CHAPTER 11 – THE MECHANIC
963 Words
LAYLA'S POV
Rafe's words from the day before are still sitting in my chest when Garrett walks into the clubhouse.
He's been showing up frequently now – unannounced, walking through the common areas like the space already belongs to him. Yesterday, he picked up a glass from the bar and turned it over in his hands before setting it back down slowly like an item for auction.
Today he's sitting at the bar talking to Nina about how hard it is when someone you love pushes you away, with his voice loud enough for the entire room to hear.
"I just want my family back. That's all I've ever wanted." He sounds sincere and some members are softening.
I can see it in the way they look at me now – not with pity like before, but with something worse. Judgement
‘Give him a chance, Layla.’
The metallic taste floods my mouth because although they actually believe him, I know Garrett’s true purpose.
The public version of my husband is a masterpiece. The private version finds me outside the bathroom.
He leans against the wall, blocking my path without technically touching me – but close enough for me to feel uncomfortable.
"Tick tock, Layla." His voice is low. Just for me. "My lawyer's drafting the paperwork. You can make this easy or you can make it ugly. Either way, that baby is coming home with me."
Then he straightens up. Smiles. Walks back to the common room like nothing happened.
I shake my head and decide to keep him off my mind, but I can’t for long because I soon find out he's targeting the triplets too.
Someone slashed Colt's tire during the night. A note was left on Rafe's bike referencing the driveway beating – no name, just a threat written in block letters. Eli found a dead bird on his motorcycle seat.
None of it can be proven. All of it reeks of Garrett.
Colt wanted to ride to Black Viper territory that same night, but Rafe said no, and Eli said nothing, but the look on his face said he'd already decided what to do if it happened again.
Later that afternoon, I find my way to the garage the same way I’ve been doing lately because there's something about the smell of oil and metal and the particular darkness of the space that settles me.
I close my eyes and run my hands along the bikes I used to know by name and pretend I'm the girl who grew up here instead of the woman who's fighting to come back. And while I’m deep in thought, Gears walks in.
He's been Iron Howl's mechanic for longer than I've been alive – a quiet man with grease-stained hands who notices everything and says almost nothing. He watches me for a full minute before he speaks.
"You're not here to catch up, are you?"
I go still.
"You're plotting something." He holds his hands up before I can respond. "Woah! I'm not gonna snitch. I wanna tell you I've noticed things too."
"What kind of things?"
He sits on the workbench and wipes his hands on a rag. "Shipment deals. They used to run through Iron Howl's approved vendors – guys your dad cleared personally. About a year ago, they started getting rerouted through companies I've never heard of."
"Rerouted by who?"
"The paperwork says the council. But Bishop told me he doesn't remember voting on half of them." He folds the rag. "Money that should be hitting the club's accounts is going somewhere else. Not big enough to notice. But I’ve been watching, and it adds up."
"How much?"
"I'm a mechanic, not an accountant." He looks at me. "But I'm telling you because the Ashford boys trust you, and because I remember what this club looked like when your father was boss, and because something has been wrong here for a long time and nobody wants to say it out loud."
I look at him for a long moment because this man has no reason to stick his neck out for us, but he is loyal to the club regardless.
"Can you keep digging? Quietly?"
He nods. "Way ahead of you."
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of my bed and think about what Gears just told me. Megan's been acting president for about two years, and that’s enough time to make a dent large enough to find. And even if I'm not ready to show my hand yet, I’m grateful that I have a place to start.
I'm about to leave my room to do more digging when my phone buzzes.
Gears: "Layla. Come back to the garage for a second."
I go back and meet him standing at his workbench with a calculator and a stack of receipts that look like they've been pulled from the bottom of a filing cabinet.
"I ran the numbers." He says it quietly, like he's been sitting on this and finally decided I needed to know. "Best estimate – Iron Howl has lost roughly thirty percent of its liquid assets over the last eighteen months to another pack."
Thirty percent.
I nod, thank him, and walk out without a reaction.
Then when I’m alone in the hallway, I put my hand flat on the wall and close my eyes and breathe through what that number means. Not just for the club. For who authorized the bleeding. For how long they've been doing it. For the fact that my father has been lying in a bed down the hall while his empire was being drained from underneath him.
Thirty percent. And nobody said a word. But a part of me still feels like this is just the beginning.
- Writer
