Wrenches and Warnings
2594 Words
“You’re turning seventeen,” I reminded her, tossing a wrench from one hand to the other as I crouched beside my bike. “Not twenty-one. And that party you keep going on about? That was a club party, Eve. A real one—with members and their women. Women, Eve. Not high schoolers giggling over beer pong and trying to get selfies with patched-in outlaws.”
She leaned further against the workbench, arms folded like she was the poster child for bratty rebellion, her perfectly manicured brows furrowed in exaggerated frustration. “So?”
“So,” I said, tightening the bolt and letting the silence stretch for emphasis, “you think Dad’s going to let you have a party at the clubhouse? With underage girls prancing around his men?”
She rolled her eyes like I was being dramatic, like I was the problem here. “Why should it be my problem,” she snapped, “if his men can’t keep their hands to themselves around girls who aren’t even interested in them?”
Her words hung in the air, thick with challenge and accusation. I stood, slowly, and wiped the grease off my hands with the rag tucked into my back pocket. Her pout was still on full display, chin jutted out just enough to make it clear she thought she had a point. She could pout all she wanted, stomp around like she was entitled to the world, but I wasn’t buying it—not this time.
“Because those girls will have an interest in them,” I said, leveling her with a firm look. “I’ve seen your friends. You might think they’re there for the music and dancing, but I’ve watched the way they look at the guys when they roll in on their bikes. Hell, they’re practically drooling the second the engines go quiet.”
I bent to grab the spanner I’d just dropped, the clang of metal against concrete still echoing faintly in the garage. When I stood, Eve was glaring at me like I’d insulted her entire lineage.
“They’re not drooling over Dad’s men,” she spat. “They’re usually drooling over you, praying you’ll finally notice them and give them the time of day.”
I blinked, surprised for a half second. “Well, if they’d do it to me, they’d do it to them,” I shot back with a shrug.
The tension between us snapped for a moment, but not in a good way. She groaned—loudly, dramatically—and threw her head back, arms now flailing. “God, you’re impossible!”
She pushed off the workbench and started pacing the width of the garage like a tiger caged too long. “Fine. If I can’t get your support for the party—which I was hoping for, by the way, because you’re supposed to be my brother—then can I at least have money for the car?”
I didn’t even need to ask which car. The wrecked disaster she’d flipped into a ditch two weeks ago after sweet-talking Dad into letting her “practice” on the freeway. She’d blown a tire, overcorrected, and landed in someone’s bushes. The car was totaled, and Dad had nearly burst a blood vessel when he saw the damage.
“You’re earning now,” she said, narrowing her eyes at me like she was building her legal case. “And it’s not like you’re spending your money on alcohol or weed. You get both of those for free from the club.”
She had a point, but I wasn’t about to give in. “Not giving you money, Naughty.”
She crossed her arms again and let out another groan, this one louder than before. “Useless! You’re a useless older brother! You know that? What good are you to me? What can I use you for?”
I gave her a smirk, knowing exactly what I was about to say would push her buttons. “I was pretty useful the other day at school, wasn’t I?”
She froze mid-step, turning slowly toward me with a glare that could melt steel. “We’re not talking about that.”
“I think we are.” I leaned back against the bike and folded my arms over my chest, mimicking her body language just to be a d**k. “You decided to throw punches, and I decided not to let that little creep walk away untouched.”
“He touched me,” she said, her voice going low and deadly.
“I know,” I replied, tone firm now. “And you should’ve come to me.”
“I don’t need you to fight my battles,” she snapped. “I don’t need you to swoop in and act like some knight in black leather, okay? I handled it.”
“Eve,” I said slowly, like I was talking to a lit fuse, “my right hook is meaner than yours. And you know that.”
She didn’t argue, which told me she knew I was right. That boy? Yeah, he definitely regretted laying a hand on Eve by the time I was finished with him. I made sure of that.
“But really,” I added, eyeing her from head to toe, “shouldn’t you be getting ready for school?”
She looked down at herself like she’d just remembered she was still wearing fuzzy pajama pants and a cropped hoodie that said “Don’t Text Your Ex.” Her hair was in a messy bun that somehow still looked intentional. I swear, she and Hannah were the only girls on earth who could roam around the clubhouse in pajamas without giving a single damn about appearances.
Any other girl tried that? She’d get side-eyed by the regulars, maybe even hit on by the rookies. But not Eve and Hannah. Anyone who looked at them wrong got a fist to the face from Dad—or worse, a visit from one of the senior members who considered us off-limits by blood and reputation.
“I’m not going to school,” she said flatly, like it was the most obvious decision in the world.
“Eve,” I groaned. “You really want to get Dad worked up this early?”
This was her thing—testing Dad’s patience like it was an Olympic sport. He didn’t ask much from us. Not really. One of the few things he insisted on was that we finished school. I didn’t get why—hell, I was already patched in, already climbing the ladder—but Dad had this dream that Eve and Hannah would get out. Go to college. Do something that didn’t involve leather jackets and lock-picking kits.
I, on the other hand, just did enough at school to keep my name off the trouble list. Not because I cared, but because I didn’t want teachers calling home and pulling Dad into the principal’s office. I didn’t need that smoke.
“I’ve already sweet-talked Mum,” Eve said with a smug grin. “Told her I had a heavy period.”
My face contorted. “EW. YUCK.”
“Calm down,” she laughed. “I don’t really. I just knew she wouldn’t ask follow-up questions.”
“Why would you tell me that?” I scrubbed a hand down my face, fighting off the creeping horror. “Seriously, Eve. That’s so messed up. Who says that to their brother?”
She was cackling now—straight-up evil villain laughter echoing off the walls of the garage. And then, to top it off, she gave me a look so innocent it could’ve convinced a priest. “I don’t lie to you,” she said sweetly, batting her lashes like she hadn’t just given me psychological trauma.
“Yeah,” I muttered, picking up the wrench again. “You’re a real damn angel.”
She leaned back against the wall, arms still crossed, and smiled like she’d just won the round. And maybe she had. Because even when she pissed me off, even when she said things that made me want to put my head through drywall, I couldn’t help but love the chaos that was Eve.
Even if it came wrapped in pajama pants, fake period stories, and impossible party dreams.
I scoffed, not even trying to hide it. “Sure, you don’t.”
Eve just smiled—too sweet, too fake—and for a moment, I wondered how she hadn’t yet been arrested just for being this much of a menace. I shook my head and turned away from her, ignoring the smug little grin she wore like a crown.
I left her standing in the garage, arms crossed, still full of schemes and sass. My bike sat half-finished behind her, the front wheel still off, the wrench I’d been using lying on the floor where I’d dropped it earlier. I hadn’t even gotten halfway through reassembling the damn thing before she stormed in with her drama and derailed my morning. So now I’d have to drive the car to school. Great. Nothing like crawling through traffic in a beat-up Dodge that rattled whenever I turned the wheel too sharp.
As I stepped into the sunlit corridor that connected the garage to the clubhouse, I heard the creak of boots behind me. I didn’t even need to look back.
“So, about the money?” Eve chirped, suddenly reappearing at my side like she hadn’t just been told no three different times.
I didn’t even blink. “You aren’t getting a cent from me.”
She matched my pace, walking backward in front of me with an exaggerated frown. “Why do you have to sound like Dad?”
“Because one of us has to,” I muttered, pushing open the heavy clubhouse door. The hinges squeaked like they always did, no matter how many times we oiled them.
The clubhouse smelled like strong coffee, cigarette smoke, and motor oil—same as every morning. And like every morning, it was already buzzing with the low hum of voices, a clatter of plates from the kitchen, and the occasional bark of laughter from one of the guys. The kind of noise that only came from outlaws with nowhere to be and nothing better to do than swap war stories over stale toast and black coffee.
I rubbed my temple. My head was already starting to ache, and I hadn’t even made it to the breakfast table yet. Eve’s voice behind me wasn’t helping.
“Come on,” she whined, practically dragging out the word like it physically pained her to beg. “Just a little loan. I swear I’ll pay you back. Eventually.”
I didn’t even respond. At this point, talking to her felt like negotiating with a raccoon. Persistent. Clever. And always ready to steal.
As we entered the main room, I immediately spotted Dad sitting at his usual table near the back. He was hunched slightly over his mug, the morning newspaper folded haphazardly beside him. Even from where I stood, I could tell he hadn’t slept much. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, his beard a little more scruffy than usual.
To his right sat Hannah, our quieter twin. She had her knees tucked up on the chair and a piece of toast hanging halfway out of her mouth. She was still wearing those ridiculous red-and-black flannel pajamas, even though it was mid-July and already creeping toward eighty degrees outside. She always complained about being cold, even in the dead of summer. Claimed her blood ran “colder than average,” like she was some sort of medical anomaly or the offspring of a snowman and a penguin.
“Morning,” I grunted, sliding into the seat across from Dad and next to Hannah. Eve dropped into the chair beside me, still full of energy like a mosquito on a sugar high.
Dad didn’t look up right away. He sipped his coffee, slowly, like he was stalling before dealing with his youngest hurricane.
“Dad,” Eve started sweetly, her voice dripping with fake innocence. “Tyson won’t help me.”
“He’s not supposed to,” Dad said flatly, eyes still on his mug.
Eve pouted. Again. “I’m your daughter, though.”
“You’re also the reason I’m paying double on insurance,” he replied dryly, finally looking up at her with one brow raised. “And the reason my last three gray hairs showed up.”
Hannah snorted around her toast, choking a little before coughing it down and wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
Dad sighed and leaned back, tossing a glance my way. “You fixed your bike yet?”
“Was planning to,” I muttered, glaring at Eve. “But I got sidetracked.”
Dad smirked, knowing exactly what that meant. “You’ll get it done. Just don’t leave your tools scattered. We’re not running a junkyard.”
I nodded, and we fell into a brief silence. The kind of silence where everyone pretended to be fine but was secretly listening, waiting for the next spark to reignite the fire.
Eve, of course, struck the match.
“I don’t get why you’re both against me,” she huffed, arms crossed again in that way that made her look like a petulant kid instead of the almost-seventeen-year-old girl she was. “I said I’d be responsible. I said I’d keep it small.”
Dad gave her a sideways look. “Eve, your idea of ‘small’ includes a live DJ and tequila shots.”
“That was one time!”
“You’re seventeen.”
“In a month!”
Hannah giggled quietly beside me, chewing on the crust of her toast and clearly enjoying the show. She didn’t usually say much in these situations—she didn’t have to. Eve always talked enough for the both of them.
“Besides,” Eve went on, clearly unwilling to let the topic die, “I deserve a little fun. I don’t ask for much.”
Dad raised a brow. “You totaled a car last week.”
“Okay, but that was an accident!”
“The second one this year.”
“That one wasn’t my fault either. The squirrel came out of nowhere.”
I buried my face in my hands, half laughing, half wanting to scream. She was impossible. A walking, talking tornado of excuses, charm, and chaos. And somehow, she always managed to leave everyone else in her wake, cleaning up after the storm.
Dad leaned forward, his voice a little more serious now. “Look, Eve. I love you. You know I do. But you don’t get to keep blowing through rules and money like neither matter. There are lines, even for you.”
Her face crumpled slightly, and for a second, the act fell away. She looked like the little girl I remembered—the one who used to climb onto Dad’s lap during club meetings and sneak cookies under the table with Hannah. The one who used to ask me to scare off the monsters in her closet, even though we both knew the only monsters in our house were real and sitting around the clubhouse every day.
But then, like clockwork, she shook it off, rolled her eyes, and said, “Yeah, well, I still think you’re all being dramatic.”
And just like that, the hurricane was back.
- Writer
