The Giant at My Garage
The first rule of running a garage was simple.
Never let a customer intimidate you.
The second rule was even simpler.
Never let a man with a motorcycle worth more than your entire business tell you how to do your job.
Unfortunately, the man standing in front of my workbench looked like he could break both rules without even trying.
He was enormous.
That was my first thought when he stepped through the garage door.
My second thought was that his shoulders could probably block the entrance entirely if he turned sideways.
My third thought—which I immediately tried to bury beneath several layers of professional indifference—was that he was ridiculously handsome.
Not the polished, pretty kind of handsome that belonged on billboards. No. This man looked like trouble had built itself a body, covered it in black leather, and decided to walk around without apologizing.
Dark hair. A rough jaw shadowed with stubble. Broad shoulders beneath a fitted black T-shirt. Tattoos crawling down both arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves and reappearing around his wrists. His jeans were faded, his boots scuffed, and his expression suggested that the entire world had disappointed him before breakfast.
He carried a helmet in one hand.
In the other, he held a set of keys.
His eyes moved around my garage, taking in the oil-stained floor, the shelves of spare parts, the half-dismantled engine on my workbench, and the ancient radio that had been threatening to die for three years.
Then his gaze settled on me.
I tightened my grip on the wrench in my hand.
“Can I help you?”
His eyes dropped to the wrench.
Then returned to my face.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you're the mechanic.”
I glanced at the grease on my fingers, the overalls tied around my waist, and the motorcycle engine I'd been rebuilding for the last two hours.
“No. I'm the woman who stands around holding expensive metal objects for decoration.”
One corner of his mouth moved.
Not quite a smile.
More like a warning that one might happen someday if the world gave him a compelling reason.
“Funny.”
“I try.”
“I'm looking for the owner.”
“You found her.”
That earned me his full attention.
For a moment, he simply stared at me.
I knew the look. I'd seen it from customers who assumed a woman couldn't tell a carburetor from a coffee machine. Some tried to hide their surprise. Others didn't bother.
This man didn't look surprised.
He looked irritated.
“You're the owner?”
I planted the wrench on the workbench.
“Would you like to see my business registration, or are we going to skip the part where you question my qualifications?”
His jaw tightened.
“Didn't say you weren't qualified.”
“You implied it with your eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows?”
“They're very judgmental.”
This time, the corner of his mouth definitely twitched.
I hated that I noticed.
He placed his helmet on the counter with a heavy thud.
“I need someone to look at my bike.”
“Congratulations. You've found a mechanic.”
“I was told this place could handle a custom build.”
“It can.”
“Harley engine. Modified intake. Custom exhaust. Electrical problem that three other mechanics couldn't fix.”
“Three mechanics couldn't fix it?”
“No.”
“Were they mechanics or men who watched motorcycle videos online?”
His eyes narrowed.
I smiled sweetly.
“Sorry. Occupational curiosity.”
He looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be offended or amused.
Good. I preferred customers who weren't entirely sure what to do with me.
“What do you charge?” he asked.
“That depends on the problem.”
“And if the problem is complicated?”
“Then I charge for the time, parts, and expertise required to solve it.”
“What if I don't have time?”
“Then you should have brought it to me before it broke.”
Silence.
Outside, a truck rumbled past the open garage doors. Somewhere behind me, the old radio crackled through a song that had been popular when I was in secondary school.
The stranger stared at me for another second.
Then he laughed.
It was low and unexpected, like a sound he hadn't used in a long time.
The noise did something profoundly inconvenient to his face.
It made him look human.
I immediately decided I preferred him when he was scowling.
“What do people call you?” he asked.
“Maeve.”
“Maeve what?”
“Maeve is enough for customers who haven't paid me.”
He nodded slowly.
“Fair enough.”
“And you are?”
“Ronan.”
I waited.
He waited.
I raised my eyebrows.
“Is that the whole name, or are we playing the same game?”
“Ronan Vale.”
The name meant nothing to me.
That was a lie, actually. It sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it. Maybe I'd heard it at a motorcycle meet. Maybe one of the delivery riders who came through the neighborhood had mentioned him.
I didn't have time to investigate every man who walked into my garage looking as if he had personally offended a mountain.
“Where's the bike?”
“Outside.”
“Bring it in.”
“It's heavy.”
I looked at him.
He looked at me.
“Did you just tell me your motorcycle is heavy?”
“I'm telling you it's not something you push around casually.”
“It's a motorcycle, Ronan. Not a distressed elephant.”
He gave me another one of those almost-smiles.
Then he stepped back through the garage door.
I heard the engine before I saw the bike.
The deep, throaty rumble rolled down the street, vibrating through the concrete beneath my boots. It wasn't the sound of a machine designed for quiet commutes and grocery runs. This engine announced itself like a king arriving at his own coronation.
A moment later, Ronan rode into view on a massive black motorcycle.
The machine was beautiful.
I hated beautiful motorcycles because they always made me want to forgive their owners for being idiots.
Its frame was matte black, broken by polished metal and subtle silver detailing. The exhaust had been customized, the handlebars modified, and the rear suspension lowered slightly. It had the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without realizing they were doing it.
Ronan killed the engine.
The sudden silence seemed too small for the garage.
I approached the bike, my professional curiosity immediately winning over my personal irritation.
“Who built this?”
“I did most of it.”
I crouched beside the engine.
“Most?”
“Changed the exhaust myself. Rebuilt the intake. Had the electrical system modified.”
“By one of your three unsuccessful mechanics?”
He ignored that.
I leaned closer, studying the exposed connections and the modifications around the intake.
The problem wasn't immediately obvious, which meant it was probably going to be annoying.
I liked annoying problems.
They gave me something to think about besides rent, supplier invoices, and the fact that my younger brother had apparently decided financial planning was a form of personal oppression.
I stood and wiped my hands on a rag.
“When did it start acting up?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Symptoms?”
“Engine cuts out when I accelerate hard. Sometimes it hesitates at low speed. Twice, the dashboard went dead.”
I nodded.
“Any recent work besides the modifications?”
“New battery.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Who installed it?”
“I did.”
“Of course you did.”
His expression darkened.
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“It means I have a growing suspicion that your motorcycle has suffered from too much confidence and not enough diagnostic equipment.”
“You haven't even touched it.”
“I don't need to touch it to know that replacing a battery doesn't fix every electrical problem.”
He folded his arms across his chest.
The movement made the tattoos on his forearms shift with the muscles beneath them.
I ignored that too.
Mostly.
“You always talk this much?” he asked.
“Only when people ask me questions.”
“I asked two.”
“And you've given me enough attitude for twenty.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he shook his head as if I were an inconvenience he'd decided to tolerate.
“Can you fix it or not?”
I stepped closer to the motorcycle.
“I can diagnose it. Whether I can fix it depends on what your modifications have done to the wiring.”
“And if I need parts?”
“We order them.”
“How long?”
“I don't know yet.”
His jaw flexed.
“I need it by Friday.”
“Today is Tuesday.”
“I'm aware.”
“Wonderful. Then we agree on the calendar.”
His eyes sharpened.
“It's important.”
“So is my reputation. I'm not going to rush a repair and send you out on a bike that could lose power in the middle of traffic.”
For the first time since he walked in, his expression changed completely.
The irritation didn't vanish, exactly. But something beneath it settled.
He studied me as if he were seeing more than the woman with grease on her cheek and a wrench in her hand.
“Fine,” he said.
I blinked.
That was surprisingly easy.
“Fine?”
“Diagnose it properly. Tell me what it needs. Don't replace anything without calling me first.”
“That's how I work.”
“And don't let anyone else touch it.”
I glanced around the garage.
“I'm the only mechanic here.”
“Good.”
Something about the way he said that made the air feel different.
Not threatening.
Not quite.
Possessive, perhaps, though it was absurd to feel that way about a motorcycle and a woman he'd known for less than ten minutes.
I shook the thought away.
“Leave your number.”
He gave it to me, and I entered it into the shop's system.
“Full name?” I asked.
“Ronan Vale.”
“I have that.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because the computer needs a customer record, not an unnecessarily dramatic introduction.”
He watched me type.
When I finished, I handed him a receipt.
“I'll call you after the diagnostic.”
He took it, his fingers brushing mine.
It was a brief contact. Barely anything.
Still, I felt the warmth of his hand long after he'd pulled away.
Annoying.
Very annoying.
“Maeve.”
I looked up.
“Yeah?”
“If you find anything that doesn't make sense, call me directly.”
“I call all my customers directly.”
“Not what I meant.”
His gaze held mine for a second too long.
Then he picked up his helmet.
“See you soon, mechanic.”
He walked out before I could come up with a response sharp enough to restore the balance of power.
I watched him climb onto his motorcycle.
The engine roared to life, and he rode away, leaving the faint smell of gasoline and the unmistakable impression that my quiet Tuesday had just become considerably more complicated.
I turned back to the bike.
“Don't start,” I muttered to it.
The motorcycle, naturally, said nothing.
I rolled it toward the center lift and began my inspection. First, the battery connections. Then the fuses. Then the modified wiring harness, which looked as though someone had attempted electrical engineering after consuming three energy drinks and a personal grudge.
Twenty minutes later, I found the first suspicious connection.
Forty minutes later, I found two more.
By the time I traced the fault to a poorly grounded section of the modified electrical system, my irritation had transformed into reluctant admiration.
Ronan had built a powerful machine.
He had simply trusted his own hands a little too much.
I made a note of the repairs required, checked the system again, and reached for my phone to photograph the damaged connection.
A notification appeared before I could open the camera.
Unknown number: Did you find anything?
I stared at the message.
Then at the clock.
Then back at the message.
He'd been gone less than an hour.
I typed a reply.
Me: Yes. Your motorcycle has a problem.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Ronan: I gathered that when I brought it in.
I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling.
Me: The electrical system needs attention. I found a faulty ground connection and some questionable modifications. I'll know more after I finish testing it.
His reply came a moment later.
Ronan: Can you fix it?
Me: Yes.
Ronan: How much?
I gave him the preliminary estimate.
For several minutes, he didn't respond.
I returned to the motorcycle, already preparing myself for a familiar argument about labor costs.
Then my phone vibrated.
Ronan: Do it.
I frowned at the screen.
No bargaining. No complaint. No demand for a discount.
Just two words.
I wasn't sure whether to be relieved or suspicious.
Before I could put the phone away, another message arrived.
Ronan: One more thing. If anyone comes asking about the bike, don't tell them it's here.
The smile disappeared from my face.
I read the message twice.
Me: Why?
This time, the reply took longer.
Long enough for me to hear the radio switch songs. Long enough for a customer to pass the open garage and glance inside. Long enough for the feeling in my stomach to change from curiosity to unease.
Then his answer appeared.
Ronan: Because the wrong people are looking for me.
I stared at the words.
Outside, a motorcycle engine growled somewhere down the street.
I told myself it was nothing.
Men like Ronan probably had enemies. Men with expensive custom bikes, tattooed arms, and faces that looked permanently prepared for a fight probably collected trouble the way ordinary people collected parking tickets.
It didn't have to concern me.
I was a mechanic.
I fixed engines. I paid bills. I went home at night and tried not to worry about the things I couldn't control.
I didn't get involved in other people's problems.
That was my rule.
My phone vibrated again.
Ronan: I'll explain when I see you.
I should have told him not to bother.
I should have blocked his number, finished the repair, and returned to my quiet life.
Instead, I typed the most sensible response I could manage.
Me: My garage is a place of business, not a hiding place. If someone comes looking for you, I'll tell them I don't know anything beyond what's necessary for the repair.
His reply came almost instantly.
Ronan: That's all I'm asking.
I set the phone facedown on the workbench.
Then I returned to his motorcycle.
The black machine gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights, silent and beautiful, as if it had never caused anyone a moment of trouble.
I ran a hand along its frame.
“You'd better be worth it,” I whispered.
I wasn't sure whether I meant the motorcycle or its owner.
By closing time, I'd finished the diagnostic and ordered the parts. I locked the front door, shut off the lights, and checked the security camera before heading to the small office at the back.
Everything looked normal.
The empty street. The shuttered shops. The dim glow of a streetlamp outside.
I gathered my bag and keys.
Then I noticed something on the counter.
A black business card.
I hadn't seen it there before.
My name wasn't on it. Neither was the name of my garage.
There was only a silver emblem stamped across the front: a skull with a pair of wings spread behind it.
I turned the card over.
Three words had been written on the back in thick black ink.
STAY AWAY FROM VALE.
For several seconds, I didn't move.
Then I looked toward the front door.
Through the glass, a black motorcycle sat across the street beneath the streetlamp.
A man in a dark helmet stood beside it, watching my garage.
Watching me.
My fingers tightened around the card.
The man lifted one hand, tapped two fingers against his helmet, and climbed onto his motorcycle.
The engine roared.
A moment later, he was gone.
I stood alone in the office, listening to the silence he left behind.
I had never met Ronan Vale before today.
I knew nothing about his enemies, his secrets, or why someone would leave a warning at my garage.
But I knew one thing.
Whatever trouble he'd brought through my door, it hadn't left with him.
And tomorrow, I would be working on his motorcycle again.
I looked down at the card.
Then I whispered the question that had begun to haunt me.
“What exactly have I gotten myself into?”
