Chapter 2 - Clarissa
I feel the heat creeping up my neck and try to play it cool.
Who does this guy think he is, walking in here like he owns the place? Sure, he's exactly what I look for in a man – tall, broad, with that dangerous glint in his eyes and enough tattoos peeking out from under his jacket to tell a story.
The gray in his beard only makes him more appealing, damn it. But Hope Peak's full of boring accountants and insurance salesmen for a reason – the bad boys never stick around.
"I'm pretty good with both," I say, brushing past him.
My shoulder connects with his arm, and it's like walking into a brick wall. He doesn't even flinch; he just stands there with that serious expression. What's his deal?
"Show me the bike," I tell him, trying to sound professional. "Let's see what we're working with."
"Two suits decided to play baseball with it." His jaw clenches, and I can see a vein pulsing in his neck, right under that salt-and-pepper beard. His hands ball into fists at his sides.
"Did you call the police?" The question slips out before I can stop myself.
He barks out a laugh, but there's no humor in it.
"Rather take a beating than deal with cops."
I shake my head. Typical. "Your choice. Lead the way."
He turns and heads toward the front of the shop, his shoulders so wide they practically block my entire view. The leather cut stretches across his back, patches I can't quite make out stitched into the worn material.
Great. Not just a bad boy, but a member of a motorcycle club. Just what I need this early in the morning.
I stop dead in my tracks when I see his bike. It's a classic Harley, the kind you don't see much anymore, at least not in this condition. Well, before someone took bats to it.
"Beautiful machine," I whisper, running my fingers along the chrome. Despite the dents, it's clear this bike has been loved.
"Watch the hands," he growls, but there's something else in his voice. Pride, maybe?
I circle the bike, assessing the damage. The dents are ugly but superficial. Nothing I can't fix, though it'll take time.
"When do you need it done by?"
"Yesterday." He crosses his arms, the movement making his biceps strain against his shirt sleeves.
I roll my eyes. Of course he does.
"That's not how this works. I've got other jobs lined up."
"How much to bump me to the front of the line?"
I glance at him, trying to read his expression. His face is hard, all angles and that perfectly trimmed beard, but there's something desperate in his eyes.
"Two grand," I say, expecting him to balk at the price.
He doesn't even blink, just reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick wad of cash. Who carries that kind of money around?
"Half now, half when it's done," he says, counting out the bills.
I should say no. Should tell him to come back during regular hours, fill out the paperwork like everyone else. But there's something about him, something that makes me want to know more.
"Fine," I hear myself say. "But I need your name for the paperwork."
He hesitates, just for a second. "Steel."
I can't help but snort. "That's not a name, that's a material."
"It's what everyone calls me." His voice has an edge to it now, warning me not to push.
"Weird name, but whatever," I shrug, turning back to the bike. "Come back after lunch."
"Not happening." His boots scuff against the concrete as he plants himself firmly beside the workbench. "I'm staying."
I straighten up, wiping my hands on my coveralls.
"What exactly do you think I'm going to do to your precious bike?"
"Don't trust anyone in this town." His eyes darken. "Especially not after those suits."
"Look, I don't know any suited guys, and I'd never hurt a bike. That's not who I am." I step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. "What kind of trouble are you bringing to Hope Peak?"
He moves so fast I barely see it, closing the distance between us.
"I didn't bring anything here. Those men are from Hope Peak. They're trying to demolish my mother's house."
The words hit me like a bucket of ice water. Wait. This guy must be Isabella's son.
The rumors flash through my mind – the mysterious son who vanished decades ago, the one everyone assumed was dead in a ditch somewhere. But Isabella never believed that. She always said her boy would come home someday.
"Why are you so quiet?" His voice has an edge to it. "Did I scare you?"
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. "I don't scare easy. Just... never thought I'd meet Isabella's son."
The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. "You knew my mother?"
"She used to babysit me when I was little." The memory makes my throat tight. "I tried to stop the brothers from demolishing the house, but nobody would listen.”
"The brothers?" Steel's voice drops an octave, somehow managing to sound even more dangerous.
"The Morrison brothers." I lean against the workbench, crossing my arms. "Showed up about five years ago, throwing their money around like they own the place. They've been..." I pause, searching for the right word, "buying all the houses or land in town as soon as someone dies, sometimes even persuading people to sell their homes cheap. They even pay extra so the town council speeds up the process."
"Persuading?" His eyebrow raises, that vein in his neck starting to pulse again.
"Bullying is more like it." The memory of Isabella's tired face flashes through my mind. "I used to yell at them to get off her lawn, but they'd just laugh and ignore me. Like I was some stupid kid."
A dark chuckle escapes his throat.
"Well, I introduced one of them to the ground yesterday. Grabbed him by his fancy collar." His fingers flex at the memory. "Seems like I need to be more... persuasive myself."
"Don't do anything stupid," I warn, though I know it's useless. The look in his eyes tells me he's already made up his mind. "They've got connections."
"So do I." He taps the patches on his cut meaningfully.
I bite my lip, debating whether to say more.
"Look, your mom... she was good to me. Really good. When my parents were working late shifts, she'd let me stay at her place. Made me hot chocolate, told me stories."
His expression softens just a fraction. "The one with marshmallows?"
"And cinnamon," I nod, smiling at the memory. "She said it was your favorite."
"Still is." He runs a hand through his hair, and for a moment, he looks younger, less dangerous. "How was she? At the end?"
The question catches me off guard.
"Strong. Stubborn." I swallow hard. "She never stopped waiting for you to come home."
"Damn it," he mutters, turning away, but not before I catch the flash of pain in his eyes.
"Let me help you with the house," I blurt out. "I mean, I'm good with tools, and it needs work. I owe Isabella that."
"Wasn't planning on staying," he grunts, pacing now like a caged animal. "Just wanted to stop them from tearing it down. Though seems like the whole damn town already let it go to hell."
"That's not true." I grab a wrench, needing something to do with my hands. "Some of us tried. But the town council... they've changed. Everything's about money and progress now, whatever that means."
He stops pacing, fixing those intense eyes on me. "Still doesn't explain why you care so much."
"Isabella..." I take a deep breath, remembering her last days. "She always said she wanted you to have the house. She said it over and over, even when she was sick. “My Jax will come home someday, and this house will be waiting for him.”
The name slips out before I can catch myself. His real name, not that ridiculous 'Steel' business.
His jaw clenches. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? It's your name, isn't it?"
"Not anymore." He moves toward his bike like he's ready to bolt. "Look, just fix the bike. I'll figure out the rest."
I turn my attention to the bike, trying to ignore the wall of muscle hovering nearby. His presence fills the garage like smoke, making it hard to breathe.
The dents aren't as bad as they first looked. I run my fingers along the metal, mapping out what needs to be done. The chrome's scratched in places, but that's an easy fix. Three, maybe four hours of work, tops.
I grab my tools, aware of his eyes following my every move. The silence stretches between us like a rubber band ready to snap. The only sounds are metal against metal and his occasional shifting of weight.
The morning sun streams through the garage windows, making the sweat on my arms glisten. It's too hot, and his staring isn't helping. Every time I glance up, he's there, arms crossed, face unreadable behind that beard.
The radio would help, but something tells me Mr. Steel isn't the type to appreciate pop music while his bike's being worked on. I check my watch - 8:45 AM. The rest of the crew won't be in for another hour, and somehow, I don't think he'll appreciate them either.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand, probably leaving a grease streak. Great. Real professional, Clarissa.
"Water's in the mini-fridge," I say, not looking up. "If you're planning on standing there all morning, you might as well get comfortable."