He cocks his head. “You know you’re good.”
“What’s the catch?” I ask, setting my bag down on the tool bench.
“No catch. We drop our stuff off, you tell us how much, and we pay and pick it up when it’s done.”
I bite my lip. “Okay, I could do that.”
He nods. “We have a bike we need to leave here.”
I glance around and notice the bike out in front. “Okay.”
Grave looks up and nods. One of them opens the bay, and a bike rolls in and parks, making a noise I recognize instantly.
“How do you want me to get ahold of you when it’s done?” I ask.
“We’ll be around,” Grave says as he turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. I guess we’re done.
Okay, that was weird.
The bay door rattles shut as they pull out, engines roaring to life before the sound fades down the road. Two bikes. One truck is following close behind. I watch until they disappear, then turn back to the shop.
The bike they left behind sits quietly and innocently, like it didn’t just arrive with a whole lot of baggage. I jot down the part I’ll need to order and add it to my list, then wipe my hands on a rag and head upstairs.
Owen’s at the table with a bowl of cereal and his math spread out like it personally offended him.
“What did they want?” he asks, spoon hovering midair.
“They dropped off a bike to get fixed,” I say, grabbing a bowl and pouring myself cereal—dinner of champions. I sit across from him and eat while I watch him stare at his worksheet.
He chews, thinking hard. “Not all bikers are bad.”
I take a bite. “No, probably not. These guys don’t like Sully and are going to make sure he leaves us alone.”
He nods, satisfied, then squints at the paper. “But some of them definitely look like they’d punch a guy for looking at them wrong.”
“That’s fair,” I say. “That’s a solid observation.”
He sighs dramatically and pushes his bowl aside. “Can you help me with number seven? I don’t get why there are letters in math anyway. That feels like a trap.”
I lean over and glance at it. “It’s not a trap. It’s just algebra.”
He groans. “See. That’s exactly what a trap would say.”
I laugh, nudging his knee with mine. “You’ll survive. I promise.”
He eyes me over his cereal spoon. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
He goes back to his math, muttering under his breath, and I sit there with him, spoon clinking against the bowl, thinking how moments like this feel normal in the best way. He shouldn’t be worried about our safety. He should be worried about algebra.
The shop door rattles open, and I don’t even have to look up to know it’s Ollie. I feel him the second he steps inside, that shift in the air that always happens when he’s near. I wipe my hands on a rag and turn just in time to see his eyes lock on the bike sitting in the bay.
The temperature in the room drops.
“What’s that?” he asks, already sounding pissed.
I walk toward him, keeping my voice calm. “They dropped it off this afternoon. Said they needed some work done. Just business.”
