Diesel’s Last Chance (Steel Sinners MC #9)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DIESEL

The air in The Boneyard Garage is thick as gravy, a swirling mix of grease hanging heavy in the humidity, the scorched scent of coffee from this morning, and the sharp, bitter bite of steel filings drifting around like invisible grit.

Every breath I drag in, it hits me right in the chest. The fumes, the clang of metal on metal.

This place is real in a way the Strip out there never is, all shimmering heat and showmanship, everything riding on luck and flash.

Here, reality is measured in torque and horsepower. No smoke and mirrors.

It’s a typical Thursday in the garage. The sun’s barely come up, and I’m elbow-deep in the guts of a vintage Mustang, chrome and polish warping my face into a funhouse version of reality as I lean in closer.

My hair's tied up and already escaping, strands sticking out in every direction, and my knuckles are black with grease that isn’t coming off any time soon.

It’ll take three showers and half a gallon of industrial soap to even make a dent in it.

But that’s the job. There’s nothing fast or fancy about it, not in here.

Just sweat, stripped bolts, and that slow, patient hunt for what makes this car more than a pretty shell.

It is quiet, mostly. The sound of Benny’s classic rock station hums in the background, competing with the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Jax trying to find where he parked his torque wrench for the fourth time this hour.

I don't look up when Jax curses under his breath.

This is my sanctuary. Here, every problem has a mechanical solution.

You turn the bolt, the pressure changes, the engine sings.

People are significantly more complicated.

My phone starts vibrating on the workbench, dancing a frantic little jig next to a pile of gaskets. I don't look at it. I'm in the zone, that sweet spot where the rest of the world just falls away into the background noise of the shop.

It buzzes again. And again. The sound is an intrusion, a jagged edge cutting through the smooth rhythm of my work.

I wipe my hands on a rag that has seen better decades and squint at the screen through the smudge of a fingerprint.

It’s Alana. My little sister doesn’t call three times in a row unless someone is dying or she’s found a vintage leather jacket she absolutely needs me to bankroll.

"Hey, kid," I say, pressing the phone to my ear with a clean-ish shoulder while I try to keep a stubborn bolt in place. "If this is about that bike you want, the answer is still no. You’re too fast for your own good as it is."

"Diesel." Her voice is shrill and sharp. It isn't the playful tone of a sister looking for a favor or the sassy retort I usually expect. It’s the sound of someone who is holding back a scream, or perhaps already letting one out in slow motion.

I drop the wrench. It hits the concrete floor with a heavy, final thud that echoes through the rafters. Jax stops his pacing, and even Benny looks up from the ‘Vette. They know that tone. It’s the sound that turns a mechanic back into a Sinner.

"What happened?" I ask, my voice dropping into the low, dangerous register that usually makes people start backing toward the nearest exit. I’m already moving toward the sink, ignoring the grease as I grab a handful of industrial grit soap. "Are you hurt? Where are you?"

"I’m fine. I’m at the apartment, but it’s Serenity," Alana says, her breath hitching in a way that makes my chest tighten. "It’s bad, Diesel. There’s a guy from her accounting class.

He’s been following her, and today he emailed a picture of her sleeping.

Through the window. He was outside our place last night. "

The soap bubbles in my hands turn a murky, dark gray, but all I can see is Serenity’s face.

Not the way I usually try to picture her—smiling, safe, tucked away in the 'off-limits' corner of my brain—but vulnerable.

Terrified. I think of her eyes, that specific shade of blue that always reminded me of the sky right before a desert storm, and I feel a cold, hard knot of rage settle behind my ribs.

"Did you call the police?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Campus security is a joke, and the LAPD doesn't move for a stalker until there’s a body to outline in chalk. My little sister knows how the world works; she grew up in the shadow of the chrome skull.

"They said they can't do anything because he hasn't threatened her yet," Alana spits the words out like they're poison. "He’s lurking, Diesel. She’s terrified to leave the room. She’s sitting on the floor right now, and she won’t even look at her phone because he keeps calling from blocked numbers. I don't know what to do."

“Pack her bags,” I snap, the decision slamming into place before Alana’s protest even registers. My hand is already closing around the familiar, weighted fob of the SUV, the cold sheen of urgency in my veins. “Pack everything she’ll need for a month. Yours, too. I’m leaving now.”

“She isn’t going to agree to that.” Alana’s voice jitters with nerves, but there’s a crack of hope sparking in the undertone. “She thinks she can just wait him out.”

“She isn’t waiting for shit,” I growl, already striding for the door. “I’ll make her understand. Tell her I’m coming. And lock the goddamn door, Alana. Don’t open it for anyone except me—you got that?”

“I hear you,” she breathes, voice thinned out and tight. “Please hurry.”

I hang up and look at Bones. He’s leaning against the frame of the office door, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair messy from a day under a hood. He doesn't need to ask. He heard enough.

"Go," Bones says, his voice like grinding stones. "I’ll handle the shop. Let me know if you need backup."

I don't thank him. We don't do that. I just nod, grabbing my cut from the hook by the door and sliding it over my hoodie. The leather is heavy, a familiar armor.

I climb into the SUV, the black leather interior cool against my skin.

The engine turns over with a muted roar, a beast restrained by German engineering.

As I pull out of the garage and hit the highway toward the California border, the neon lights of Vegas begin to fade into the rearview mirror, replaced by the long, stretching shadows of the Mojave.

The drive to Los Angeles is usually a four-hour blur of asphalt and sagebrush, but today it feels like a marathon.

My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white.

The phantom image of this motherfucker who dared to threaten Serenity flashes through my mind.

I don't know his face, but I know his type. Cowards who prey on women because they can’t handle the weight of their own insignificance.

I try to focus on the road, on the rhythmic thrum of the tires, but my thoughts keep drifting back to Serenity.

It’s a dangerous place to go. I’ve spent the last several years building a wall between us, a fortress made of 'best friend's brother' labels and polite, distant smiles. She’s Alana's younger, best friend. She’s headed for a life of spreadsheets and corporate towers, a world that has nothing to do with the grease and grit of my reality.

She’s the girl who used to sit at my kitchen table and laugh at Alana’s jokes, her blonde hair catching the light in a way that made it hard to breathe.

I remember the first time I realized she wasn't a kid anymore.

It was two years ago when I went to LA to visit Alana.

Serenity had walked in wearing a sundress that looked like it was made of sunshine, and when she smiled shyly, the fucking world just… stopped.

I’d turned away. I’d walked to the bar, downed a shot of whiskey, and spent the rest of the night fighting to keep my cock from growing hard.

Because that’s what you do when your sister’s best friend starts looking like a woman you’d burn the world down for.

You look the other way. You remember the rules.

You remember that some things are off-limits for a reason.

But the rules feel thin now. I imagine her sitting on that apartment floor, terrified of a shadow outside her window, and the wall I built starts to crumble.

I don't care about the labels. I don't care about the distance I’ve tried so hard to maintain. All I care about is the fact that she’s scared, and I’m going to fucking protect her. No matter what.

I pass the sign for Barstow, the desert wind buffeting the side of the SUV.

The sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges.

It looks like a warning. Or maybe it looks like the way I feel.

Dark and looming. Ready to settle over anyone who thinks they can touch what belongs to me.

Because that’s the truth I’ve been burying under car repairs and club politics.

Serenity doesn’t just belong to Alana as a friend.

In some dark, primal part of me that I usually keep locked up tight, she’s mine.

She has been since she was eighteen and looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.

I’ve been a gentleman about it. I’ve been the protective older brother figure. I’ve been a fucking saint.

The saint is dead. He died the second Alana told me about that picture through the window. Now, there’s just the Sinner, and he’s heading to LA to protect his girl.

I reach for my phone and dial Alana back. She answers on the first ring. "How far are you?"

"Two hours, maybe less if traffic cooperates," I say. "Is she okay?"

“She’s okay. She’s just worried.”

“Put her on the phone.” I need to hear her voice.

There’s a muffled exchange, a moment of hesitation, and then a voice that makes my heart stutter in a way no engine ever could. "Diesel?"