My sweet little man had seen way more than any child should, and although the nightmares were lessening, I worried that they’d never go away completely. We’d escaped the fire of our past, for now, but it felt like we’d forever be singed.
Carrying him into the bedroom we shared, I glanced at his little race car bed and dismissed it, tucking him into mine instead. He was a kicker, and I’d most likely regret it, but I wanted him beside me if he had another nightmare. I kissed his forehead, and before I could walk away, his little fingers clutched my shirt, holding me beside him.
“Hey buddy,” I said, brushing his hair out of his face as I smiled down on him, trying not to let my concerns or exhaustion show.
Trent’s eyes snapped open, his expression hopeful. “Mom, the bad man came, but the soldiers saved us.”
I kissed his forehead. “Of course they did.”
He’d been obsessed with soldiers since they’d started volunteering at his preschool with some anti-bullying initiative. They’d somehow convinced him that soldiers could do anything and save anyone.
I knew better. I’d seen way too much shit to believe in heroes. The only person we could depend on to keep us safe, was me.
Still, if lining our entire apartment with a protective barrier of army men made my little man feel safer, I’d buy him every plastic soldier in Seattle. And, if the bad man ever found us, I’d wish like hell they were real.
Wasp
FORMATION AUTO REPAIR had felt like home since the first day I’d walked through the doors, and the familiarity had only increased over the five years I’d been working there. All the mechanics were patched in brothers of the Dead Presidents Motorcycle Club, so I got to work with the same sons-of-bitches I hung out with after hours.
They were the best damn crew in Seattle, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Pushing through the front door, I was met with music—the latestToolsong playing on a local rock station—and a smile from the cute little blonde behind the counter.
“Mornin’, Wasp,” she said, blatantly giving me the once over.
Tiffany was thirsty and didn’t bother to hide it. She’d flirted with me throughout her entire interview, but I’d hired her anyway, knowing our customers would love her. In addition to a nice rack that she liked to display through thin, tight-ass T-shirts, she had great customer service and computer skills, and a solid resume. She’d been working the front desk for about six months, and had recently discovered the perks of being around a club full of men who liked to fuck. She’d had her sights on me ever since she signed up to be a club whore, but I wasn’t about to tumble into bed with an employee. There were few lines that I drew, but that was one.
Keeping eye contact with me, Tiffany sucked on a pen, working her tongue around it. I expected my dick to take notice, tempting me to bend her over the counter and show her why she shouldn’t do that shit, but it didn’t. Strangely enough, she didn’t do a damn thing for me, because my mind kept comparing her to the hot brunette bartender who’d spent the past three months brushing me off. And as hot as Tiffany was, she couldn’t hold a candle to Carly.
“Mornin’, Tiff,” I replied, ignoring my receptionist’s advances as I headed toward the section of the shop dedicated to motorcycle repairs and customizations.
Entering my station, I turned on the lights and looked over my current project log. I had a shit-ton of work to do on account of it being the third straight day of sunshine. In most places, the calendar announced summer, but in Seattle, the sun did. When it finally decided to peek out from behind our signature rain clouds, every fair-weather biker in the city brought their hog to my shop for an annual tune up.
Not that I minded. In fact, I loved my job. Fixing engines was in my blood, and I’d taken an interest in mechanics before I’d hit double digits. I came from a big family, and Mom and Dad were successful business people who worked long hours to rake in the Benjamins and give us kids everything we could ever want. They were good parents who’d built a solid, stable family.
Well, except for me. I was the black sheep of their perfect little flock, and despite their best efforts to round me up, I couldn’t stay confined within their structure. I didn’t even want to. While my brothers went straight from high school to college where they majored in business and minored in golf to take after our folks, the only family member I wanted to impress was my grandfather. Now, that dude… he was cool as hell.
Gramps lived next door, and my parents used to get on my case about bothering him. I made the mistake of telling him my folks didn’t want me hanging around him once. He said, “You tell those goddamn busybodies to mind their own damn business.”
Since I was five at the time, I went straight to my parents and told them what Gramps had said, word-for-word. It ended in my first experience of sucking on a bar of soap while my mom lectured me about the evils of swearing. I was spitting suds for a week, Gramps had found it hysterical, and I’d learned who I should and shouldn’t cuss in front of.
As a widower and a retired mechanical engineer, Gramps lived in a messy house but spent most of his days out in his shop, working on one project or another. He’d served in the Navy and had the best stories, a vividly colorful vocabulary, and couldn’t care less what people thought about him. While the rest of my family was always trying to get me to read or study, he welcomed my lame jokes and endless curiosity as I spent summers trailing behind him, asking questions and handing him tools.
I was twelve when Gramps brought home his first Harley project and asked if I wanted to help him restore it. The bike was a 1975 FLH Electra Glide with a bad engine, two flat tires, chipped mustard yellow paint, and a thrashed seat. It looked like it belonged in a junkyard rather than his shop, making me wonder why he would waste time and money on something so damaged. Gramps had a way of seeing past what something was to what it could be, though, and I couldn’t wait to see what he made of this hunk of junk.
We started with a full engine rebuild. Once we got the hog roaring loud enough to make my balls drop (Gramps’s words, not mine), we pounded out dents, stripped the God-awful yellow paint, and repainted the entire bike matte black. Then, we customized the shit out of it. New tires, vintage touring seat, ISO grips, chrome cooling fan, chrome sickle mirrors, chrome pipes, bullet footpegs, Beast headlight, you name it, we changed it out. Gramps named the sled Bertha, and by the time we finished her, there was nothing but the frame left of the original bike.
“Why didn’t you just buy a new one?” I asked, looking over our work. It amazed me how much cooler the bike looked. How much we’d transformed it from trash to perfection.
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “What the fuck would you have learned from a new motorcycle? I’m old and my hands are tired, and I’m not doing this shit for nothin’, you know? I’m teaching you my goddamn trade, Andrew. None of those pussy brothers of yours have ever been interested in what I do back here in the shop. Glad to see that your mom finally pushed out a son who has potential to become a man. Now, come on. Let’s go make ourselves some sandwiches, then I’ll take you for a ride on this beauty and see if we can’t pick up some broads.”
That was the day I realized that Gramps enjoyed having me underfoot as much as I enjoyed being there. He saw potential in me, like I was the living, breathing version of the Electra Glide we’d restored. He died of a heart attack shortly before I graduated from high school, leaving me his house, his shop, all the projects we’d worked on, and my share of a million-dollar inheritance. Turns out Gramps’s other interest was investing and he was damn good at that, too.
I could have moved into his house and been set for life, but I needed to make my own way. I wanted my own stories to tell my grandkid someday. So, I joined the Navy, where I learned how to work on all sorts of engines. Now, I spent my days in the bike division of Formation, rocking out while I utilized the skills Gramps had passed down to me and customized some really dope bikes.
As I worked, the peace I normally felt evaded me. Instead, my mind kept drifting back to the bar last night. No, it kept drifting back to Carly. How many times had I tried to get her number over the past few months? More than I could count. I never had to work this hard to get laid and knew I should let it go, but I couldn’t. There was just something about her that kept invading my brain space, begging me to keep trying. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was worth it.
Sure, Carly had a banging body with great curves and those little red cowboy boots she wore with her Copper Penny uniform practically brought me to my knees, but there was more. Past her long dark hair, perfect plump lips, and big brown eyes, there was something broken about her. But it wasn’t her brokenness that pulled me in. It was her innocence, her mystery, and her potential.
