Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
RILEY
It’s the night of the metal show, and the mechanics are huddled together in the garage, venting the week’s frustrations while The Battle Axes set up in the rear.
Pirate Bill cracks open a beer. “Same bullshit as always, if you ask me,” he tells the assembled mechanics. “The bikers don’t accept us because we’re queer, and half the gay community doesn’t like that we’re bikers!”
Big Jo shakes her head. “For twenty years, Dykes on Bikes has been raising money for the LGBTQ community center, but the second we start to claim our own space in town, everyone turns against us!”
Following Finn’s valiant but failed attempt to regulate our business, we’ve heard similar complaints from more neighbors about the noise, and a dance studio down the street that doesn’t like all these “rough types skulking around.” Chase and I have instructed the mechanics to be cognizant of our noise level and do what we can to mitigate, but it probably doesn’t make much of a difference to the rest of the block.
As the mechanics vent, I start to get worked up, too, riding the collective outrage.
Garages are about the only place I’ve ever felt comfortable, and I know that’s true for a lot of the other mechanics here, too.
My thoughts return to Finn, and all my muscles tense. Our last encounter in Chase’s office was another disaster. I even tried to smile at him, to force myself to be “polite,” only then I got flustered and acted blunt and rude again. But hell, what was I supposed to say?
I take a break from venting with the rest of the crew, step outside for some air and am surprised to see The Scoop still lit up, apparently open late.
Finn walks out the front door. He’s wearing snug gray slacks and a pink collared shirt, and under the streetlights, he busies himself hanging a large banner. Ice Cream Social Tonight!
Another wave of confused emotions surges through me.
The mechanics are right that bikers deserve a place in this neighborhood, but then I think about the way that Finn marched right into the garage, armed with zoning regulations and prepared to stand up for his business and neighbors.
I can’t blame him for fighting for his community and pushing back, either.
I don’t want to ruin his business. Hell, I kind of like the guy, damn it.
So why does watching him hang a banner make me want to pull my hair out?
I try to head back toward the door before he spots me, but unfortunately, The Battle Axes choose that moment to warm up. Banging drums sound out with the squeal of an electric guitar, loud as hell, and Finn pivots to look straight at me.
Immediately, he crosses the street, bee-lining my way.
“Excuse me!” he calls out. “What is that?”
I cross my arms, fighting hard to act nonchalant. “It’s a metal show,” I tell him flatly. “Remember? I tried to warn you about this.”
He looks positively horrified. “A heavy metal band? You have a heavy metal band putting on a concert in the garage tonight?”
“Avant-garde metal. And it’s a show, not a concert.”
Probably could have told him about this ahead of time, I realize. Will have to warn the rest of the block about the next event.
Finn frowns at me. There’s a defiant light dancing in his eyes, and it gets me all worked up.
“We’re hosting an ice cream social tonight,” he says evenly.
“I typically cherish my evening free time. It’s when I read and visit friends.
But in an attempt to avoid my noisy new neighbors, I decided to host a mixer for some local book clubs, an after-hours event that is firmly reliant on people being able to mingle and talk about books.
” The drums erupt like thunder from inside, and Finn has to raise his voice.
“And tonight is the night you’re hosting an avant-garde metal show? ”
“Sure am.”
He throws his arms in the air. “You’re impossible!”
“You’re impossible,” I shoot back. “Why should your event be allowed, but not ours?”
“Because my event doesn’t interfere with your event. I could throw an ice cream social twenty-four-hours a day, and you wouldn’t even notice from inside the garage. But your event takes over the entire street. I can hear you from the kitchen in the back of my shop.”
“Seems to me like you’re the one taking over the entire street, stomping around and demanding quiet. But I’ll have you know I already told the mechanics to try and keep the volume down when we can.”
“Quiet is the default! It is the neutral state. Anyway, I’m not demanding total silence. Just reasonable decibel levels.”
“Who the hell decides what decibel level is reasonable?”
He stares at me for a moment, and I realize my heart is pounding. He gets me so riled, I don’t even know what I’m saying.
“You know what? I’m not doing this with you tonight,” he says. “Have it your way. The entire ice cream social will cram inside the shop, leaving our patio furniture woefully empty while the neighborhood’s most voracious readers all struggle to hear each other above the cacophony of metal music.”
“Sounds like a pleasant evening. I hope you sell lots of ice cream.”
“We will! Countless pints.” He turns on his heel and heads back across the street.
“Good!” I holler after him. “Nothing like a neighborhood filled with thriving businesses!”
“Exactly!” he yells back at me. “Your success is my success.”
“I’ll make sure to tell all the bikers to stop by for a scoop,” I practically roar as a few road bikes pull up.
Finn cups his hands around his mouth. “Please do! Second scoop is free tonight, if you can even taste it above that ruckus!”
We both turn and march into our respective businesses.
After grumpily securing the windows and doors to minimize our impact, I head to get a beer, fuming. I don’t want to ruin an ice cream social or a book club mixer or whatever the hell he’s doing over there, but something about Finn infuriates me, along with other...emotions.
It’s how he gestures all animated, and that face with those distractingly nice cheekbones. The way his lips purse when he’s mad at me. I just really like his face, damn it.
The band starts playing, thrashing away while the small crowd of bikers gathers up close. I stay in the front of the shop, right by the windows, and spend as much time looking across the street as I do at the show in front of me.
A steady crowd arrives to The Scoop, some with books under their arms. Through the front window of the ice cream shop, I see them all stuffed in the little space like sardines, hiding from the noise.
I feel bad, but directly in front of me, a rowdy gang of misfits enjoys the show, thrashing around and yelling over the music.
The bikers deserve fun just as much as Finn’s patrons do, and dissonant chords and frantic time signatures make these weirdos happy.
We can’t all like wholesome, quiet passions.
Spitefully, I decide the books they’re talking about probably aren’t even that great.
After the show, I head out the side entrance to avoid Finn.
It’s been a long night, and I’m exhausted when I crawl into bed.
Needing to get my mind off the argument earlier, I open up the latest email from MorningEnthusiast and read over his contribution.
After nearly fucking, the fae prince and demon outlaw are instead running from each other and their collective destiny, but unknowingly both searching for the same enchanted dagger, lost somewhere in the city.
I open up a message to MorningEnthusiast. I’ve been writing to him more and more often lately, and it’s easy to pick up our running conversation.
I also appreciate the potential in things. The potential disasters waiting around every corner. The potential for a series of blockbuster movies to completely fall to shit (which only heightens the more you like the series and the longer it goes on). The potential enemy in every new friend.
Just kidding about that last one. I’m not a total pessimist, and despite somehow remaining perpetually single, I do have meaningful friendships that I’ve sustained for years. Just to underline this one more time, I am not an ogre.
But unfortunately, I think I made myself a new enemy recently.
I’m not quite sure how it happened. Conflicting interests, I guess.
My blunt charm might have played a role, too.
It tends to get me in trouble. Unlike previous enemies I’ve faced (looking at you, Dr. Who trivia champion Tatius Henderson), in this situation, there’s no clear end in sight.
And my new nemesis appears relentless.
Thankfully, these stories you and I write are still nothing but good potential. How can I care about my bullshit problems here in New York, when there’s a cosmic fuckfest about to erupt in the sacred vampire caverns?
When I hit send, a jolt goes through me.
“Fuck!”
I said where I live.