“That’s all I ask.” She opens her laptop and immediately begins typing.
I squint at her. That was far too easy after the last thirty minutes of intense pressure. “You’re suddenly ready to be productive?”
“I’m satisfied.” Her smile grows. “For now.”
A low groan escapes me. “I need backup.”
“Oh, you’ll need a lot more than that.”
Healing Hug #3: To stop the rage that seems to never quit.
The setting sun glints off the Harley’s chrome fender in front of me. This is a mighty fine chopper, and even better after my custom modifications. I give a final twist to set the bolt, spinning the tire to triple-check alignment. Not a wobble in sight. A burst of warmth rushes over my skin that has nothing to do with the lingering heat.
The owner will cruise away from Iron Throttle as a happy customer. But Decker always does. Erik and Grady, too. We all grew up together in this small town, but can barely be considered acquaintances. If I was more socially inclined, we could probably be friends. I rarely leave my compound unless duty calls in one form or another. People call me reclusive, a loner, and they’re right. I’ve always kept to myself and prefer to be on my own. That didn’t stop Decker from being one of the first to take a chance on my garage. He’s been dropping off his hog for years without second guessing. Trusting another man with your bike is an honor that I don’t take lightly.
This is precisely why a job done well isn’t good enough. Everything has to be perfect.
I’ve spent years building a brand for myself that brings in consistent business. There isn’t much in my life that I can take pride in. This shop, my motorcycles, and the endless dedication I pour into every project are the foundation that I stand on. Not that I rely on a lot to keep me upright. Or have anything, for that matter. Fortunately, the general public of Silo Springs appreciates hard work and reliable service. My hands are never idle for long.
Gasoline and burning rubber saturate the air without fail. The aroma is a trademark for any garage worth its reputation. That scent clings to me deeper than the motor oil beneath my nails. A slight twitch teases the corners of my lips. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.
I spend a few extra moments polishing the already glossy paint. Black and silver gleam at me, the machine’s version of a salute. I’m sure Decker will grant me his version of the same for what I’ve done, but the satisfaction flows both ways. Not even a swanky corner office with the biggest window in Wyoming could replace this feeling. A balloon of pride swells inside of my chest for all that I’ve accomplished. Not many people are running their own successful business by the ripe age of twenty-six.
The sound of tires crunching over gravel has my gaze automatically lifting. A familiar red BMW pulls into my lot, popping that expanding bout of honor faster than a straight pin. Sludge fills my veins as I watch my father steer his beloved possession toward the garage. It’s been months since he’s paid me a visit, but I could’ve survived the rest of my days without a drop-in from the old man.
As if sensing my unease, Patch growls from her cushion in the corner. Malamutes are typically a docile, albeit anxious, breed. Really not much of a watch hound. But mine is more protective than the fiercest junkyard dog. If anyone dared to cross that invisible line, her canines would be hitting bone before they threw a punch.
Edward Doxe is a man with a mission, and today is no different. The slam of his car door crashes into the comforting sounds of clinking metal and classic rock that normally surround me here. I can almost see a storm swirling around his broad frame. He takes extra care to avoid the land mines of greasy puddles and scattered tools. Heaven forbid his spotless loafers get a scuff. I feel my muscles bunch in preparation for a fight, but getting physical has never been my dad’s style. Cutting me down with words is his specialty. There’s been a target on my forehead since I suffered from a temporary stutter in kindergarten. I’ve always been a bit different from other kids. Being too quiet and withdrawn made me the bane of his otherwise impeccable existence. Over the years, I’ve learned to slam down a wall of steel to avoid the blows. My armor isn’t bulletproof, though.
Patch rises in a protective stance, her eyes watching him like a hawk tracks a rabbit. A rumble of warning vibrates from her bulky form as she waits for my command. I give her a shrill whistle, swatting the air until she relents. She gives me a frustrated whine, but collapses into her bed.
“It’s disappointing to see you’re keeping that mangy mutt around.” He lifts a brow at my companion. She curls her upper lip, showing off a set of impressive weapons.
I rescued Patch from a kill shelter. Her reality was worse than grim when I found her. Feral and considered aggressive, she had never experienced kindness until I brought her home. Not much different from my own story. We’re kindred spirits, of sorts. “I’m grateful she tolerates me.”
My father crosses his arms. “She’s filthy, and probably has fleas.”
I don’t bother wasting energy responding to that. “Something I can help you with?”
“Sharron would like you to join us for dinner on Sunday.”
“And you couldn’t just call with the invite?”
“As if you’d answer,” he spits.
“For good reason,” I retort.
He stomps forward, narrowly missing a blob of grease on the concrete. I’m a little disappointed. “You’re such a little shit.”
I make a show of appraising my body. Nothing about me is small. Maybe I have him to thank for that. But my father will never hear me give him an ounce of credit. “Then
