I wanted—Christ, I wanted—to climb in beside him and curl around that battered body until neither of us remembered what it meant to hurt. But I kept my hands to myself. Control: the one thing my old man ever managed to drill into me.
Instead, I made a slow circuit around the loft. The coffee was cold in the pot, so I dumped it and scrubbed the carafe. I set the table for breakfast, two plates, forks lined up military straight. I double-checked the lock on the door. All the things you do when you’re out of moves, when the only thing left is to wait.
But I couldn’t. Not really.
I padded down the stairs to the first floor, careful not to let the treads creak. The shop at night was a cathedral—high windows, every workbench a shrine, the air heavy with oil and old leather. The only noise was the ping of metal settling, the hush of the cooling block in my truck.
I flipped on a single row of lights, let the fluorescents buzz to life. Then I went to work. First was Bo’s Harley, or what was left of it.
I rolled the bike down the ramp, every jolt sending a new crack through my patience. The bars were bent, one fork twisted out of true; the tank had a crater in the side, paint flaked away to bare metal. A bloodstain on the torn seat, dark and dry, made my hands ball into fists.
I set the stand, then squatted to get a better look. Every bolt and hose was a story, every broken part a record of impact. I let my palms travel the length of the frame, the way I’d done a thousand times, feeling for what could be saved and what had to go.
Next came the custom job from Sacramento. Cherry red, lines like a predator. Bo would’ve lost his mind if he’d seen it under better circumstances.
I wheeled it to the far side of the shop, out of sight from the Harley, like I didn’t want one to catch the other crying. I lined it up with the other bikes, side by side, all pointed at the big rolling door like they were eager for a fight.
Once the bikes were set, I made my rounds. Checked the air compressor, topped off the solvent, wiped down the tools. I could’ve done it blindfolded, but tonight I took my time, making every movement count.
Then I went back to the Harley.
I dragged a shop stool over, sat and stared at it for a long time. In the hush, I could hear the creek outside, the wind rattling the old tin roof. My fingers itched for the wrench, but I didn’t start yet.
Instead, I pulled out my phone and snapped a dozen pictures of the damage—close-ups of the tank, the bent bars, the blood. Documentation, in case I needed to show Bo what he’d survived.
I let myself imagine the wreck. The sound of rubber screaming, the judder of metal as it hit the road. Bo flying, then getting up, dusting himself off with that fucked-up grin.
He’d always been too stubborn to die.
My jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. This wasn’t a random hit. I knew that. And the bastard who did it was still out there, probably laughing, thinking Bo was an easy mark.
Not anymore.
I wiped my hands on a rag, then started a list of parts and supplies. New bars, new tank, full rebuild on the front end. I mentally ran through the inventory, calculating what I’d have to order, how fast I could turn it around.
By the time I finished in the shop, the sun was all the way up and the air smelled like cold iron and wet pine. I set the alarms, checked the locks twice, then took the stairs back to the loft two at a time.
Bo hadn’t moved. He was still dead asleep, curled under the quilt, a soft snore leaking out every third breath. The sight of him—safe, small under the covers—hit me harder than anything I’d felt in years.
I leaned against the doorframe and watched him breathe, letting the anger bleed away. Tomorrow, I’d start the work. Tomorrow, I’d put him back together, better than new. And if anyone tried to take him apart again, I’d make goddamn sure they regretted it.
I let him be, and headed for the kitchen. I grabbed another cup of coffee and walked out onto the balcony that hung over the back of the building.
The view wasn’t much: rooftops, the old schoolhouse in the distance, a patchwork of fields going muddy in the morning thaw. But I could see all the way down the main drag, and when I leaned out, I caught the river glittering through the trees.
Below, through the shop window, the Harley glinted in the light. The dent in the tank caught my eye, a gash of raw metal where the paint used to be. My chest went tight, fury and pride swirling together until I couldn’t tell which was which.
I thought about Bo, about the way he flinched when I raised my voice, the way he’d taken every hit and still got up swinging. I thought about the bastard who’d done this, the one who thought nobody would come for him.
I sipped my coffee, set the cup on the railing, and pulled out my phone.
Knox answered on the first ring, voice raspy with sleep. “You back?”
“Yeah. Bo’s with me. He’s not going anywhere for a while.”
A pause. “He okay?”
I watched a crow hop along the gutter, head cocked. “He’s alive. That’s enough for now.”
