The bike bounced over the track on the back stretch as I yanked the Velcro strap of my helmet off and pulled it free so my hair could whip in the wind, and I grinned, thinking of how much I wanted Garret to be a part of the moment I stopped this bike and welcomed congratulations from my parents.
He wouldn't—today, anyway. But hopefully soon.
Because tomorrow when we snuck out to the old shed behind Ma's Griddle, I planned to tell him I loved him and that I wanted to make this secret fling we had public.
And I was willing to accept the consequences of sneaking around with a member of the Gravehounds MC who was twice my age, if he was.
2
GARRET
The Bentley was someone's retirement dream and someone else's nightmare, and right now, it was mine.
I had wedged myself halfway into the engine bay with a wrench and a timing belt that kept slipping off the tensioner every time I got it close to seated.
The car belonged to a man named Edwin Howell who'd driven it up from Springfield thinking the Grove Hill shop would be cheaper than the dealership.
He wasn't wrong, but cheaper didn't mean easy, and this particular car had clearly been ignored for longer than Howell was willing to admit. It made my job harder to do, and all for the same amount of payment.
I heard the garage side door swing open behind me and didn't bother looking up. "If you're here about the Indian, it's not done," I grumbled, already bracing for that angry twat who kept checking in every day asking about his rebuilt engine.
"I don't own an Indian."
I straightened up fast enough that I caught my shoulder on the hood prop and winced as I spun around. Peter Ducette stood in the shop doorway with his hands in his jacket pockets, with an unhurried scowl on his face and narrow eyes.
I'd seen that look a million times and I knew Peter well enough to know there was trouble brewing.
"Peter." I set the wrench down on the fender on a shop rag I laid there to keep my tools from scratching the paint. "Sorry, thought you were someone else."
"Clearly." He looked around the shop and pursed his lips, then turned back to face me. "How are you, Garret?"
"Can't complain." I wiped my hands on a rag and nodded toward the Bentley as I managed to keep my face from screwing up in a dirty look. My name wasn’t Garret anymore, but try telling that to a man who never had a crooked thought in his life. "Working through a to-do list. You?"
"Same." He moved a little farther into the shop and glanced at the car. He'd always had an eye for engines even if his specialty was smaller work. "What year's that?" His particular drawl was more southern than Midwestern, but it was familiar, like a memory stored away in my mind.
"Ninety-Eight Continental GT. Owner let the timing belt go too long and it's a bear… I've got it mostly figured out." I pulled the rag from my breast pocket on my overalls and wiped the grease from my hands as I looked up at him. "What can I do you for?"
Peter nodded like he was actually interested, which he probably was. The man could talk engines all day if you let him. We'd done it plenty of times, back when I was working at his shop and hewas teaching me the difference between the kind of mechanical work that pays and the kind that just eats your afternoon.
That was almost seven years ago now. I'd come into Grove Hill with sixty bucks, a duffel bag, and a prospect patch that wasn't worth much yet. Peter had taken one look at me and put me to work, though he made it clear my colors were not welcome in his shop. He kept me off the street while I figured out whether the Gravehounds and I were a match.
"Garret," he said quietly, and I winced.
"Crank?" I responded, but Peter ignored my correction.
"I need to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
He looked at me straight with eyes that saw through me. "Were you at the race yesterday?" This man was a human lie detector. Unfortunately for both of us, he'd been around me long enough to know I was horrible at lying, and there was no point in trying.
"I was," I said, already knowing what he'd say. I made a promise a while ago to steer clear of his family, the day I became a full member of my club and Peter decided it was a risk to his family.
Peter had never been a man you could run a line on, and I'd learned that early enough that I wasn't going to embarrass myself trying now, especially when all he did was stare at me with disappointed eyes and pursed, angry lips.
"I wanted to see her run. That's all it was. I kept my distance." My throat worked around the lump there. If he asked me outright if something was going on between me and Sara, I'd have to fess up. I just hoped he wasn't that brazen.
He had no reason to suspect that, as far as I knew, but I never could tell.
