Chapter 1 - Steel
The smell of motor oil and gasoline fills my nostrils as I slide out from under the custom Harley I've been working on for the past three hours. The concrete floor of the garage is cold and unforgiving against my back, but I barely notice it anymore.
This is my sanctuary: where steel, chrome, and rubber make sense in ways people never do.
"Steel, you about done with that bike?" King's deep voice echoes through the garage, “Torch gave it a go, but he forgot a few things.”
I wipe my hands on an already filthy rag and stand up, my back cracking in protest. "He’ll get better. I just finished replacing the fuel line. She's good to go."
King, our president and the man who brought me into this life, nods approvingly as he runs his hand along the gleaming tank of his prized Harley. "Always count on you to keep these babies purring."
That's my role in the Savage Riders MC. I'm not the muscle like Tank or Beast, not the explosives guy like Torch. I'm the one who keeps us moving, who understands the hearts of these machines better than I understand most people.
"Any word from Torch?" I ask, wiping a smudge off the chrome.
"Yeah, that's actually why I'm here." King leans against the workbench, his imposing body making the solid oak structure seem fragile. "His kid's sick. Can't make that collection run tonight."
I feel my shoulders tense. Collections aren't usually my thing. I prefer metal to confrontation. "You want me to find someone else?"
King shakes his head. "Nah, you can handle James Mercer on your own. Guy's a pathetic gambler, not a fighter. Just show up, look intimidating, collect our money." He slaps me on the shoulder. "Besides, everyone else is tied up with that shipment coming in."
I nod, though my stomach tightens at the thought. "What about the sister? Holly, right? She gonna be a problem?"
"Shouldn't be. From what we know, she's the responsible one. Works two jobs trying to keep them afloat while he pisses away every cent on cards and dice." King's expression hardens. "But don't let her sob story get to you. Last month you let him slide with half. We can't build a reputation like that."
I swallow hard and nod again. King's right. I'd felt sorry for Mercer last time. The guy was clearly struggling, hands shaking as he counted out bills. But the sister's tired eyes had gotten to me even more. She'd been hovering in the background, wearing that same waitress uniform, looking like she carried the weight of the world on her narrow shoulders.
"Full payment," I confirm. "Got it."
After King leaves, I finish cleaning up my workspace, organizing tools that have become extensions of my hands over the years. My brothers give me shit about how orderly I keep everything, but they never complain when they need to find something in a hurry.
The club has become my family. When those townspeople came after me years ago, accusing me of stealing parts from their shop when I was just trying to make ends meet with my legitimate repair business, it was King who stood beside me. The others followed. I didn't steal those parts, but no one would believe the quiet mechanic with grease under his nails over the respected business owner who pointed the finger.
The Savage Riders didn't care about social standing. They saw the truth, and they protected me. Joining felt like coming home after that.
I lock up the garage at six and head to my small house on the outskirts of Blackwater Falls. It's nothing special, just a two-bedroom place with peeling paint that I've been meaning to fix for years. But it's mine, paid for with honest work. Mostly.
As I pull into the driveway, I hear excited yipping from inside. My secret. The one thing my brothers don't know about me.
"Hey, Bolt," I say as the tiny Yorkshire terrier dances around my feet the moment I open the door. "At least someone's always happy to see me."
I'd found him abandoned on the side of the road last year, half-starved and matted. Couldn't bring myself to drop him at a shelter. The guys would never let me live it down if they knew about my eight-pound protector, but Bolt doesn't judge me for being the least intimidating member of an outlaw motorcycle club.
After feeding him and taking a quick shower to wash away the day's grime, I dress in my cut—leather vest with our club insignia—jeans, and boots. I tuck my Glock into my waistband at the small of my back, standard procedure for collections even if I hope not to use it. I check myself in the mirror, trying to channel Beast's unflinching stare or Rage's fury.
"Who am I kidding?" I mutter to myself, seeing only my own uncertain brown eyes looking back.
The ride to Mercer's place takes fifteen minutes, the cool evening air clearing my head. His apartment is in the run-down section of town, where buildings sag like they're too tired to stand up straight anymore. I park my bike out front, making sure it'svisible. Sometimes just the sight of a Savage Riders motorcycle is enough to make collections go smoothly.
I take a deep breath before heading up the crumbling steps to apartment 3B. The hallway smells like old cigarettes and despair. I knock firmly, three solid raps that echo down the empty corridor.
I hear shuffling inside, then a soft female voice saying something I can't make out, followed by a louder male voice responding. Good. James is home.
The door opens just a crack, held by a security chain. A pair of tired green eyes peer out at me. Holly Mercer, just as I remember her. Curvy. Beautiful. Hot. I've touched myself thinking about her more times than I'd ever admit to anyone else.
"Steel," she says quietly, her voice resigned. I'm glad she recognizes me from last month. "Please, just give us more time."
"I need to talk to your brother, Holly." I keep my voice neutral but firm. "Open the door."
