PHOENIX:
The shop was quiet, the way I liked it.
Just me, the creak of my creeper, and the underbelly of a Harley stretched out above me like some busted beast begging for salvation. My hands were slick with oil, fingers scraped raw at the knuckles. A socket wrench was clenched in one hand, a stripped bolt in the other, and my patience—long gone.
I growled, tossing the bolt across the floor when it finally fell out, where it clinked off the concrete and bounced somewhere under the shelves. Probably lost forever. Typical. I wiped the sweat off my temple with the back of my arm, leaving a smear of grease behind.
“Piece of s**t,” I muttered, twisting to reach for the next tool.
That’s when I heard it.
The low purr of an engine—too clean, too smooth to belong anywhere near this lot.
I t
