The scent hit me first: a sharp, clean smell of metal and oil, with an undercurrent of something warm and rubbery. It was the smell of Ronan's world, and it was utterly foreign. The bike shop was a cavern of polished chrome and raw steel, bikes in various states of assembly resting on lifts like metallic skeletons. The low growl of a tool in the back of the shop vibrated through the concrete floor.
A mountain of a man with a scowl etched into his face looked up from the counter as we entered, wiping his hands on an already-filthy rag. This had to be Marcus. His eyes, a startlingly light blue, flicked over me, lingering for a moment on the simple silver chain I wore instead of the collar, before dismissing me entirely to focus on Ronan. "Engine rebuild on the Panhead is done," he grunted.
