Chapter 03
1358 Words
Riley
In the harsh light of day, Reyes Auto looked even more dilapidated than it had under the cover of night. The faded paint peeled away in broad, flaky pieces, exposing splinters of gray wood beneath. Sunlight glinted off cracked panes of glass, drawing long shadows through the garage’s hollowed interior. It was a place that had once been built to last, but no one cared enough to keep it that way.
The sign above the entrance sagged to one side, its hand-painted letters chipped and faded beyond recognition. What was once proud red lettering was now a streaky, rust-colored hue, half-obscured by years of dust and time. Even the air smelled like memory, burnt oil, rubber, and something older beneath it all. It didn’t feel abandoned, but it didn’t feel entirely alive either.
Like its owner, maybe.
The sun had finally broken through the clouds by the time I made my way there on foot, hugging my arms around my chest even though the air had warmed. I followed the street signs like I wasn’t walking toward the last person I expected or wanted to see again.
His bike was still out front. Parked like it hadn’t moved. Like he hadn’t moved.
I stopped at the opposite curb, my heart pounding harder than it should’ve. I’d slept in a real bed for a few hours. I’d showered, eaten half a bagel, and choked down motel coffee that tasted like ash and regret. I should’ve felt better. But the second I saw that motorcycle, it all came rushing back.
The way he’d looked at me like I was already a story he’d heard before. Like, there was nothing I could say that would surprise him.
You’re running. Hope you know what happens when you run too far.
I crossed the street slowly, almost unwillingly.
The tow truck was gone, but both garage bay doors stood open. Inside, tools clanked and metal groaned. The radio played something scratchy and half-off. I stepped into the shadow of the awning, the smell of oil and heat thick in the air, and peeked inside. A shorter guy stood beside a lifted pickup, forearms streaked with grease, a wrench gripped in one hand.
He looked up when he heard me and gave a nod. I smiled, trying not to fold under the strange pressure bubbling in my chest.
What was that pressure, exactly? I couldn’t say, but it felt heavy on my chest.
“You the girl with the flat?” He asked, voice low and muffled beneath the workshop noise.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
He wiped his hands on a rag and crossed the garage, mid-thirties, clean-shaven, shaved head. A tribal tattoo twisted up one muscular arm, and a silver ring glinted in his eyebrow as he stepped into the light.
“Mason,” he said, offering a hand. “Ash told me to expect you.”
“Is he here?”
Mason glanced toward a closed office door, then back at me with a look. “Inside. In a mood. But that’s kind of his thing.”
“Is that… unusual?”
He barked a short laugh. “Not even a little.”
I followed him through the cluttered garage, nerves winding tighter with every step. The closer I got, the louder the hum in my head became. The door to the office creaked as Mason pushed it open, revealing a space that was somehow both spartan and cluttered. Papers were stacked everywhere, a coffee mug stained with time, and an old mini-fridge hummed in the corner.
Ash was behind the desk, leaning back in a battered leather chair with his boots propped up like he owned the floor beneath them. He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.
Didn’t acknowledge me at all.
I lingered in the doorway, arms crossed like they could protect me from whatever this was.
“So… I guess I owe you another thank you.” I said, breaking the silence.
He didn’t move. Barely looked like he was breathing. He was so still.
Mason cleared his throat, awkwardly lingering. “I’ll give you two a minute.”
I flicked a look his way, silently begging him not to leave. He paused in the doorway, walking backward now, and gave me a sorry half-smile that said, You’re on your own, sweetheart.
The door clicked shut.
Ash waited until we were completely alone before finally lifting his gaze. Same steel-gray stare. Same blank expression. Like nothing rattled him. Like I was just another flat tire.
“You shouldn’t have come here alone.” He said, his voice flat.
“Why not?”
“Because people are already talking.”
My eyebrows pinched. “About what?”
He dropped his boots to the floor with a heavy thud and stood. In the closed space, his height was more noticeable. So was everything else. Broad shoulders, dark shirt stretched across solid muscle, tattoos that disappeared under cuffed sleeves. He looked like someone made for war, not oil changes.
“You slept in your car. Alone. On the highway. Now your car’s in my shop. You show up the next morning looking like hell warmed over.” His tone didn’t change, but his eyes sharpened. “That’s enough for a town like this.”
“I didn’t ask you to rescue me,” I said, my voice a little sharper than I intended.
He didn’t flinch.
“You think I care about gossip?”
He stepped toward me. Not aggressive. Not even close. But unshakable.
“I think,” he said quietly, “you’ve got enough on your plate without giving people more to chew on.”
I hated that he wasn’t wrong. I hated that I didn’t hate him for it.
My voice came out smaller this time. “You didn’t even tell me your name.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I did, actually.”
Something flickered in his expression. Almost a smile. Almost. He turned and grabbed a clipboard off the counter.
“Your tire’s replaced. Rim was fine. But your engine had a code, sensor issue, maybe. Mason ran a diagnostic. Nothing urgent, but I’d get it checked before you put too many more miles on it.” He glanced up. “It won’t leave you stranded again. Not right away.”
“I wasn’t worried,” I said, too quickly. Too quietly.
He didn’t challenge me. Just nodded once. “Good. Because I don’t fix the same car twice.”
I hesitated. “What if I don’t know where I’m going?”
He froze for a second. Not in surprise. In recognition.
The garage beyond the door filled the silence, tools shifting, the radio crackling, someone cursing softly in the background.
Then he looked at me again.
“Then you’d better figure it out fast.”
My throat tightened. I nodded, slow and unsure.
He handed me the clipboard. “No charge.”
I blinked. “What? Why?”
“For the tire,” he said. “Roadside favor.”
“You don’t even know me.”
He tilted his head, eyes unreadable. “No. But I know the look.”
My fingers curled tighter around the clipboard. “I don’t want pity.”
“It’s not pity,” he said. “It’s done.”
I stared at the clipboard, then at him, then down again.
“Okay,” I said, barely above a whisper. I turned to go, footsteps heavier than they should’ve been.
“Riley.”
I stopped halfway to the door.
“You got a place to stay?”
I looked back. “The Dusty Rose. Room seven.”
He nodded. “They lock up early. Don’t wander too far after dark.”
“Why?” I asked, watching him. “You worried about me?”
His gaze locked onto mine like he was seeing through every inch of me. “No.”
I smiled, but it didn’t touch anything inside me. “Didn’t think so.”
And I left before I could say thank you.
Before I could ask him to keep talking.
Before I could do something stupid… like stay.
- Writer
