Chapter 2
Jax
She’s a song stuck on replay in my head. For a whole motherfucking week, she’s been plaguing my brain relentlessly. Which is not like me at all.
Girls don’t get stuck in my head like that.
I glare at myself in the mirror while I shove my hair into that purposefully messy look that eats up way too much time for something that’s supposed to look accidental.
You’re pathetic, Jax.
Get it together.
My icy eyes stare back, smug, judgmental. It’s stupid. I know it. But today I’m taking my bike to her shop.
Iron Wheel Garage, on the south side. I searched for it the same night she gave me the name, like a stalker. Turns out it’s close to Roosters, the bar where I work. Three blocks away, to be exact. Which means this trip is completely practical. Totally innocent, of course.
I toss my leather jacket on, which still smells like smoke from last weekend, and grab my helmet off the counter. There's a buzz in my chest that isn't due to the bike. It’s because of her, Raine, with those cyan streaks and eyes that looked at me like she could snap my neck, depending on her mood.
There you go again. Pathetic.
I shake my head at myself as I lock the door behind me.
The ride over isn’t long. But it's enough to make me remember the way she handled herself in that fight—brutal. Sexy as fucking hell. By the time I pull up to the shop, I’ve talked myself into and out of this about ten times.
Iron Wheel Garage is a small, brick, old-school shop, the kind of place you’d miss if you didn’t already know you needed it.
The roll-up door sits halfway open, paint chipped and uneven, the smell of grease and hot metal rolling out into the street like it’s been there longer than the sign.
Inside, Rob Zombie’s “Living Dead Girl” hums through the space, loud enough to set a rhythm but not enough to drown out the work, and somehow it fits her without me really knowing why yet.
I cut the engine and swing off, helmet in hand, trying not to look like I’ve been rehearsing this moment in my bathroom mirror like an idiot. With my charm at the ready and my confidence locked in, I head for the front door.
Let’s see if the girl who won’t get out of my head even remembers my name.
The bell overhead gives a sad little jingle as I open the door, but she doesn’t look up, doesn’t slow, doesn’t even hesitate. Something in my chest tightens at that, because I’m used to walking into rooms and being noticed, and here I’m just another part of the background.
So my attention immediately starts pinballing instead.
The place is long and narrow, a third is a cramped lobby, and to the right, the real work area takes up the rest of the space.
There’s a counter with a beat-up register, another one behind it stacked with papers and random crap that looks important only to her, and brick walls that have given up pretending they’re clean.
The floor under my boots is dark and slick with old oil stains, layered so deep they’re basically permanent.
My focus slides right, dragged toward the work where she’s at.
Pegboards run the length of the wall, crowded with tools hung wherever they fit, no rhyme or reason I can see, just grab-and-go chaos.
My kind of organizing. The roll-up door squats at the front of it, scarred and half-open, and the concrete past that line looks even rougher, shinier with use.
Two bikes sit up on stands, one stripped down to nothing but a frame and the other half torn open, wires and guts exposed.
There’s a workbench nearby buried under rags, parts, and a mess that says someone knows exactly where everything is and doesn’t give a shit what it looks like.
I drift back toward the counter without meaning to and catch on the photos behind it.
One of them is her, younger but unmistakable, standing next to a guy with grease on his hands and a grin that feels familiar in a way I can’t explain.
He’s got an arm around her shoulders like it’s second nature, protective without trying to be, and my brain immediately files him under related somehow even though I’ve got zero evidence.
A radio sits on a dusty shelf nearby, pointless since the music’s coming from somewhere else, and along the back wall a cluster of pine-tree air fresheners hang, faded and lopsided, like they’ve been there forever.
She’s at the far end of the shop, bent over a naked frame with a ratchet in her hand, completely locked in. Hair up, cyan streaks slipping loose along her jaw when she shifts, the mandala tattoo flashing and disappearing under her short sleeve.
“You open?” I ask, leaning my hip against the counter like I belong there, part of me quietly clocks the fact that she hasn’t told me to fuck off yet, which feels promising in its own way.
She keeps working, wrist rotating as she tightens something with practiced ease. “The sign says so.” The tone’s flat, matter-of-fact but not sharp, and I file that away as a form of welcome.
“I brought a patient.” I hook a thumb toward the door, grin sliding into place like muscle memory. “Two, if you count me.”
“I only deal with bikes.” She says it without looking up, but there’s a faint hitch in her mouth like she’s tolerating me on purpose. “You should leave your ego at the door.”
I huff a quiet laugh and shift my weight, because she clocked me fast. “I tried. The bastard followed me in.”
That gets a snort out of her before she can stop it, quick and involuntary, and the fact that she still doesn’t look at me somehow makes it better and worse at the same time. “What’s wrong with the bike?”
“There’s a mid-range buzz.” I push off the counter and roll my shoulders like I’m loosening up instead of recalibrating. “Seat shakes. So does my skull.”
She straightens just enough to gesture toward the open space near the stand, already moving on like this is settled. “Roll it in. I’ll look.”
I wheel the bike forward and park it where she pointed, dropping my helmet onto the counter with a little more noise than necessary, half hoping she’ll comment on it. “Knew you couldn’t resist.”
“Save the lines.” She wipes her hands on a blue shop towel and finally turns.
Her eyes flick over me quickly and efficiently, like she’s checking for damage instead of admiring the build.
Still, she doesn’t look annoyed enough to kick me out, which I’m still counting as progress.
“If you’re wasting my time, I’ll charge you double. ”
Don’t worry. The problem is real this time, Sunshine.
“You wound me.” I grin wider as I lean into it, confidence being the one thing I’ve always been able to fake if needed. “I would never waste your time. Abuse your patience? Maybe.”
Her mouth threatens a smile, hovering there for half a second before she drops to a knee by the rearset, fingers tapping the chain before sliding underneath and giving it a firm shove. That's when I realize I’ve gone quiet, which is not my usual move.
“When’d you last lube this chain?” she asks, still focused on the bike, already knowing the answer but giving me the opening anyway.
“Recently.”
“Recently, like yesterday, or recently, like you bought lube and lost it cause you waited too long to do it?”
“I know exactly where it is. Thank you very much.” I nod, assured, like this is a point of pride and not something I absolutely forgot. “It’s at Theo’s. He guards shelves like a dragon.”
“Mm.” She hums around the word while tapping the heat shield, attention still on the bike instead of me, which is becoming a pattern. She gives the bolt a careful quarter-turn with the driver, then presses down on the seat again until it finally stays put. “Start it.”
She leans in, close enough that I’m suddenly very aware of how quiet the shop is, head tipped as she listens while I run it through the revs, waiting for the buzz that never comes. The absence of it feels almost smug.
She straightens like she already knew that it wouldn’t happen again. “Seat bolts were loosening, which made the shield shake. Just needed tightening.” She wipes at her wrist where grease smeared her skin, the motion habitual. “You’re fine.”
“Fine?” I kill the engine and look at her like I was promised more. “That’s it? No lecture?”
“Thirty bucks,” she answers, tone flat enough to pretend she isn’t enjoying this at all. “Sixty if you argue about it.”
I blink, thrown just enough to make the surprise real. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.” She sticks her hand out, palm up. “Pay up.”
I slap a twenty and a ten into her palm with a flourish, watching her mouth twitch before she reins it in. “You could’ve charged double. I would’ve thanked you.”
“Good to know.” She tucks the cash into a beat-up box under the counter, like she does this every day and doesn’t care even a little. “Next time, I’ll bleed you dry.”
“Promises, promises.”
Her eyes cut to me, sharp but warm underneath, and I catch it this time, the way the annoyance isn’t quite annoyance anymore. “You always this mouthy, or did I just get the deluxe package?”
“Deluxe comes with dimples.” I flash them now, knowing she’s reacting, even if she’d rather die than admit it.
She rolls her eyes hard, but the timing’s off, a fraction too slow, like she’s fighting a smile she doesn’t want me to earn. “That’s not a selling point. It’s a caution label.”
I laugh and lean heavier on the counter, satisfied in a way I wasn't five minutes ago. “What’s it say? Caution: devastatingly handsome?”
She doesn’t answer right away, too busy twisting the cap off her water bottle and taking a drink. When she finally puts it down and twists the cap back on, she flicks her eyes at me, dull but glinting. “Caution: talks too much, doesn’t listen, probably cries when his bike gets a scratch.”
I clutch my chest, scandalized. “Unfair. I only cried once, and it was a deep scratch.”