Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
SERENITY
I stand in the doorway of the Boneyard Garage, the desert sun hot on my neck, and watch the dust motes dance in the shafts of light cutting through the high windows.
Diesel doesn’t just walk into the space; he inhabits it.
The moment we cross the threshold, his posture shifts, the protective tension in his shoulders giving way to a fluid, commanding ease.
He looks like he belongs here among the skeletons of motorcycles and the gutted bodies of vintage cars, the low hum of classic rock bleeding from a Bluetooth speaker in the corner.
“It’s incredible,” I whisper, and I mean it.
The scale is massive, a cathedral dedicated to internal combustion.
Grease and chrome everywhere, but not like I expected.
The place is weirdly spotless. The floor isn’t littered with parts or those shop towels the color of old blood—you could practically eat off the polished concrete.
Racks line the walls, every tool hung perfectly on its hook, gleaming in the light, as if Diesel personally threatens anyone who leaves so much as a socket out of place.
“I expected… I don’t know. Something smaller. Grittier.”
Diesel lets out a low huff of a laugh, a sound that vibrates somewhere deep in my chest. “Bones and I don’t do small. We do it right, or we don’t do it at all. Come on. I’ll show you the guts of the operation, and if you feel brave, I’ll teach you a little bit about what I do.”
“I can handle whatever you throw at me,” I tell him as he leads me deeper into the shop, weaving through a maze of half-finished projects.
“That’s my girl.” We pass a tall, skinny man covered in tattoos, swearing rhythmically at a heap of gears and a dismantled transaxle.
Diesel introduces me to him, and I find out this is Benny.
Further back, two identical men who I assume are the twins, Edwin and Chris, are working in eerie sync on a matte-black bike and a vintage car parked bumper to bumper. They barely pause to acknowledge me.
“Diesel!” A booming voice echoes from a raised office platform. A massive man with dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass starts down the stairs.
“Bones,” Diesel acknowledges, his hand finding the small of my back. It’s a light touch, barely there, but through the thin fabric of my sundress, it feels like a brand. “This is Serenity. Alana’s friend. She’s staying with me for a bit.”
Bones stops in front of us, his gaze sweeping over me with calculated precision. He isn’t being rude; he’s assessing. “Nice to meet you.” He smiles at me.
I straighten my spine. “You too.” I return his smile.
Diesel’s hand tightens slightly on my waist, and electricity flows down my spine. Bones blinks, slow and deliberate. “Welcome to the Boneyard, Serenity. We’re happy to have you.” He nods toward Diesel and disappears toward the back.
I watch Bones disappear, every muscle in his back radiating confidence. The man is enormous, but he moves like he owns every square inch of this shop.
Diesel leans in, dropping his voice to a rumble only I can hear. “Don’t let him intimidate you. Bones is a big softie unless you mess up one of his engine builds.” He grins, and the smile does something wild to my insides.
“Noted,” I mutter. “Don’t touch his engines. Got it.”
A muscle jumps in Diesel’s jaw. Damn, he’s hot when he’s in his element. “Come here, sweetness,” he says, already walking past a half-gutted motorcycle. “Let’s get your hands dirty.” Oh, boy. What I know about vehicles could fill a Post-It note.
He leads me to a workstation where a partially disassembled old Mustang sits. Diesel grabs a pair of nitrile gloves and hands them to me, his fingers brushing mine as I take them. The contact sends a jolt up my arm that I try very hard to ignore.
“This is a ’68 Mustang,” he explains, his voice falling into a rhythmic, professional cadence. “She’s got a nasty leak. It’s a simple fix, but it requires patience. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of that if you’re willing to stare at tax codes all day.”
He steps behind me, his large body acting as a heat-sync against my back.
He doesn’t touch me, not at first, but the air between us feels thick, pressurized.
“Reach in there,” he commands softly, his breath ghosting over the nape of my neck.
“Left side. See that bolt? We need to loosen it, but not all the way.”
I reach out, my hands trembling slightly. The cold steel of the wrench feels alien in my grip. I fumble with the placement, my knuckles brushing against a jagged edge of the engine block. Before I can pull back, Diesel’s massive, warm, calloused hands envelop my smaller fingers.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his chest pressing against my shoulder blades. I can feel the hard, solid lines of his pectorals, heat radiating through his shirt. “Don’t fight the tool. Let it do the work for you. Just a slow, steady pull. Feel that?”
I feel everything. His voice vibrating through my spine.
His thumb tracing the back of my hand as he guides the wrench.
The slow, deliberate friction makes my skin tingle.
The clanging of metal, the distant rock music, and Benny’s creative swearing all fade into a dull blur.
The only thing in high-definition is Diesel.
“I feel it,” I manage to say, though my voice sounds thin, even to my own ears. We turn the wrench together, a synchronized movement that feels far more intimate than a mechanical repair has any right to be. The bolt gives way with a satisfying crack.
Diesel doesn’t let go immediately. He stays there, his hands still covering mine, his chin resting just above my shoulder.
We stay in that suspended moment, the silence between us heavy with everything we aren’t saying.
It is a charged, electric stillness making my skin prickle with a need I shouldn’t have for my best friend’s brother.
“You’re a natural,” he says finally, his voice rough. He pulls away, and the sudden absence of his heat feels like a physical blow. I have to grip the edge of the lift just to keep my knees from buckling. “Most people are too timid. You dove right in.”
“I’m a quick learner,” I reply, turning to find him watching me with an intensity that makes me want to either run away or climb him like a tree. “And I’ve always liked knowing how things work under the surface.”
He leans against a nearby workbench, crossing his massive, tattooed arms. The chrome skull of the Steel Sinners insignia on his cut seems to catch the light, reminding me of the world he lives in.
God, he’s so freaking gorgeous. Would it kill the universe to make this man slightly less hot? I open my mouth to fire back, but my phone vibrates in my pocket, making me jump like I’ve just touched a live wire.
I dig it out, half-expecting a “where are you?” from Alana, but the pit in my stomach knows better. Unknown number, the preview bar already giving me anxiety hives.
Well, crap. My day takes a nosedive.
I unlock the screen and freeze. The first message is a picture of Diesel and me hopping into his truck in LA, taken from a distance. My blood runs cold.
The next text: “Didn’t know you were into dirtbags, Ren. I can give it to you rough and filthy. Bet you think he’s going to keep you safe. He can’t. Just wait.”
My hands actually shake. Sweat prickles down my back.
I can’t breathe, can’t move. The words bounce around in my skull, fuzzy and loud as sirens.
Diesel is at my side in a blur, crowding close, grabbing the phone straight out of my hand.
His eyes flash pure murder. For a second, I think he might actually crush the phone in his fist. He studies the screen, jaw tight as hell, nostrils flaring.
He screenshots the messages and sends them to his phone.
“Fucking creep,” he growls, low and lethal. “You let me worry about him. He isn’t touching you. Ever.”
Before I can even stammer out a reply, he yanks me in, his arms closing around me like a steel trap. Everything else fades. All I can feel is Diesel, so big and solid and angry on my behalf that I can barely breathe.
“You hear me, sweetness?” His voice is rough against my hair, lips right by my ear. “He’s not getting past me. Anyone who tries is going to wish they were never fucking born.”
I believe him. I’ve never felt so safe or so spun out at the same time. My brain is still trying to process the gross, ugly words on my phone, but Diesel’s grip anchors my pulse. He smells like leather, sweat, and the promise of safety.
He looks me dead in the eye. “I got you. You’re safe here, Serenity. With me. Nobody touches what’s mine.”
Diesel holds me tight, and nothing else matters. My stomach picks that exact moment to make a sound like a dying animal. No joke. It’s loud enough to echo across the garage and probably wake the dead.
Diesel snorts right into my hair, and suddenly, the steel grip he’s got on me feels less like protection and more like possession. I’m not complaining. Not one little bit.
“Hungry?” The word comes out low, and there’s this wicked twist of amusement in his voice.
I manage to pry my face out of his chest long enough to glare at him and nod my head. “I could eat my left leg right now.”
He just grins, all cocky alpha male and tattooed charm. No mercy. “Let’s get you fed. I know the perfect place.” He wraps his arm casually around my waist, steering me right past Benny and Bones.
The drive is short, taking us toward a strip of older buildings tucked away from the main casinos.
We pull up in front of a place called The Rusty Spike.
It’s a squat, brick building with a row of Harleys and a vintage Impala parked in the dusty lot.
The sound of a jukebox and the low rumble of voices drift through the open door.