“Diaz?” Brian asked.
“Yeah,” Hank said. “She thinks our friends might be trying to recruit some locals at the bike shop just out of town. Wants us to be another set of eyes.”
Brian’s mouth tightened. “I hate those guys,” he said. “Like parasites.”
“Parasites get removed,” Jason said. “Eventually.”
Hank glanced at the clock on the exposed pillar. “We should move,” he said. “If we’re late for the application, Liz’ll put our heads on pikes outside city hall.”
“Free publicity,” Brian said.
City hall smelled like floor polish and old paper.
Bree met him at the front steps, hair twisted up, a folder tucked under her arm. The sight of her, even in the mundane setting, still did something quiet and seismic inside him.
“How bad was it?” he asked, nodding at the folder.
“Bad-ish,” she said. “My accountant says if the board says no and we operate as just the shop and private studio, we’re tight but not doomed. If they say yes, the workshop income gives us breathing room faster. Either way, there’s less cushion than we hoped for the first year.”
“You still in?” he asked.
She held his gaze. “I called Charlie,” she said. “He’s sending a letter to the board. He offered to help financially if we needed it, but I told him no. Bryn’s insurance already got me this far. I can’t…” She trailed off, eyes bright. “I want this to stand because we built it. Not because the universe felt sorry for us.”
Pride swelled under his ribs. “Then we build it,” he said.
They filed the application with Liz’s assistant, a woman with a perpetually frazzled bun and a stack of color-coded folders. Papers were stamped, signatures collected. A date was set for the hearing. Two weeks. Not long, but not immediate either. Enough time for worry to find footholds.
As they stepped back out into the sunlight, Liz caught up with them, breath puffing a little.
“I talked to a couple of the board members this morning,” she said. “Unofficially. One’s worried about parking, the other’s worried about noise. If you can get written support from the café, the marina, and the antique shop, it’ll help. They’re the ones who usually complain.”
“I’ll go by this afternoon,” Bree said.
“I’ll go with you,” Hank added.
Liz smiled. “That’s the spirit,” she said. “And Hank? Diaz mentioned the situation at the bike shop. You going out there?”
He blinked. “Word travels fast.”
“In a town this size?” Liz said. “It’s practically a sport. Be careful. I’d rather not hold a memorial next to a zoning hearing.”
“I plan on avoiding both,” he said.
The beach felt different without the Cup banners.
Quieter, for one. The grandstands had been removed, and people walked with their toes in the sand. The air held the familiar overlay of fuel and rubber, but the buzz of big-race tension was gone, replaced by the more relaxed energy.
At the bike shop, local riders wheeled bikes out of pickups and battered trailers; some wore full pro gear, others mismatched leathers. A handwritten sign at the entrance read TEST DAY – SIGN WAIVER INSIDE.
Hank and Brian signed in with an attendant who looked vaguely starstruck but managed to keep the squeaking to a minimum. Hank kept his helmet in his hand, resisting the urge to turn the day into a full-on practice session. They were here to watch, not set lap records.
“There,” Brian murmured.
Near the far end of the lot, a small knot of riders had gathered around a van with out-of-state plates. The van’s back doors stood open, revealing shelves of neatly lined boxes. A man in a branded jacket leaned against the bumper, talking animatedly, hands moving like punctuation.
Hank’s pulse ticked up.
“See the logo?” Brian asked under his breath. “Different from Einstein’s guys, but same vibe.”
