Chapter 3 – Steel
I can't take my eyes off her. The way she moves around the bike, each gesture precise and knowing. Her hands caress the metal like she's touching something precious, and damn if it isn't doing things to me.
How does someone like her end up in a place like this? She belongs to magazines, not covered in grease in some small-town garage.
My throat's dry. The water bottle beckons from the mini-fridge she mentioned. Maybe it'll help cool the heat building under my skin.
"How'd you get into bikes?" The question slips out before I can stop it.
Real smooth, Steel.
She pauses, wrench halfway to a bolt. "Long story."
"Got nowhere else to be." I twist the cap off the water bottle, trying to focus on anything but the way her coveralls hug her curves.
She turns to face me, one hand pressed against her chest, leaving a grease mark on her white tank top. Fuck!
I take a long drink of water, willing my body to behave.
"A man like you wouldn't understand loss," she says, and something inside me snaps.
The bottle crumples in my grip.
"Wouldn't understand loss?" My voice comes out as a growl. "I've buried more friends than you've probably even had."
Images flash through my mind: Tommy taking a bullet in that bar fight in Memphis, Damien wrapping his bike around a tree running from cops, Marco bleeding out in my arms after another motorcycle club ambushed us.
"You don't know shit about loss," I continue, the words bitter on my tongue. "Try watching your brothers die fighting for what they believe in. Try holding them while they take their last breath."
She flinches but doesn't back down. Instead, she steps closer, those amber eyes blazing.
"I didn't mean-"
"Save it." I cut her off, suddenly needing air. The garage feels too small, too close. "Just fix the damn bike."
But she doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at me with something that might be understanding in her eyes. It makes me want to run. Or kiss her. Probably both.
"My dad," she says softly. "He loved motorcycles. Taught me everything I know about them. Then one day, some drunk driver..." She shakes her head. "I was sixteen."
The anger drains out of me like someone pulled a plug. Sixteen. Christ. I was raising hell at sixteen while she was losing her father.
"After that, bikes were all I had left of him," she continues, turning back to my Harley. "So, I learned everything I could. Made sure I could fix anything with two wheels and an engine. What about you and your father? Isabella never talked about him."
I watch her hands move over the dents, gentle but sure. Professional. Like she's healing something living instead of just working metal.
"I never met him. He bounced when he knew my mother was pregnant, so I don’t know much about him. Not even his name, and I don’t care. But I’m sure your old man would be proud of everything you’ve accomplished," I say, meaning it.
She glances up, surprise written across her features. A smudge of grease marks her cheek, and my fingers itch to wipe it away.
"I hope so," she says, her fingers tracing one of the dents. "Funny thing is, I didn't even like bikes at first. Just wanted to spend time with Dad. But then..." She pauses, a small smile playing on her lips. "Something clicked. The control of it all, you know? Being able to take something apart and put it back together. Make it better."
"Control's important," I agree, taking another swig of water.
She smirks – actually smirks – at me. "Yeah, I figured you'd say that."
The water goes down the wrong way, and I nearly choke. Goddamn it.
"A biker needs control," I manage to say between coughs. "Keeps you alive longer."
"Learning all kinds of things today." She wipes her hands in a rag, those amber eyes studying me. "Though I'm wondering why someone who rides doesn't know how to fix their own bike."
"Know the basics," I shrug. "Never been good with my hands."
She turns around fully now, that smirk still playing on her lips.
"Really? That's surprising. Would've thought you'd be very good with your hands."
Jesus fucking Christ. This girl's no angel – she's a devil in red hair and coveralls. And she knows exactly what she's doing, throwing those looks my way. But I can't bite, no matter how tempting. I'm only here for a few days, just long enough to sort out this house mess. That's it.
"Oh, I know where and how to use my hands," I say, keeping my voice steady. "But sometimes you need a professional touch."
"A professional touch, sure… So, why'd you become a biker?" She asks, turning back to the bike. "Doesn't seem like the kind of life people just fall into."
I lean against the workbench, memories flooding back.
"After I left town – or got pushed out, depending on who you ask – didn't have anywhere to go. I could've found some normal job, sure. But something about just riding, no destination in mind..." I pause, remembering those first few months of freedom. "Found out I loved it. Then I found the Iron & Blood MC. They had rules, sure, but it was different. They wanted to protect innocent people. They had a code."
"A code?" She looks genuinely interested now, setting down her tools.
"Brotherhood above all," I start, the words coming easily after all these years. "You protect your own, no matter what. No rats, no backstabbing. You ride together, you die together if it comes to that."
"Sounds intense."
"It is. But it's also family. Real family, not the kind that turns their back on you when things get rough." I can hear the bitterness creeping into my voice and force it back down.
She's quiet for a moment, just watching me.
"Is that what happened here? In Hope Peak?"
"Town decided I was damaged goods," I say, crushing the empty water bottle in my fist. "Made it clear I wasn't welcome anymore. Only Mom..." I stop, the words sticking in my throat.
"Only Isabella stood by you," she finishes softly.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. The garage falls silent except for the distant sound of traffic and the whir of the ancient fan in the corner.
"Why were they so eager to get rid of you?" She asks, wiping her hands on a clean rag.
I scratch my forehead, buying time. When was the last time someone actually wanted to hear my side? Actually looked at me like they might believe it?
"Beat up the wrong person when I was eighteen," I say finally, my throat dry again.
"Wrong person?" She sets down her wrench, giving me her full attention.
I clear my throat. "Was working nights at Eddie's back then – place is probably gone now." I glance at her, and she nods. "After the first year there I bought this bike. I used to get off around two in the morning most nights and take rides around town after my shift to clear my head."
The memory's so vivid that I can almost smell the summer air from that night.
"Heard screaming coming from near the lake. Some doctor's kid getting too friendly with his girlfriend. She kept telling him to stop, to let her go." My fists clench automatically. "He wasn't listening."
"So you stopped him," she says softly.
"Parked my bike and made damn sure he understood what 'no' meant." I can still feel the crunch of his nose under my knuckles. "Turned out daddy dearest didn't appreciate his son getting his ass handed to him by some nobody."
She leans against the workbench, crossing her arms. "What happened then?"
"What do you think?" I let out a bitter laugh. "Kid told daddy I jumped him for no reason. Daddy told his friends on the council. Next thing I know, I'm losing my job, getting turned down everywhere I apply. Cops started pulling me over for nothing."
"And the girl?" She asks, "Didn't she say anything?"
I run a hand through my hair, remembering those chaotic weeks.
"Her family moved away right after. Real sudden. I heard they got a nice chunk of change for their silence. Pretty house in Florida, new car, college fund for their daughter. Amazing what money can buy, including the truth."
"That's messed up," she mutters, shaking her head. Her fingers fidget with the wrench, like she needs something to do with her hands.
"That's Hope Peak." I push off from the wall I've been leaning against. "Town's got a way of protecting its own. Unless you're not one of them. Never was, really. Wrong side of the tracks, wrong clothes, wrong attitude. Beating up the golden boy was just the excuse they needed."
She studies me for a moment, those amber eyes seeing too much. "Is that why you never came back? Not even for Isabella?"
The question hits like a punch to the gut. My chest tightens, and for a moment, I can't breathe.
"Called when I could. Sent money." The excuses sound hollow even to my ears. "Figured she was better off without me bringing trouble to her door. The town already treated her differently because of me. Didn't want to make it worse."
"She wasn't better off," her words are sharp, cutting through my defenses. "She missed you every day. Used to sit on that porch, watching the road. Said someday her boy would come riding back home."
I turn away, pretending to study the tools on the wall. The guilt's an old friend by now, but somehow it feels fresher here, in this garage, with this girl who knew my mother better than I did in her final years.
"You know what the worst part is?" I say, my voice rougher than I'd like. "That kid? Heard he did the same thing to three other girls in college. Daddy's money kept that quiet, too. So maybe if I'd done more than just break his nose..."
"Don't." She's suddenly beside me, her hand on my wrist. The touch burns through my shirt. "You can't think like that. You did what you could."
"Did I?" I turn to fully face her, and she's closer than I expected. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, to catch the scent of motor oil and something sweeter underneath. "Because from where I'm standing, I ran. Left Mom to deal with all their shit while I played outlaw."
"You survived," she says firmly. "That's what Isabella always said. 'My Jax’s a survivor.' And now you're back. Maybe that's what matters."