Or something like that.
41
NOAH
“Hold the light right there,”I murmur, my grease-stained fingers tightening a brass fitting on the carburetor.
Rue shifts closer, the flashlight beam illuminating the side of the Knucklehead engine block. Her arm brushes against my shoulder, and the lingering scent of her cuts straight through the heavy smell of old oil and dust.
I give the wrench one final, solid turn until the bolt seats perfectly.
“Alright,” I say, tossing the tool onto the rusted workbench. “That’s it. Fuel lines are clear, the gas tank is full, the plugs are fresh, and the carb is clean. If she’s got any compression left in her old bones, she should turn over.”
Rue lowers the flashlight, her eyes wide and suddenly bright with anticipation. “Are you going to try it now?”
“Stand back,” I tell her, a rare surge of genuine, unadulterated hope swelling in my chest.
I grip the handlebars, throwing my right leg over the seat. I settle my weight, ignoring the dull throb in my left bicep, turn on the ignition, and take a deep breath.
I stand up on the pedals, bringing my right boot down hard on the kickstart.
The engine whines—a sluggish, metallic groan—but doesn’t catch.
“Come on,” I mutter to the machine.
I kick it again. This time, the engine coughs, a sharp sputter of combustion echoing off the corrugated steel walls of the shed, before dying out.
Rue inhales sharply, taking a half-step forward. “It almost caught.”
“Third time's the charm,” I grit out. I brace myself, drawing a deep breath, and kick the pedal down with every ounce of strength I have left.
BANG.
The exhaust backfires like a gunshot, making Rue jump, and then the massive V-twin engine roars to life.
The heavy, rhythmicthud-thud-thudof the idle vibrates through the floorboards, shaking the dust from the rafters. A cloud of gray exhaust smoke plumes out of the tailpipes, filling the barn with the sharp, beautiful scent of burning gasoline.
Fuck yes!
“Noah!” Rue screams over the deafening noise, her face breaking into a massive, blinding smile.
I roll the throttle, the engine revving with a ferocious, deafening growl that sounds like pure, unfiltered freedom. I hit the kill switch, the engine sputtering to a halt, plunging the barn back into silence.
For a second, neither of us moves. We just stare at the vintage motorcycle as the blue smoke curls toward the skylight.
“It runs,” Rue breathes out, dropping the flashlight on the workbench. She closes the distance between us, throwing her arms around my neck. “It actually runs! We have a ride out of here.”
I catch her around the waist, burying my face in her neck, a ragged laugh escaping my throat. “I need to double-check more on it, but tomorrow night, we’ll leave. As soon as the sun goes down, we pack the bags, we strap the dog to the back, and we ride straight to Arizona. After we check the news, of course.”
Which is something I’ve only been briefly doing.
She pulls back, her jade-green eyes shining with unshed tears of sheer relief. She kisses me—hard and fast, tasting like adrenaline and salvation. “Let's go tell Bullet.” She kisses me again, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the sliding door.
We slip out of the barn, the cool Texas night air hitting our heated skin. My heart is hammering a victorious rhythm against my ribs. For the first time in ten years, I actually feel like I am going to win.
Wemightbeat this.
We jog across the exposed dirt of the farmyard, Rue’s hand laced tightly with mine. We reach the back porch of the farmhouse, and I push the wooden door open, letting her step inside first.
