The deputy looked at me. “You good?”
I tried for a thumbs up, but my hand was shaking. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He left us alone in the lot. For a long minute, Jo just stared at the bike, then at me, then back at the bike. “You painted this?” he asked, voice low.
I swallowed. “Yeah. All custom.”
He nodded, looking thoughtful. “It’s good. Shame to see it like this.”
I wanted to joke, to deflect, but my mouth wouldn’t work. Instead, I just watched as he circled the wreck, assessing it from every angle.
“We can rebuild it,” he said, finally. “If you want.”
I laughed, sharp and humorless. “You planning to give it mouth-to-mouth?”
He looked at me, eyes dark and steady. “If that’s what it takes.”
The intensity of it made me dizzy. I looked away, focusing on a patch of spilled oil on the ground.
Jo stepped closer, voice gone soft. “You did good work, Bo. Even if you don’t know it.”
The words made something hot and tight flare up behind my eyes. I blinked hard, willing it away. “Yeah, well. Not much left to show for it.”
He put a hand on my shoulder, solid and warm. “It can be fixed,” he said again, but it felt like he meant more than just the bike.
I shrugged, pretending the contact didn’t matter. “Whatever you say, boss.”
He let go, then gestured at the bike. “Stay here. I’ll pull the truck around.”
I watched him go, then turned back to the wreck. The paint was ruined—years of work and touch-ups, all gone in a single night. I traced my finger over the biggest scratch, feeling the edge of it bite into my nail.
For a second, I wanted to cry, but instead I just dug my heel into the dirt and reminded myself that nothing beautiful ever lasted anyway.
A voice behind me made me jump.
“Hey, McKenzie,” the deputy called from the side door. “You got a second?”
I walked over, trying not to limp. He held out a cardboard box, duct-taped shut. “We found this in the wreck. Art supplies, some paintings? Didn’t know if you wanted them.”
I took it, the weight of it a weird comfort. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He nodded, then headed back inside, leaving me alone in the alley.
I carried the box back to the bike, set it down carefully on the ground. I peeled back the tape and saw my portfolio inside—bent, some pages blood-splattered, but intact.
The sight of it made my chest ache in a new way.
Jo’s truck rounded the corner, bed empty and ready. He parked, hopped out, and in under three minutes had a rigging system set up to winch the bike into place. He worked fast, efficient, muscles flexing under his shirt with every pull.
He glanced over at me, then at the box. “You get your stuff?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He considered me for a second, then said, “You did good.”
I ducked my head, cheeks burning. “You keep saying that.”
He lifted the bike with a final heave, then tied it down so tight it couldn’t budge an inch. “Because you don’t believe it yet.”
