on metal and the rhythmic sound of our breathing. It was strangely intimate, working like this, our hands working together over the cold, unyielding steel. With every bolt I loosened, every piece of caked-on grease I wiped away, the tightness in my chest began to loosen, just a fraction.
He was teaching me more than just mechanics. He was showing me how to strip away the layers of who I thought I was, until I found the core of what was left.
"You’ve got a steady hand," he said after a while, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly tone that made my heart jump. "Most people panic when the parts don't want to move. You just keep pushing."
"I've had a lot of practice holding things together," I muttered, my voice bitter.
He didn't laugh. He just tightened his grip on my hand, and for a fleeting second, his thumb brushed against my wrist, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a jolt of electricity straight through me. The chemistry between us wasn't just physical—it was a recognition. We were both broken things, both pieces of wreckage trying to find a way to run again.
The air in the garage grew thick and heavy, charged with a tension that had nothing to do with the work. Every time our hands grazed, it felt like an invitation. I wanted to turn around, to lean into him, to stop pretending this was just about a bike.
"Why are you helping me?" I asked, looking up at him as we shifted to a new part of the frame.
He looked down at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. "Because you didn't run when the Skulls came. Most people—the people in your world—they would have folded. They would have bargained. You stood your ground."
He paused, his gaze lingering on my face. "I don't help people because I'm a good man, Jolene. I help them because they remind me of the parts of myself I thought I'd lost."
I didn't know how to respond to that. I just turned back to the bike, my heart hammering against my ribs. I picked up a small, flat-head screwdriver and began prying at a panel along the frame that looked like it had been welded shut by someone who didn't want it opened.
The metal groaned under the pressure, then popped open with a sharp, metallic clack.
"Found something?" Vance asked, leaning in closer.
"It looks like a hidden compartment," I said, my voice filled with surprise. I reached inside, my fingers brushing against something cool and rectangular. I pulled it out—a small, slightly weathered photograph protected by a thick plastic sleeve.
I held it up to the light.
It was an old picture, the edges curling with age. It showed a younger version of Vance, standing on a dock with the sunset behind him. He looked different—lighter, almost happy—and he was standing next to a man with sharp, aristocratic features and a cold, calculating look in his eyes.
I stopped breathing.
The man next to Vance was older now, with grey at his temples and expensive suits, but the eyes were identical. It was my father.
"Vance," I whispered, the photo trembling in my fingers. "Who is this?"
Vance went deathly still. He looked at the photo, then at me, and his face turned the color of ash. He took the picture from my hand, his movements stiff and jerky, and his gaze shifted to the far wall, where the shadows seemed to swallow him whole.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, his voice a low, strangled whisper.
"It was in the bike," I said, my heart starting to race again. "Vance, that's my father. How do you know him?"
He didn't look at me. He just gripped the photo so hard the plastic sleeve began to crinkle.
"I don't just know him, Jolene," he said, his voice cold, distant, and filled with a pain I hadn't realized he was capable of feeling. "I'm the reason he's the Senator today. And I'm the reason you're running."
He finally looked at me, and for the first time, I didn't see a protector. I saw a man who was holding a secret that could destroy everything.
"We aren't done here," he said, his voice hard as iron. "But that bike... that’s not a project. That’s a grave."
- Writer
