I kept working.
Their chatter continued in the back of my head, but my entire focus held on the piece of machinery I intended to fix.
“How long you been working shop?” Dylan leaned close again, but this time I didn’t mind as much since it forced the douchebag back.
“Rebuilt my first carburetor at sixteen.” On a bet. I’d won twenty bucks and a tank of gas. “Haven’t seen one this shitfaced in years. The pilot jet is full of gunk. Could have starved out the engine on your next ride and been left stranded.” I almost regretted having to save him the trouble, but it wasn’t the bike’s fault.
The thrum of bass mixed with laughter rolled out from the clubhouse when someone opened the door.
I ignored it the way I had this whole time.
Dylan stiffened behind me, and the other guy–I didn’t care enough to learn his name–cursed under his breath.
Something about it taking too damn long to let him in.
I cleaned and reassembled the carburetor, torqued everything down, and reconnected the fuel line. “Thanks, Dylan. You can turn off the light.”
“About time.” The prospect pushed in close and reached for the ignition.
I smacked his hand away and shoved him back a step. “Hands off until I say I’m done.”
He came after me, chin tucked and a growl baring his teeth. “Fuck off, bitch.”
“You want your bike fixed or you want to end up a greasy spot on the highway? Because right now, I have your life in my fucking hands. You almost ruined this bike, and you’re not touching itagain until I’m satisfied.” I held up my grease-stained palms and shoved him, planting double hand prints on his chest. “Get out of my way. Now.”
“Back off, man.” Dylan hooked the guy around the arm and urged him back. “She’s right. You wait till the wrench says it’s good. That’s the rule.”
Was it crazy that I loved the title? Wrench. It sounded close enough to wench that it had thrown me the first time I heard it, but not anymore.
I wiped my hands down my thighs, shifting the last of the grease from my hands to my jeans, and gave the bike one last examination.
Once I was satisfied, I turned the key.
The engine coughed, then caught, opening up into a hard, rolling growl that bounced off the bay and vibrated straight through my sternum.
Hell yeah. I left it running and wiped the bike down, removing any smudges or fingerprints I’d left behind.
The clubhouse door opened.
Hawk walked across the lot, his stride easy but the sheer amount of muscle on his body making every stride imposing.
He stopped at the open bay and leaned on the frame with his arms crossed, studying me and the bike for several seconds.
I held his gaze and waited.
He nodded once and dropped his arms. “Bring it inside. You’re cleared.”
The prospect’s eyebrows shot upward. He looked at me, mouth agape, like I’d pulled a rabbit out of my ass.
I grinned, because why the hell shouldn’t I be proud of myself, and rolled the bike off the rack to follow Hawk.
I’d come back for my tools.
After three long weeks of waiting and working toward this very goal, I wasn’t about to make him wait for me.
The clubhouse hit me all at once as I walked the bike through the door Hawk left open for me.
Too many bodies in too small a space put off waves of body heat that combined with a thick layer of beer and cigarette smoke and leather.
