CHAPTER EIGHT
RILEY
It’s the night of the metal show, and the mechanics are huddled together in the garage, venting the week’s frustrations while The Battle Axes set up in the rear.
Pirate Bill cracks open a beer. “Same bullshit as always, if you ask me,” he tells the assembled mechanics. “The bikers don’t accept us because we’re queer, and half the gay community doesn’t like that we’re bikers!”
Big Jo shakes her head. “For twenty years, Dykes on Bikes has been raising money for the LGBTQ community center, but the second we start to claim our own space in town, everyone turns against us!”
Following Finn’s valiant but failed attempt to regulate our business, we’ve heard similar complaints from more neighbors about the noise, and a dance studio down the street that doesn’t like all these “rough types skulking around.” Chase and I have instructed the mechanics to be cognizant of our noise level and do what we can to mitigate, but it probably doesn’t make much of a difference to the rest of the block. As the mechanics vent, I start to get worked up, too, riding the collective outrage.
Garages are about the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable, and I know that’s true for a lot of the other mechanics here, too.
My thoughts return to Finn, and all my muscles tense. Our last encounter in Chase’s office was another disaster. I even tried to smile at him, to force myself to be “polite,” only then I got flustered and acted blunt and rude again. But hell, what was I supposed to say?
I take a break from venting with the rest of the crew, step outside for some air and am surprised to see The Scoop still lit up, apparently open late.
Finn walks out the front door. He’s wearing snug gray slacks and a pink collared shirt, and under the streetlights, he busies himself hanging a large banner.Ice Cream Social Tonight!
Another wave of confused emotions surges through me. The mechanics are right that bikers deserve a place in this neighborhood, but then I think about the way that Finn marched right into the garage, armed with zoning regulations and prepared to stand up for his business and neighbors. I can’t blame him for fighting for his community and pushing back, either.
I don’t want to ruin his business. Hell, I kind of like the guy, damn it.
So why does watching him hang a banner make me want to pull my hair out?
I try to head back toward the door before he spots me, but unfortunately, The Battle Axes choose that moment to warm up. Banging drums sound out with the squeal of an electric guitar, loud as hell, and Finn pivots to look straight at me.
Immediately, he crosses the street, bee-lining my way.
“Excuse me!” he calls out. “What is that?”
I cross my arms, fighting hard to act nonchalant. “It’s a metal show,” I tell him flatly. “Remember? I tried to warn you about this.”
He looks positively horrified. “A heavy metal band? You have a heavy metal band putting on a concert in the garage tonight?”
“Avant-garde metal. And it’s a show, not a concert.”
Probably could have told him about this ahead of time, I realize. Will have to warn the rest of the block about the next event.
Finn frowns at me. There’s a defiant light dancing in his eyes, and it gets me all worked up.
“We’re hosting an ice cream social tonight,” he says evenly. “I typically cherish my evening free time. It’s when I read and visit friends. But in an attempt to avoid my noisy new neighbors, I decided to host a mixer for some local book clubs, an after-hours event that is firmly reliant on people being able to mingle and talk about books.” The drums erupt like thunder from inside, and Finn has to raise his voice. “And tonight is the night you’re hosting an avant-garde metal show?”
“Sure am.”
He throws his arms in the air. “You’re impossible!”
“You’re impossible,” I shoot back. “Why should your event be allowed, but not ours?”
“Because my event doesn’t interfere with your event. I could throw an ice cream social twenty-four-hours a day, and you wouldn’t even notice from inside the garage. But your event takes over the entire street. I can hear you from the kitchen in the back of my shop.”
“Seems to me like you’re the one taking over the entire street, stomping around and demanding quiet. But I’ll have you know I already told the mechanics to try and keep the volume down when we can.”
“Quiet is the default! It is the neutral state. Anyway, I’m not demanding total silence. Just reasonable decibel levels.”
“Who the hell decides what decibel level is reasonable?”
He stares at me for a moment, and I realize my heart is pounding. He gets me so riled, I don’t even know what I’m saying.
