Chapter 14 #2
They hugged, awkward at first; then Carmen held on a beat longer. Hank couldn’t hear the words over the low murmur of other conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine, but he could read the body language well enough.
Carmen talked fast, hands moving. Apology. Explanation. Some version of I didn’t know.
Bree listened, arms folded loosely across her chest; guarded but not closed. When she spoke, Carmen’s shoulders sagged with what looked like relief. A minute later, Bree laid a hand over Carmen’s and smiled, small and real.
He let himself exhale.
“Looks like that went okay,” Brian said, sliding a bottle of beer onto Hank’s table and dropping into the opposite chair. “Nobody threw a scone.”
“Low bar,” Hank said. “I’ll take it.”
Colby set a bowl of popcorn between them. “Carmen is giving up the red and black.”
Hank watched as Carmen scrubbed her hands over her face and laughed at something Bree said. “She’ll never give up, Heidi,” he said. “They’re family. But I think she stopped pretending the Dragons are misunderstood underdogs.
“Good,” Brian muttered. “I’ve got enough to worry about without wondering which side the PR team is on.”
A few minutes later, Bree and Carmen stood. Carmen hugged her again, more solid this time, then headed toward the elevators. Bree scanned the room, found Hank, and walked over.
“You survived,” he said, standing to meet her.
She rolled her eyes. “Barely. She bought me a latte and apologized so many times the barista started looking nervous.”
“Did she know about the nitrous?” Brian asked.
“No,” Bree said firmly. “Carmen’s a lot of things, but she’s not okay with cheating.
She’s furious. At Marcus. At Einstein. At Heidi for trying to spin this as an overzealous tech crew instead of what it was.
She wanted me to know she’d never have pulled me down there if she’d had any idea what they were up to. ”
Hank nodded, filing that away. “And how do you feel about that?”
Bree considered. She said, “Less angry. She’s planning on taking a break from the Dragons after this season. She says she needs to remember who she is when she’s not helping Heidi be Heidi.”
Colby whistled. “That’s an identity crisis waiting to happen.”
“Yeah,” Bree said softly. “But it’s hers. I told her I’d still answer her texts. That’s all I can promise right now.”
“That’s enough,” Hank said.
She tipped her head, studying him. “How did your meeting go?”
“We can recap on the walk,” he said. “You up for a short field trip?”
Her eyes lit with cautious excitement. “Bay Street.”
“Bay Street,” he confirmed. “The mayor left a key at the desk.”
Brian grabbed his beer and stood. “Let’s go look at our future, then.”
The warehouse sat two blocks off the water on Bay Street, a hulking rectangle of brick and corrugated metal that had clearly been built when people cared more about function than charm.
Hank loved it at first sight.
“Okay,” Bree said, staring up at the faded letters barely visible on the front. “It looks like every serial killer movie I’ve ever seen.”
Brian chuckled. “That’s just the lighting. And the peeling paint. And the fact that there’s exactly one sad little plant trying to survive by the door.”
“That plant is a metaphor,” Bree said.
“For what?” Colby asked, fishing the keyring out of his pocket.
“For potential,” she said. “And stubbornness.”
Hank’s chest did something warm. “I’m going to steal that for the sales pitch.”
Colby got the lock to turn with a grating protest, then shouldered the heavy door open. The smell of dust and old oil rolled out, along with a faint chill.
Inside, the main floor stretched back farther than Bree had expected.
High ceilings with exposed beams, overhead lights that probably hadn’t worked in years, a concrete floor scorched with old tire marks.
A large roll-up door took up most of the back wall, currently shut, rust streaked down from its hinges.
Sunlight slanted through grimy windows high along the side walls, catching dust motes in the air.
“Oh,” Bree breathed.
Hank heard it, that little hitch between surprise and inspiration. He watched her step inside, slow and careful, as if she half expected the floor to give way. When it held, she moved farther in, turning in a slow circle.
Brian whistled low. “We can fit at least four bays along this wall,” he said, pacing out imaginary lift positions. “Plenty of clearance. You could put the dyno in the back corner. That roll-up door opens right onto the alley. Perfect for loading.”
Colby wandered toward a metal staircase that hugged one wall. “Upstairs office or storage,” he called. “Maybe both. We’d need to redo the wiring. This panel looks older than I am.”
Beneath their chatter, Hank could hear the quiet start of Bree’s attention locking on. She drifted toward the stairs, fingers trailing along the railing, eyes tracking the way light fell from windows near the ceiling.
“What do you think?” he asked, coming up behind her.
“It’s ugly,” she said. “And dirty. And it smells like someone stored a year’s worth of bad decisions in here and forgot to take them out.”
“Tell me how you really feel,” he said.
She huffed, then smiled. “And it has bones. Good ones. Those beams.” She pointed up. “You could hang track banners between them. Or canvases. The light’s terrible right now, but if we clean those windows and add some north-facing ones upstairs…”
“Careful,” Hank said. “You sound like you’re about to start nesting.”
She looked up the stairs. “Can we go up?”
“After you,” he said.
The steps creaked under their weight but held.
At the top, the space opened into a long, narrow room that ran the length of the building.
Dust lay thick on the floor; old file cabinets sagged against one wall.
A cracked window at the far end offered a sliver of Bay Street and, beyond it, a glimpse of water.
Bree walked toward that window like it was a magnet.
When she reached it, she wiped a sleeve over the glass, clearing enough grime to see the curve of the shoreline and the line of the boardwalk.
“This could be my studio,” she said quietly. “I could put easels here to catch the morning light. Shelves along that wall. A couch over there. People could sit for portraits and listen to the sea.”
Hank came up beside her. “You wouldn’t hate having the smell of oil drifting up through the floor.”
“I grew up with a dad who rebuilt engines in our garage,” she said. “I find it comforting.”
He slid his hand into hers. “That’s a good sign.”
Brian appeared in the doorway, dust on his boots. “Found a leak in the roof near the back corner,” he reported. “And some questionable wiring choices. We’re going to need a real electrician and probably a new panel.”
Colby nodded. “And the city’s going to want to talk zoning. Mixed-use means building codes. Fire escapes. ADA access. The fun stuff.”
Bree looked from one to the other. “Can we even afford this?”
Hank squeezed her hand gently. “We’re not signing anything today.
But between prize money, some savings, and the mayor’s enthusiasm for having a Cup winner with a storefront, we’ve got leverage.
There are grants available to revitalize this kind of space.
We can talk to someone who knows more about paperwork than carburetors. ”
“Gabe will know,” Brian said. “He and Lena jumped through a bunch of hoops for The Breakwater. He’s got opinions.”
“Of course he does,” Colby said. “He’s Gabe.”
Bree laughed, the sound bouncing off the bare walls. “Okay. So we call in experts. We make lists. We take our time.”
She turned back to the window, looking out at the hint of water.
“I could paint Copper Moon from here,” she said. “Not just the pretty parts the tourists see. The alleys. The race prep. The back doors of the boardwalk bars where the staff sneak out for air.”
Hank watched her profile, the way her eyes had gone bright. His chest felt too small for the feeling that rose there.
“This is the first place I’ve been in a long time that feels like more than a stopover,” he said. “I like the idea of putting your name on the door upstairs and mine on the one downstairs.”
She looked at him, all the usual doubts and caveats in her gaze, but layered now with something sturdier.
“Then let’s keep walking toward it,” she said. “One permit, one paint swatch, one busted light fixture at a time.”
He grinned. “Deal.”
As they headed back down the stairs, he caught movement through the grimy front windows. A dark sedan eased past, too nice for this section of town. The driver didn’t slow down, but the passenger glanced toward the warehouse.
Suit. Sunglasses. Expression careful and blank.
Hank tracked it out of instinct. The car continued down the block and turned toward the civic center, where the Dragons’ disciplinary hearings were being held.
“Friend of yours,” Brian asked quietly, following his gaze.
“Doubt it,” Hank said. “Probably a lawyer late for yelling practice.”
Colby snorted.
On the sidewalk outside, Sergeant Diaz waited, hands tucked into her jacket pockets. She looked strangely at home against the rough brick.
“Officer,” Hank greeted. “You slumming it?”
She raised a brow. “Says the guy shopping for fixer-uppers in the industrial district.”
Bree joined them, brushing dust off her jeans. Diaz’s gaze sharpened for a moment, as if noting her and filing the information away. Then her posture eased again.
“You kids having fun?” she asked.
“We’re making spreadsheets in our heads,” Bree said. “That’s my idea of a wild afternoon.”
Diaz’s mouth quirked. “You picked an interesting time to consider putting down roots.”
Hank sobered. “What’s the latest?”
“We processed Einstein and his statement,” she said. “He claims a contact approached the team months ago with ‘performance solutions.’ Says the guy’s name is Vic, no last name, no business card. Meetups in parking lots, cash transactions. You know the type.”
Brian’s tone flattened. “Real reputable fellow.”