Chapter 22
Jason stood on a ladder near the front windows, drill driver in hand, securing a new bracket to the brick. A soft morning light slanted through the dusty glass, catching motes in the air. Someone had propped the bay door open; the harbor breeze cut the lingering scent of oil.
“You’re early,” Hank said, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
Jason glanced down. “Are you still staying in the hotel?"
“For now. We're beginning the search for a house today. Bree and I are sharing her room, Brian and Colby have the other. We're all tired of hotel living.”
They wanted somewhere real. Somewhere theirs.
“Where’s your partner in crime?” Jason asked, climbing down. “She usually beats you here.”
“Bree had a call with her accountant,” Hank said. “They’re going over what happens if the board plays hardball. She’ll be by after. We sign the special use application at City Hall in an hour.”
Jason grimaced. “I’d rather pull all this wiring through twice than sit through a zoning board meeting,” he said.
“Same,” Hank said. “But apparently grown-ups attend public hearings. It’s in the manual.”
Jason snorted. “Colby texted,” he said. “He’s meeting with the bank rep this morning to go over your revised projections. Wants to make sure they see the ‘community benefit’ section.”
“That guy and his spreadsheets,” Hank said, a fondness threading through the words. “He probably didn't sleep at all last night.”
Jason said. “He was here at six, measuring the front wall again. Muttering about sightlines and light angles for Bryn’s wall.”
Hank’s chest tightened in a way that wasn’t all anxiety. “He’s putting his heart into it,” he said quietly.
“You all are,” Jason said.
The drill whirred again from somewhere behind them. Brian emerged from the back hallway, a paint roller balanced on his shoulder like a ridiculous spear, flecks of white on his forearms.
“Good, you’re up,” Brian said.
Hank gestured at the roller. “Are you starting without us?”
“Prepping the back room,” Brian said. “Figured if the board says yes, we’ll need a clean space for the office.”
He tried to make it sound like a joke. Hank heard the strain underneath.
“You don’t have to be here, you know,” Hank said. “You could be on a beach somewhere waiting for your Cup bonus wire to hit.”
Brian shrugged. “Meh,” he said. “I like this beach. And if you two are jumping off a cliff, I’m not gonna stand at the top and wave. Somebody’s got to help build the landing pad. And I like it here. I'm house shopping myself since we're all moving here, and between us, Colby snores.”
Hank laughed out loud. "You snore too!"
Brian shook his head. "Not like Colby."
Hank looked at Brian, at Jason, at the half-gutted warehouse. The sense of standing in someone else’s life crept up on him again; a life where people showed up with rollers and drills instead of rifles.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Don’t get sappy,” Brian said. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
Before Hank could retort, his phone buzzed. He checked the screen: Diaz.
Need a favor. You heading out to the warehouse today?
He thumbed a reply. I'm here now.
Her response came fast.
We picked up chatter about a “demo day” at the bike shop just out of town on County Road A.
Vendor’s supposedly showing off new “tuning tech” to some local riders.
I’d rather not let our friends recruit on my turf.
I’ve got plainclothes in the area, but you know the scene better than most of my guys.
His throat tightened.
You want me to run interference?
No. I want you to exist as a very visible reminder that fast doesn’t mean illegal. Talk to the kids who look interested. If someone you don’t know offers you “free samples,” remember what I said about alleys. I’ll handle the rest.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket.
“Diaz?” Brian asked.
“Yeah,” Hank said. “She thinks our friends might be trying to recruit some locals at the bike shop just out of town. Wants us to be another set of eyes.”
Brian’s mouth tightened. “I hate those guys,” he said. “Like parasites.”
“Parasites get removed,” Jason said. “Eventually.”
Hank glanced at the clock on the exposed pillar. “We should move,” he said. “If we’re late for the application, Liz’ll put our heads on pikes outside city hall.”
“Free publicity,” Brian said.
City hall smelled like floor polish and old paper.
Bree met him at the front steps, hair twisted up, a folder tucked under her arm. The sight of her, even in the mundane setting, still did something quiet and seismic inside him.
“How bad was it?” he asked, nodding at the folder.
“Bad-ish,” she said. “My accountant says if the board says no and we operate as just the shop and private studio, we’re tight but not doomed. If they say yes, the workshop income gives us breathing room faster. Either way, there’s less cushion than we hoped for the first year.”
“You still in?” he asked.
She held his gaze. “I called Charlie,” she said.
“He’s sending a letter to the board. He offered to help financially if we needed it, but I told him no.
Bryn’s insurance already got me this far.
I can’t…” She trailed off, eyes bright. “I want this to stand because we built it. Not because the universe felt sorry for us.”
Pride swelled under his ribs. “Then we build it,” he said.
They filed the application with Liz’s assistant, a woman with a perpetually frazzled bun and a stack of color-coded folders. Papers were stamped, signatures collected. A date was set for the hearing. Two weeks. Not long, but not immediate either. Enough time for worry to find footholds.
As they stepped back out into the sunlight, Liz caught up with them, breath puffing a little.
“I talked to a couple of the board members this morning,” she said. “Unofficially. One’s worried about parking, the other’s worried about noise. If you can get written support from the café, the marina, and the antique shop, it’ll help. They’re the ones who usually complain.”
“I’ll go by this afternoon,” Bree said.
“I’ll go with you,” Hank added.
Liz smiled. “That’s the spirit,” she said. “And Hank? Diaz mentioned the situation at the bike shop. You going out there?”
He blinked. “Word travels fast.”
“In a town this size?” Liz said. “It’s practically a sport. Be careful. I’d rather not hold a memorial next to a zoning hearing.”
“I plan on avoiding both,” he said.
The beach felt different without the Cup banners.
Quieter, for one. The grandstands had been removed, and people walked with their toes in the sand. The air held the familiar overlay of fuel and rubber, but the buzz of big-race tension was gone, replaced by the more relaxed energy.
At the bike shop, local riders wheeled bikes out of pickups and battered trailers; some wore full pro gear, others mismatched leathers. A handwritten sign at the entrance read TEST DAY – SIGN WAIVER INSIDE.
Hank and Brian signed in with an attendant who looked vaguely starstruck but managed to keep the squeaking to a minimum. Hank kept his helmet in his hand, resisting the urge to turn the day into a full-on practice session. They were here to watch, not set lap records.
“There,” Brian murmured.
Near the far end of the lot, a small knot of riders had gathered around a van with out-of-state plates. The van’s back doors stood open, revealing shelves of neatly lined boxes. A man in a branded jacket leaned against the bumper, talking animatedly, hands moving like punctuation.
Hank’s pulse ticked up.
“See the logo?” Brian asked under his breath. “Different from Einstein’s guys, but same vibe.”
“Yeah,” Hank said. “And look at the plates.”
Diaz had texted him a partial plate to watch for. The state matched. So did the first three characters.
He felt eyes on him before he saw Diaz.
She stood near the concession stand, plainclothes, hair pulled back. Sunglasses hid her eyes, but the tilt of her head told him she’d clocked the van too. Another man leaned casually beside her, pretending to be absorbed in his phone. Backup.
“You want to ride or work?” Brian asked.
“Work,” Hank said.
They walked toward the cluster like they had every right to be there. Because they did.
The man in the jacket noticed them at once; his smile brightened, shark-quick.
“Well, well,” he said. “Celebrity drop-in. Hank James, right? Hell of a race last weekend.”
Hank gave him a polite nod. “Appreciate it,” he said.
“Come to see what the grassroots scene is doing?” the guy asked. His accent had a hint of Northeast, flattened by time. “We’re helping some of these kids find a little extra power on a budget.”
“On a budget,” Brian repeated, tone mild.
“Factory support’s expensive,” the man said. “We offer alternatives.” He flipped open one of the boxes for the riders’ benefit. Inside sat a series of glossy brochures and a small metal canister with a generic label.
Nitrous kits didn’t look like much when they were disguised. He knew that too well.
“Alternatives that show up on the series bulletins?” Hank asked, gaze steady. “The ones warning about counterfeit parts and ‘unapproved chemical enhancements’?”
A couple of the younger riders shifted, glancing between them.
The man’s smile didn’t falter. “Bulletins are for scared people,” he said. “Guys who like their rules neat. Racing’s always been about pushing limits.”
“Limits,” Hank said. “Not safety. That’s where you lose me.”
Behind the man, one of the riders spoke up. “Hey, my cousin said his buddy got black-flagged for using one of those kits,” he said. “His engine nearly blew.”
“That’s operator error,” the vendor said smoothly. “You follow our specs, you’re golden.”
Hank took a small step closer, enough that the riders had to shift to keep him in their peripheral vision.
“You know what happens when your engine goes south at a hundred and fifty?” he asked.
“You don’t get to blame the guy who sold you the ‘budget boost.’ You’re the one sliding across the asphalt.
Or into the wall. Or not getting up at all. ”