Chapter 9
Diane lasted two days before the idleness drove her crazy.
She'd tried to be patient. Tried to sit in her room and wait for news, like a good little protected witness. But thirty-six hours of staring at walls had her climbing out of her skin, and when she woke on the third morning to the sound of bikes rumbling in the lot below, something in her snapped.
She grabbed her father's toolbox and headed for the garage.
The eight bays were mostly empty at ten in the morning, just two bikes on lifts and a brother she didn't recognize doing something to an engine that made her wince. Whoever had taught him maintenance should have their wrench privileges revoked.
But it was the bike in bay three that caught her attention.
A Road Glide, beautiful machine, sitting dead on a lift with its guts exposed. Three brothers stood around it arguing—she recognized Lakeshore from the safehouse, plus two others she hadn't met.
"—been at it for a week," one of them was saying. "Transmission's shot."
"Transmission's not shot." Lakeshore crossed his arms. "It's the clutch. Has to be."
"Clutch is fine. I checked it twice."
"Then check it again."
Diane set her toolbox down with a deliberate clang.
Three heads turned. Three sets of eyes dropped to the red metal case, then rose to her face.
"Problem?" she asked.
"Who are you?" The third brother—younger, with a prospect's eagerness and a prospect's ignorance—stepped forward like he owned the space.
"Diane Kowalski." She walked past him to the bike without waiting for an invitation. "What's wrong with it?"
"None of your—"
"She's the mechanic Union brought in," Lakeshore cut him off. "The one we hit Varga for."
The prospect's attitude shifted instantly. "Oh. Sorry. I didn't—"
Diane was already ignoring him, her attention fixed on the Road Glide. She ran her hands over the engine, feeling for the telltale vibrations of a machine in distress.
"Start it."
Lakeshore raised an eyebrow but complied. The engine turned over with a grinding whine that made Diane's teeth hurt.
"Again."
He did. She listened with her eyes closed, her fingers pressed against the transmission housing.
"Kill it."
Silence fell. Diane straightened up and wiped her hands on her jeans.
"It's not the transmission, and it's not the clutch." She pointed to a spot deep in the engine. "Your compensator sprocket is worn down. The teeth are chewed to hell—that's what's causing the slip and the grind."
Lakeshore leaned in to look. "I checked the compensator."
"You checked the nut. The sprocket itself is behind the primary cover." Diane was already reaching for her toolbox. "Give me two hours, I'll have it running clean."
The three brothers exchanged looks. Lakeshore shrugged.
"Have at it."
Diane got to work.
Two hours later, the Road Glide purred like a kitten.
Lakeshore took it for a test ride around the lot, and when he came back, his face had transformed from skeptical to something that looked dangerously close to impressed.
"That's the smoothest it's run in months."
"Should've been fixed six months ago." Diane was cleaning her tools, putting each one back in its proper slot. "You let it go too long. Another few weeks and you'd have needed a full rebuild."
"Nobody here could figure out what was wrong with it."
"Nobody here is a professional mechanic."
A bark of laughter from behind her. She turned to find Stockyard leaning against the garage door frame—massive, built like his namesake, watching her with an expression of grudging respect.
"She's got a mouth on her," he observed.
"She's got a point," Lakeshore countered.
Stockyard pushed off the door frame and walked toward her. Diane held her ground, because she'd learned young that flinching around big men only made them think they could push harder.
"My clutch cable's been sticking for a month," Stockyard said. "Three brothers looked at it. Said it was fine."
"Is it fine?"
"Feels like I'm pulling through mud every time I shift."
Diane grabbed a clean rag and wiped grease from her fingers. "Pull it in. Let me take a look."
Stockyard's smile was slow, almost surprised. "Yes, ma'am."
By afternoon, word had spread.
Diane fixed Stockyard's clutch cable—frayed internally, not visible without disassembly—and moved on to a prospect's bike with a mysterious electrical short. Two more brothers showed up with complaints their fellow Wolves had dismissed as rider error.
None of them were rider error.
She was elbow-deep in a Softail's wiring harness when the old ladies arrived with coffee and company. Claire settled onto a workbench with a cup in each hand, passing one to Diane without interrupting her work.
"You've made quite an impression," Claire said.
"I fixed some bikes."
"You showed a garage full of men that they've been doing it wrong for years." Claire's smile was sharp. "That's not nothing."
Jessica appeared with a plate of pastries that Diane suspected had come from her bakery. "The boys are talking about making you permanent staff."
"I have a shop."
"You have a shop that's currently closed because a crime boss wants you dead." Claire's voice was gentle despite the words. "Take the wins where you can get them."
Diane wanted to argue, but she was too tired and too hungry. She grabbed a pastry and bit into buttery perfection.
"These are incredible."
"Jessica's are the best in Chicago," Claire said simply. "Don't tell her I said that—her head's big enough already."
"You're one to talk," Jessica shot back, but she was smiling.
They sat together in the garage while Diane worked, trading stories about stubborn men and the patience required to love them.
Andrea stopped by with sandwiches—she worked in home health care, Diane learned, and had the calm competence of someone used to managing crises.
Molly brought beer and opinions, her dive bar owner's voice cutting through the garage noise.
It should have felt strange. Sitting in a motorcycle club's garage, surrounded by women she barely knew, eating pastries while she rewired a stranger's bike.
Instead, it felt almost normal.
Like she belonged.
She was finishing up the Softail when movement in her peripheral vision made her look up.
Union stood in the doorway to the clubhouse, watching her.
He'd been in the common room earlier—she'd caught glimpses of him through the windows, organizing something with the systematic efficiency of a man who'd spent his life coordinating groups.
Supply run, she'd gathered from overheard fragments.
Logistics for the compound while the war with Bartosz continued.
Now he was watching her work with an expression that made her chest tight.
Not possessive, exactly. Not predatory.
Soft.
Union's face was doing something soft, and Diane didn't know what to do with that.
She held his gaze for a moment—something passing between them that she couldn't name—and then grabbed the nearest shop rag and threw it at his head.
"Take a picture," she called. "It'll last longer."
Union caught the rag one-handed, his surprised laugh echoing across the garage. The sound transformed his face, made him look younger and less scarred by whatever had put those marks on his knuckles.
"Just admiring the view," he said.
"Admire it from somewhere else. I've got work to do."
He raised his hands in mock surrender and disappeared back into the clubhouse.
Claire was watching her with knowing eyes.
"What?" Diane demanded.
"Nothing." Claire's smile was innocent. Too innocent. "Nothing at all."
Diane turned back to the Softail, her cheeks warm despite the cool garage air.
She didn't want to think about what that smile meant.
She didn't want to think about the soft look on Union's face, or the way his laugh had made her stomach flip, or the fact that throwing things at a man's head was apparently her idea of flirting now.
She had a shop to get back. A crime boss to survive. A life that didn't include falling for gruff bikers with picket line scars and surprising smiles.
But as she finished the last connection and the Softail's engine roared to life, clean and strong, she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she was already in deeper than she wanted to admit.