Chapter 6 Definitely Not My Scene #2
We fall quiet for a bit, the kind that doesn’t feel awkward so much as settled. The hum of engines and the faint thump of music filter through the open doors behind us, and the sun sits lower now, turning everything gold and soft, like the world’s trying to romanticize a parking lot.
“So what about you?” I ask, knowing if I stop talking I’ll start thinking about how close her arm is to mine. “You just here to win ‘best booth hair’ or what?”
Her gaze quickly flicks towards me. “You saying you don’t like the space buns?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I was surprised,” I admit, and it comes out honest in a way I’m not always good at. “You look like you came here to steal customers.”
“I did come here to steal customers,” she deadpans, and it pulls a laugh out of me before I can stop it.
For a second, she looks almost proud of herself, like she likes being exactly what she is. “Iron Wheel Garage,” she adds after a beat, nodding toward the back corner of the lot. “That’s my booth.”
“Your shop, right?”
“Yeah.” Her voice stays even as she says it. “Used to be my dad’s. I kept the name after he passed.”
It’s said too calmly, the way people talk about the weather when they don’t want to talk about the storm.
“I’m sorry.” The words come out quieter than I intend.
She shrugs, but her shoulders hold tension anyway, like grief is a habit you never fully unlearn. “It was a while ago.”
“That doesn’t really matter.”
Her jaw shifts like she’s deciding how much to give me. “He was… kind of everything. Loud, smart, and stubborn. The kind of guy who could fix anything with enough time and cursing.”
“Sounds familiar.” I nod, fixing my eyes to the distance, but the second the words are out, I regret it, not meaning to make it about me.
She looks up then, really looks at me, and for a second there isn’t a wall between us. Just recognition.
“What about you?” she asks, voice softer now. “Your family?”
I take a breath, eyes tracking the way the light slides across the railing like it’s safer than meeting her gaze. “My dad died when I was nine. Heart attack. My mom wasn’t the same after that.”
Her eyes flick to mine with that steady look that says she knows better than to offer pity, and she waits instead.
“He had this old Triumph,” I continue, surprised at how easily the memory comes.
A small smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it.
“Loved it more than anything. Used to take it out every Sunday morning before anyone else was awake. I’d wake up to the sound of it, hear him laugh when the choke caught. ”
Raine watches me like she’s seeing a version of me she didn’t know existed, and it makes my chest tighten in a way that’s almost pleasant.
“I think that’s why I started riding.” I keep my voice steady even as the nostalgia settles in. “He used to say a bike doesn’t care who you are, only how you treat it. Guess that stuck.”
She leans her shoulder into the railing, eyes going somewhere far away. “That’s actually kind of beautiful.”
“Don’t tell Jax.” A quiet laugh slips out of me. “He’ll never shut up about it.”
That earns another small laugh from her, and it sounds real. “You think I tell Jax anything?”
“Good point.”
She pauses. “I like that, though.” Her words come out slower now, like she’s tasting them. “The idea that something only gives you what you give it. Feels fair.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, and it comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Fair’s rare these days.”
She hums again, thoughtful this time, gaze shifting back to me. “You ever ride that bike?”
“Sometimes. I started once I was old enough. My mom hated it. Said it was too dangerous, but I couldn’t get rid of it. Fixed it up, kept it running. Mostly, I take it out on weekends.”
“Still feels like him?” Her voice softens around the question like she already knows the answer.
“Every time.”
Her eyes lighten up, and a quiet smile tugs at her mouth like she can’t help it. “Yeah,” she mutters, almost to herself. “I get that.”
For a while, we just stand there in the glow of the setting sun, allowing the air to breeze all around us.
She breaks the soft silence first. “You know, for someone who looks like they panic when spoken to, you’re not terrible company.”
“I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Don’t make it weird.”
“I won’t. I’ll just write it down later.”
Her laugh escapes before she can stop it, the sound rough but easy. “You’re such a dork.”
“Comes with the job.”
She shakes her head, the corner of her lip twitching again. “How do your friends deal with you?”
“Mostly through group therapy and sarcasm.”
“I believe that.”
Music starts up again, louder now, some classic rock riff echoing through the courtyard speakers. She hums along under her breath, and I swear I’ve never seen anyone look more comfortable and guarded at the same time.
“What?” Raine asks when she catches me still watching her, the question landing sharp even though her posture stays loose.
“Nothing.” I clear my throat like it’ll hide me. “You just… look lighter out here.”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing with that familiar mix of suspicion and curiosity. “You say weird shit when you’re trying to be nice.”
“I know.”
“Don’t stop.”
That one hits me wrong in the best way, like I wasn’t braced for it at all. I don’t trust my mouth with a reply, so I just nod once, slow. Anything else might give away too much. She pushes off the railing and brushes her palms down her jeans, resetting herself like the moment didn’t matter.
“Come on. I’ll show you the booth, since you seem to like talking shop.”
“Do I?” The question slips out as I fall into step with her, still trying to figure out what just happened.
“You talk like a guy who measures his steps.”
“I do measure my steps.”
“Exactly.” Her mouth twitches like she’s amused by the fact that I proved her point without meaning to.
I follow her through the thinning crowd, shoulders angling instinctively to avoid bumping anyone, my body is always measuring space even when my brain is elsewhere. Raine moves through it like she belongs here, cutting between people without apologizing, like the world is supposed to make room.
Her booth sits near the back, tucked between two oversized brands with flashing lights and banners that look like they cost more than my ride.
Hers doesn’t need any of it. The hand-painted sign reads Iron Wheel Garage, white on black, chipped at the edges, imperfect in a way that makes it feel right.
Three bikes sit in perfect alignment: one stripped bare, one mid-build, and one fully restored. Under the soft lighting, each one looks alive in its own way, more from care than from shine.
“This is you?” I ask, even though it’s obvious, even though the question is really me admitting I’m impressed.
“Yeah.” Pride slips into her voice before she can flatten it. “My little corner of the world.”
I crouch beside the half-built one without thinking, drawn in by the details, fingers hovering near the wiring and welds like I’m afraid to touch and mess up whatever she’s built. “You work clean.”
“Old habit.” She states like it’s nothing, like it didn’t come from someone teaching her to be meticulous when she was still small. “My dad used to say messy work was lazy work. You take your time, you do it right.”
“Good advice.”
“It is.” Her gaze stays on the bike a second longer than the words, like she’s hearing his voice in her own.
I glance up at her, catching the way she’s looking at it, not just seeing it. “You miss him, huh?”
She swallows, eyes flicking to mine for half a second before she looks away again, like direct grief is still too heavy of a burden. “Every day. But this.” She gestures around the booth: the bikes, the sign, the tools lined up with purpose. “This keeps him close.”
I nod once, the motion small but real. “Yeah. I get that.”
She watches me for a second longer, like she’s deciding whether that’s true, then she shifts to something safer. “You want something to drink? I’ve got water or, uh… gas station soda.”
“I’ll take the soda.”
She tosses me a bottle, and I catch it against my chest, the plastic warm from sitting out. She leans back against the counter and cracks open her own with a quiet hiss. “So, do you ever sell anything at your booth, or do you just talk until people give you pity contracts?”
“Mostly the pity.” I lift the soda in a small salute before popping the cap. “Sometimes I get a handshake.”
“Tragic.”
“Deeply.”
She takes a sip, then studies me over the bottle like she’s calibrating what version of me she’s dealing with. “You really are different when you’re not panicking.”
The comment lands with heat I don’t know what to do with, so I let my eyes drop to the bike again like it’s a lifeline.
“I’m still panicking,” I admit, voice quieter.
“I’m just doing it in a less obvious way.
I hide it well.” I keep my voice even as I take another sip, like I’m not still hyperaware of where her attention is.
“Not that well.” The tease slips out of her with a little lift at the corner of her mouth, like she’s enjoying herself and hates that fact.
I let my grin show anyway. What’s the point of pretending? “You’d be surprised.”
She tips her chin toward the bikes, bringing the conversation back to safer ground while her eyes keep flicking my way. “You ever build one yourself?”
“Not like this.” I glance over the stripped frame, the clean lines, the careful choices. “I helped my dad rebuild one once, though. Changed the clutch, rewired the ignition. Mostly, I just held the flashlight wrong.”
Her smile goes small but warm, the kind that isn’t for an audience. “We’ve all been that kid.”
“You too?”
“Oh, yeah.” She shifts her weight, gaze drifting to the restored bike like it’s a memory she can touch. “Dad would yell, I’d yell back, and we’d fix it anyway.”
“Sounds like you.”
“Guess we had something in common.” Her voice stays light, but there’s something under it that doesn’t.
“Guess so.”
Around us, the convention starts to thin in slow waves.
People pack up displays, roll banners down, drag crates across the concrete floor with that hollow scrape that echoes in the high ceiling.
Raine stays planted in her little corner like she belongs there, arms crossed now, gaze drifting from the bikes to me and back like she’s trying to place me in a category that makes sense.
“You’re not what I expected,” she finally speaks, holding my gaze.
“Good or bad?” I ask, pretending my pulse didn’t just jump.
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“I’ll take neutral.”
“Neutral’s safe.”
“I’m a safe kind of guy.” The lie leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
She smirks like she’s been waiting for me to try that. “That’s a lie.”
“Maybe,” I admit, and it feels better than pretending.
We hang there a while after that, both of us acting like we’re watching foot traffic when we’re really just… staying. She pushes her bangs out of her eyes, and I catch myself smiling again like an idiot, which is becoming a pattern I’d like to file a complaint about.
“What?” she asks, and her brows lift like she already knows the answer.
“Nothing.” I shake my head, because saying the truth feels like volunteering to get hurt. “Just wondering how I’m supposed to go back to pretending I like conventions after this.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile sticks anyway. “You’re not smooth, Theo.”
“I’m aware.”
“It’s kind of charming, though.”
That hits harder than it should, and my throat goes tight in a way that has nothing to do with the soda. “You’re saying I’ve got a shot?”
She laughs, shaking her head, but she doesn’t shut me down the way she could. “You’ve got the endurance to try. I’ll give you that.”
“I’ll take it.” I smile like it’s a joke, but in my head it’s more like she wants me to try.
She looks at me, unable to decide if I’m trouble or entertainment, and I’m not sure which answer I want. “You should head back before your boss sends out a search party.”
“Maybe.” I glance toward the main hall, then back to her like my body refuses to cooperate. “You’ll still be here tomorrow?”
“Yeah.” She tips her chin toward the sign like it’s the only promise she’s comfortable making. “Same spot. Iron Wheel doesn’t move.”
“Then I guess I’ll stop by.”
“So, see you tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I manage, and my smile feels honest for once. “See you tomorrow.”
And for the first time in a long time, I’m actually looking forward to it.
By the time I make it back to my hotel room, my feet ache, my head’s buzzing, and I’ve got grease on my sleeve that definitely wasn’t there before.
Worth it, though.