“That easy?”
“Wasn’t easy.He earned it.”
“How?”
His eyes moved past me, toward the main room where Twister’s voice rumbled low for a second before disappearing under the sound of the bar sink running.
“By never asking for anything he wouldn’t do himself.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
Most people I had worked with in the city had asked for plenty of things they wouldn’t do themselves.Sign this.Ignore that.Push this file.Lose that page.Make it look clean.
I had spent years believing the system worked because people cared enough to make it work.Now I knew the system worked because certain people knew exactly how to bend it without getting caught.
Wheels pushed off the wall.“Come on.I’ll show you the garage.”
The garage was where the clubhouse started to feel less like a building and more like them.
Bikes lined one wall, polished chrome and black paint catching the work lights overhead.Tools hung neatly from pegboards.A lift sat in the middle of the floor with an engine part I couldn’t name resting on it.The air smelled like oil, rubber, metal, and something sharp I couldn’t place.
Wheels’ whole posture changed when we stepped inside.His shoulders loosened, and his gaze moved over the bikes the way some people looked at artwork in a museum.
“This is your spot,” I said.
He looked at me.“What?”
“This.”I nodded around the garage.“You like it in here.”
“Yeah.”
“Because of the bikes?”
“Because bikes make sense.”
I walked closer to one parked near the front.It was sleek, black, and looked like trouble on two wheels.“How?”
“You take care of them, they run.Something’s wrong, they tell you.Might take a while to figure out what, but there’s always a reason.”He grabbed a rag from the workbench and wiped his hands even though they weren’t dirty.“People are messier.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
He leaned against the bench.“You ever ride your own?”
“No.Just been on the back a few times.”
“With who?”
The question came out casual.
I looked at him.“Is that your business?”
“Nope.”
“Then why ask?”
“Curious.”
“About me?”
