Chapter 3: New Beginnings
1128 Words
I woke up to the sound of engines.
For a disorienting moment, I didn't know where I was. The ceiling was wrong. The light was wrong. The smell of motor oil drifting up from below was the only familiar thing.
Then it all came back. The betrayal. The recording. The terrible couch.
I checked my phone. 6:47 AM. Seventeen missed calls. I silenced it and got up.
The shower had good pressure but questionable water temperature—either scalding or freezing, no in-between. I made do. Clean clothes from my bag. Same jeans, different t-shirt. The garage didn't care about fashion.
Downstairs, Mike was already at the coffee pot.
"Morning," he said, pouring two cups without asking. "You look like shit."
"Thanks." I took the cup. Black, strong, slightly burnt. Perfect.
"Sleep okay?"
"No." I sipped the coffee. "But I'm here."
"That's what matters." Mike pulled a stool up to the workbench. "Got a full day ahead. That Sportster's getting picked up at two. Then there's a Road King needs a full service. And Bruiser called—said he might swing by later."
My stomach did something complicated at the mention of Bruiser. "Bruiser?"
"Yeah. From the club. He's got a Softail that's been making a weird noise. Wants you to take a look." Mike raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"
"I've met him. A few times." When he came into the shop with other MC members. When they all looked at me like I was a curiosity—the girl who worked on bikes instead of dating the guys who rode them.
"Good. He's a solid guy. You'll like him."
I wasn't sure about that. The MC guys were nice enough, but they were also intimidating as hell. Big men with big bikes and a code I didn't fully understand.
But if Bruiser was coming here, I'd deal with it.
The morning disappeared into work. The Sportster got its final check—I'd already done it twice, but I went through it again anyway. Spark plugs, oil, brakes, chain tension. Perfect. The Road King was next, and I lost myself in the rhythm of it. Drain the oil. Replace the filter. Check the air filter. Inspect the belts.
This was what I loved about engines. They made sense. They had rules. If something was wrong, there was a reason. If you fixed it right, it stayed fixed.
Not like people.
I thought about Dan. About Zoey. About the recording saved in three different locations.
I thought about my mother's text: *We're worried about you.*
Too late for that.
Around noon, I took a break and walked to the taco truck again. Same order—three al pastor, a Jarritos. The guy running the truck remembered me.
"The usual," he said in Spanish. I nodded.
My Spanish wasn't great, but I'd picked up enough working in the garage. Mike's last assistant had been from El Paso, and he'd taught me the important stuff. Numbers. Greetings. How to order food.
I ate on the curb, watching traffic, trying not to think about the fact that I was eighteen years old, living above a garage, with no plan and no safety net.
It could be worse. I could be living in my car.
Actually, I basically was. My car was a motorcycle.
Around one o'clock, a bike pulled into the parking lot. Not Tank—Bruiser.
He was big, but not Tank-big. Maybe six-three, with a red beard and a leather vest covered in patches. He moved easy, comfortable in his own skin.
"Max!" He grinned when he saw me. "Mike around?"
"Office. He knows you're coming."
"Awesome." He parked his bike next to mine and paused, looking at the wolf paint job. "This yours?"
"Yeah."
"Damn, girl. You did this yourself?"
"Took me three months."
"It's beautiful." He meant it. I could tell. "Mike said you were good. Didn't say you were an artist."
Something warm flickered in my chest. Praise. Real praise, not the empty kind Dan used to hand out like candy.
"Thanks."
Bruiser headed into the office. I went back to the Road King.
Ten minutes later, the bell above the door chimed again.
I looked up from the Road King and felt my brain stutter.
It wasn't Bruiser.
It was the biggest man I'd ever seen in real life.
He had to be six-eight, maybe six-nine. Built like a wall—broad shoulders, thick arms, hands that looked like they could crush skulls. Dark hair pulled back in a small knot. A beard that was more shadow than hair. Eyes so dark they looked black.
He wore jeans, boots, and a black t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, showing off tattoos that disappeared under the fabric. An Iron Serpents patch was barely visible on the edge of his sleeve.
He didn't say anything. Just stood in the doorway, looking at me.
I realized I'd been staring for too long. "Can I help you?"
He didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved from me to the bike I was working on, then back to me.
"You're Max." His voice was deep. Quiet. The kind of voice that didn't need to raise itself to be heard.
"Yeah." I wiped my hands on a rag. "And you are?"
"Tank."
Of course. Of course he was called Tank. He looked like he could flip a car.
"Mike around?" he asked.
"Office." I pointed. "You're here about a Softail?"
Something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. "How'd you know?"
"Mike mentioned it. Said Bruiser called."
"I'm not Bruiser."
"I figured that out."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. Almost.
He turned and walked toward the office. I watched him go, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.
This was Tank. The guy Mike had mentioned. The one who came to the garage late at night when the shop was closed.
The one who was going to change everything.
I just didn't know it yet.
I went back to the Road King, but my hands were shaking. Just slightly. Just enough to notice.
It was fine. He was just a customer. A big, intimidating customer with eyes that looked right through me, but still. Just a customer.
I could do this.
I could work here, live here, build a life here. Without Dan. Without Zoey. Without parents who'd chosen someone else over me.
I could be Max. Just Max. The girl who fixed bikes and painted wolves on gas tanks and didn't need anyone to save her.
The bell chimed again. I looked up, expecting Tank.
But it was just the Sportster's owner, here to pick up his bike two hours early.
I handed him the keys. He paid. He left.
And I went back to work.
- Writer
