Then I walk out, grab my things, and leave.
FOUR
I absentmindedly tapthe screwdriver on the workbench as my gaze stays fixed on the Harley Davidson Fat Boy in front of me. It’s a fucking beautiful bike; its matte black body now the perfect contrast to the subtle chrome catching the light. It’s not quite done yet, and the client is picking it up in a couple hours… but my head’s been somewhere else.
And it’s been there since Thursday.
Since sweater guy.
I told him he’d make me obsessed. And he did.
Five days. That’s how long it’s been since I made him come in a bar office. Since he gave me the best blowjob of my life, and then just left like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing. I know it wasn’t.
A sharp thud on the bench pulls my attention away from these perfect memories, and I glance up to find Caz looking down at a chain tensioner. Just fucking dropping it on the bench like it doesn’t cost a thing.
“What?” he asks, shrinking back a bit when he notices me staring at him.
I point my screwdriver at the part, then at the Yamaha Bolt he’s working on in the next bay. “That better not be going on that.”
He frowns and glances down at the tensioner, then back up at me. “Yeah… why?”
I sigh, flip the screwdriver in my hand, and drive the tip into a scrap piece of wood on the bench beside me.
“Don’t look at him,” I snap when Caz glances at Mac for backup.
Mac just chuckles from his bay, elbow-deep in the guts of an old El Camino. But I don’t take my eyes off Caz. He’s a prospect and still green… and he needs to learn. Not just the mechanics, but the rhythm of this place. The hierarchy and the respect. Not the kind you say out loud, he came with that. But the unspoken kind that holds clubs like this together.
His fingers twitch near the chain tensioner. I yank the screwdriver free and point it at him again.
“That,” I say, “is too light-duty for the rear mods you’re doing. It'll rattle loose the second that bike hits 5,000 RPM. You want it falling apart with someone on it?”
Caz lets out a breath and pushes it away. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, flopping onto a stool. Then he jerks his chin toward the Harley in front of me. “What are you doing anyway?”
I twirl the screwdriver in my fingers and return my gaze to the Fat Boy. “Thinking.”
“About the fender?” he asks.
I whip my head towards him. “The fender is fucking perfect. What are you talking about?”
His eyes go a little wide, and a shop rag hits me square in the back. I glance over my shoulder to see Mac shaking his head at me with an amused look.
“Be nice to our baby,” Mac says, his smirk shifting toward Caz. “Kid’s new. Doesn’t know any better yet.”
Caz scoffs under his breath. “Next time I’ll just smile and nod at your perfection.”
I shoot Caz one more glare, then turn back to the Harley.
Like I’d listen to a guy whose favourite tree is birch.
Birch.
“So,” Caz says cautiously, “thinking about what then?”
I let out a sigh as my eyes trace theperfectfender. “Sweater guy.”
“Who?”
