Ace of Spades (Wild Card)

1. Sienna

Chapter 1

Sienna

“E xcuse me!”

I yell across the open garage. The only person in sight is a lone welder on the other side, their back turned to me. “Hello?”

They keep working like I’m not even here. I can’t be surprised, with the K-pop that’s currently blasting through the boombox in the corner, how can anyone hear anything in here?

“I’m here to see the owner,” I try again.

The welder keeps working. The buzzing sounds from their tools loud enough to drown out my words, especially from my place at the shop’s entrance. It’s only when I unplug the boombox and the garage goes silent that they stop what they’re doing, turning and flipping the shade on their welding helmet abruptly.

It’s a woman.

"I was listening to that,” she says, flatly.

“Sorry, I–I’m here for an interview,” I wave my resume in the air and she assesses me for a moment, before fully taking off her helmet and placing it on the table next to the metal she was working on.

“Didn’t know we were hiring another wrench,” she says, walking over to me.

She has beautiful dark skin and when she pulls her long box braids out from under her welding jacket, revealing hot pink tips, I realize she can’t be much older than me.

“Oh, I’m not a mechanic,” I clarify.

The woman approaches and looks me up and down, quirking a brow up. “Then what are you interviewing for?”

“Foreman,” I say confidently.

She must find it funny because there’s the slightest hint of amusement in the way her lips pull up.

“Foreman,” she deadpans.

“Yes,” I fight the sudden urge to list off all the reasons why hiring me would be in their best interest, but she’s not who I need to convince. “The owner in?”

“Nope,” she says, turning and going back to her station. “But his office is behind that door. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

The way she says those words tell me he most certainly won’t be. But I won’t let that get to me. I’ve wanted to work here for as long as I can remember. So they’ll have to do better than a pretty welder with a bad attitude to deter me.

“I’m sure he will be,” I say, smiling wide, even though she doesn’t look at me.

She’s about to slip her helmet back on when she says, “No sitting in the boss’s chair.”

“Okay…”

“And plug that back in, will you?” She motions to the boombox and gets back to work without another word.

“Nice meeting you too,” I say under my breath as the music fills the space again.

I push open the door to the office my welcome committee so kindly pointed out, and I’m met with resistance.

“Hello?” I say, poking my head through the small gap in the door jam.

The office is dark, damp, and devoid of any personality.

There’s a dented metal desk with an avalanche of paper that looks like it spilled out of the box that’s currently blocking my way in.

I heave the door open and push past the box. “Well, this is nice,” I mutter.

I walk up to the desk and add my resume to the pile.

Looking around, past the chaos taking place on the desk, there are bike parts, stacks of boxes with vague labels like “ Things ” and “ Stuff. ”

I’m sure that’s super helpful when trying to find things… or stuff.

On the other side of the office, there's a wall that catches my attention. Old newspaper clippings from the shop in it’s prime. There’s a framed picture of the old crew, the one everyone knows from the AutoTV show that made Steele King’s Customs a household name.

Faces that have since probably moved on surround the gruff owner of the shop. A man whose gone silent over the last decade to the rest of the world. In the picture, he doesn’t smile, but his eyes are bright and full of life.

Levi Steele.

Army vet. Reality TV star. The rugged, yet undeniably handsome, face of SKC. He’s the one I’m planning on meeting today.

I touch my fingers to the picture. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Sure, it’s not the happening place I imagined it would be, but that doesn’t mean all is lost.

Making my way through the small office, I pass a bulletin board with what looks like random notes written on the faces of playing cards in bold permanent marker. All different handwriting. All in different states of decay.

We reserve the right to refuse service to assholes. Yeah, I can get behind that.

Password is PassWord. They should probably change that.

All the cards are stuck onto the board with what looks like a nail gun. And judging by the look of some of them, there must be years worth of cards.

The one at the very top of the stack, must be the most recent addition, still fresh and crisp: It says, Don’t trust the goat!

Huh.

Male voices echo through the garage, muffled by the sounds of buzzing tools and my new friend’s music. As they approach the office, their words get clearer.

“Shouldn’t this be your call to make?” A mature voice protests just outside the door.

A heavy sigh. “I’ll make the call. Just handle the interview, Benji. I have more pressing matters at the moment,” a weary voice replies.

I know that voice. It’s a voice that’s deep and smooth, like aged whiskey. A voice that makes my stomach dip and my thighs tense. And if he’s leaving before I get a chance to introduce myself, then what’s the point of me being here?

I consider coming out and telling them I can come back another time when heavy boots stomp off and the sound of a motorcycle engine roaring outside of the garage tells me the man has left.

A moment later, the handle on the door jiggles and opens, and my spine instantly straightens.

The man standing there is an older gentleman with soft brown eyes and a greying goatee, chewing on a toothpick. He’s wearing navy coveralls that look like they’ve seen better days, but he smiles as he steps inside, easing my nerves just slightly.

“So, you’re the one looking to be the new wrench?” he asks, crossing the office and pulling out the cushy desk chair. The one I’m apparently not allowed to sit in.

I clear my throat. “No, sir. I’m the one looking to run this place.”

He sits back, making the office chair squeak under his weight and levels me a look.

His face looks oddly familiar, like I’ve known him in a past life.

I grab the stool sitting off to the side and take a seat. Then, I lean over and offer him an outstretched hand with as much confidence as I can muster. “My name is Sienna Riley.”

He gazes at my hand for a moment as if waiting for it to shapeshift before taking it into his own and giving it a stern shake.

“Benji Morales,” he says, cautiously, like I’m some kind of wild animal that will show it’s claws at any moment. “Aren’t you a little young to be a foreman, Ms. Riley?” He cocks his head to the side and waits for my reply.

“To some, maybe. But I’ve been around bikes my entire life, sir. And as you can see from my resume–”

The man waves a hand in the air, dismissing whatever I’m about to say.

“Listen, I can appreciate the formalities, Miss. But there are a few things I need to check before we hire a foreman at SKC.”

“Um… o-kay,” I say, feeling my confidence slip.

He leans forward, opening a drawer and pushing the stack of papers into it, making the desktop clear, except for my resume.

“A bike won’t start. What’s the first thing you check?”

I blink. Is that all?

Squaring my shoulders, I say, “The battery. Kill switch. Fuel.”

Benji considers it with a grunt as he rubs his chin. “Good. Some folks start yanking a carb before even checking if there’s gas in the damn tank.”

“Ask me how I know,” I offer up a slight grin.

He doesn’t smile back.

“Ok, Ms. Foreman. A customer walks in wanting a full custom rebuild. Their budget’s two grand. Wants it done in a week, just in time for Daytona. What do you do?”

“Is that a serious question?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He says, face as serious as can be.

Right.

“I tell them what two grand buys, because it’s not a full custom. And if they still want the dream for cheap, I recommend a reality check and maybe a shop that cuts corners. We don’t.”

“We, huh?”

“I’ve been wanting to work here my entire life, Mr. Morales.”

He gives me a swift once-over before checking the one paper left on the desk.

“One last question.”

One? Only one question will determine whether I get my dream job at SKC. I immediately feel my armpits prickle.

He looks me in the eyes, “Finish the sentence. Don’t trust the…”

What in the trick question?

“I–I…I don’t understand.”

“Ms. Riley,” he says calmly. “Don’t trust the blank.”

I’m officially panicking. Looking around trying to get a clue as to what the hell this man is talking about.

Meanwhile, Benji Morales, who looks like he might be Levi Steele’s right hand man watches me with all the patience in the world.

Don’t trust the… Don’t trust the…

Then it hits me. The note on the wall!

“The goat!” I nearly scream out. “Don’t trust the goat!”

Finally, Benji cracks a smile.

“What does it mean?” I ask him.

And did I get the job?

He stands, pushes the desk chair back and walks over to the door silently. And just as he opens the door, he looks over his shoulder at me and waves my resume in the air.

“We’ll be in touch.”