Chapter 4
FOUR
I absentmindedly tap the screwdriver on the workbench as my gaze stays fixed on the Harley Davidson Fat Boy in front of me.
It’s a fucking beautiful bike; its matte black body now the perfect contrast to the subtle chrome catching the light.
It’s not quite done yet, and the client is picking it up in a couple hours… but my head’s been somewhere else.
And it’s been there since Thursday.
Since sweater guy.
I told him he’d make me obsessed. And he did.
Five days. That’s how long it’s been since I made him come in a bar office. Since he gave me the best blowjob of my life, and then just left like it was nothing.
But it wasn’t nothing. I know it wasn’t.
A sharp thud on the bench pulls my attention away from these perfect memories, and I glance up to find Caz looking down at a chain tensioner. Just fucking dropping it on the bench like it doesn’t cost a thing.
“What?” he asks, shrinking back a bit when he notices me staring at him.
I point my screwdriver at the part, then at the Yamaha Bolt he’s working on in the next bay. “That better not be going on that.”
He frowns and glances down at the tensioner, then back up at me. “Yeah… why?”
I sigh, flip the screwdriver in my hand, and drive the tip into a scrap piece of wood on the bench beside me.
“Don’t look at him,” I snap when Caz glances at Mac for backup.
Mac just chuckles from his bay, elbow-deep in the guts of an old El Camino.
But I don’t take my eyes off Caz. He’s a prospect and still green…
and he needs to learn. Not just the mechanics, but the rhythm of this place.
The hierarchy and the respect. Not the kind you say out loud, he came with that.
But the unspoken kind that holds clubs like this together.
His fingers twitch near the chain tensioner. I yank the screwdriver free and point it at him again.
“That,” I say, “is too light-duty for the rear mods you’re doing. It'll rattle loose the second that bike hits 5,000 RPM. You want it falling apart with someone on it?”
Caz lets out a breath and pushes it away. “For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, flopping onto a stool. Then he jerks his chin toward the Harley in front of me. “What are you doing anyway?”
I twirl the screwdriver in my fingers and return my gaze to the Fat Boy. “Thinking.”
“About the fender?” he asks.
I whip my head towards him. “The fender is fucking perfect. What are you talking about?”
His eyes go a little wide, and a shop rag hits me square in the back. I glance over my shoulder to see Mac shaking his head at me with an amused look.
“Be nice to our baby,” Mac says, his smirk shifting toward Caz. “Kid’s new. Doesn’t know any better yet.”
Caz scoffs under his breath. “Next time I’ll just smile and nod at your perfection.”
I shoot Caz one more glare, then turn back to the Harley.
Like I’d listen to a guy whose favourite tree is birch.
Birch.
“So,” Caz says cautiously, “thinking about what then?”
I let out a sigh as my eyes trace the perfect fender. “Sweater guy.”
“Who?”
“My god,” Mac groans from under the hood. “Let it go, man.”
“No,” I say, swinging my screwdriver to point it at him.
But he walks over to the bench, grabs a different wrench, and bats the screwdriver away.
Fucker.
“Who’s sweater guy?” Caz asks again, looking far too fucking eager for my liking.
I consider giving him shit for it, but I take it easy on him and just shrug. “I don’t know.”
His brow furrows as his eyes flick to Mac, so quick I almost don’t catch it. But the kid learns quickly, and he’s smart enough to keep his gaze on me.
Mac snickers and ducks back under the hood.
“You don’t know his name?” Caz asks carefully.
I shake my head as I push the head of the screwdriver into the pad of my thumb. Pain flares, and I smile, thinking of the way sweater guy chased that same burn like it meant something.
When I look up at Caz again, he’s watching me with a cocked eyebrow.
I shift in my chair. “He’s a professor. Teaches quantum mechanics at UNB.”
Caz lets out a low whistle. “Damn.”
“So out of your league,” Mac mutters. “No wonder he didn’t give you his name.”
“I never asked for it, fucker, so shut your fucking mouth,” I growl, turning to launch the screwdriver at Mac, successfully hitting him right in the ass with the pointy end.
“Fuck!” He whirls around and glares at me. “You fucking psychopath.”
“Give me my screwdriver back,” I say, holding out a hand, palm up.
“Fuck no,” he grumbles, turning back to the engine.
I look at Caz and nod my head towards the screwdriver on the floor beside Mac.
He hesitates for half a second, then gets up and fetches me my screwdriver.
He’s a good kid.
He just needs to pick a better tree.
“So…” he says thoughtfully, settling back on the stool, “he wore a sweater?”
I nod, blood immediately rushing south at the memory of that navy blue cable-knit, and the way it hugged his shoulders like they were a well-kept secret. Then the way he peeled it off like he was purposefully signalling for me to ruin him. “Did he ever.”
“If you know he’s a professor at UNB, and you know what he teaches, you could just look him up,” Caz suggests with a shrug.
I’ve thought of that.
But that’s too easy.
The way he looked at me before he left, with just a flicker of hesitation, and something dark and restless swimming in those deep blue eyes… that wasn’t nothing. That was an invitation and a challenge. Like he was leaving a match lit in a trail of gasoline, daring me to follow the burn.
He wants to be found.
And I know when a man wants to be chased.
That, and I only have a flip phone no one knows about. And I just don’t have the patience for one of the guys to get me on a computer and show me how to use it. Who has time for that shit?
So I just nod. “I’ll find him.”
Very soon.
Movement in the office catches my eye, and I turn to see Kurt passing through on his way to the clubhouse. I toss my screwdriver at Mac again when he’s not looking, then head in after Kurt as Mac grumbles with some foul fucking language aimed my way.
No fucking respect around here.
The common room of the clubhouse is quiet when I enter, and I find Kurt in the kitchen area, pouring himself a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” I say, slipping my hands into my pockets as I stop across the island from him.
He replaces the pot on the warmer and leans back against the counter. “Hey.”
“Buyers finalized for the auction?”
He just sighs.
Fuck.
“Fewer and fewer every time,” he mutters, rubbing a hand through his hair. “The guy who requested the Porsche 911 backed out.”
I see red. “The fuck? We tracked that car for months. It took three border hops and two grand in bribes just to get the damn thing over here.”
“I know,” he says gruffly. “It’s getting harder to move these cars.
The market is too fucking soft. No one wants to drop cash on luxuries anymore.
Not even when they’re heavily discounted.
” His eyes sweep the empty clubhouse like it might hold answers.
“We’re going to need a club meeting soon to make a plan. ”
“Jesus Christ…” I mutter, reaching into the front pocket of my cut and pulling out a pack of smokes. I did quit again, and it’s been ten hours this time. Which is a fucking eternity. But I need a stress reliever, so I’ve earned it.
As I light my cigarette, I notice Kurt gazing towards the meeting room.
“What?” I ask, exhaling smoke in a slow stream as I lean forward to rest my elbows on the island.
He remains quiet for a moment. “We might be at a point where we need to branch out.”
I narrow my eyes, knowing exactly where this is going.
“We could always run guns—”
“No,” I say immediately, blowing smoke right at him. He may be my president, but he’s also my uncle, so it isn’t disrespect. It’s a family perk.
He holds my gaze, and I take another slow drag, then let the smoke curl between us as I exhale. “We don’t do that.”
Kurt huffs. “Because car theft is so much more ethical?”
“It is,” I shoot back. “We’re not putting weapons into the hands of people who will kill with them. We’re jacking overpriced toys from people who can afford five more. No one’s dying because I lifted a Bimmer.”
Kurt studies me for a moment, then nods.
“Let me talk to the buyers,” I say, straightening up. “I’m persuasive.”
He chuckles and lifts his mug to his lips. “That you are.” He takes a long drink, then sighs. “Alright, you handle this one. Get these fuckers to stop sitting on their stacks and actually spend some of it.”
I stub out my cigarette in the ashtray. “Oh, I will.”
And then it’s time to follow the burn.
To a sweater-wearing, chaos igniting professor who lit the trail.