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“We moved to our father’s place,” Dude chimed in. “We’ll be opening up a new shop soon. Better location.”
“The location has been good to me so far,” Delaney said. “Despite the lies you two are spreading around about me.” She felt Wyatt’s body tighten through the leash, even though her grip was loose.
“No idea what you’re talking about.” Dick’s steely gaze shifted downward. “Hey, Sinbad.” His voice rose in pitch. “There you are. Hey, boy.” He stepped toward him, arm outstretched.
Wyatt backed up, pressing into Delaney’s side. “His name is Wyatt now,” she said.
“The hell it is.” Dude snorted as Dick retracted his hand. “His name is Sinbad and he’s my dog. And now I’ve got space for him. Twenty-acre farm for him to run around.”
A pang of guilt ran through Delaney, even as Dick’s words fueled her anger. She thought back to how many times Wyatt had escaped Sunny’s doggie heaven, risking the woods and getting stuck in slippery ditches in thunderstorms just to satiate his need to explore. The only way anyone had been able to contain him so far was with strict training and commands. Dad wouldn’t have approved, yet he wouldn’t have wanted to turn Wyatt over to Dude and Dick, either.
“I’m happy for you,” she said. “But you gave up on Wyatt. And you didn’t treat him well when you had him.”
“You don’t know anything about us,” Dude said.
“Right.” Dick’s deadpan face was enhanced by his soulless eyes. “She doesn’t. But she’ll learn.”
“What do you mean by that, exactly?” Sean stepped up, slightly in front of Delaney.
Dick flicked his gaze at Sean, then quickly back to Delaney. “This is the last time I’m going to ask you to give my brother’s dog back.”
Delaney wanted to fill in the blank.Or...?
But Dick took her silence as refusal. “That’s that, then,” he said.
Wyatt whined.
“You two can shove off.” Sean’s voice came cool and controlled. His hand rested on her shoulder. “And if I were you, I’d be careful about the things you’re spreading around town about Delaney and her shop.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick repeated.
“Uh-huh.” Sean guided her away, closer to the judging and well away from the Dudes. Wyatt followed, the happy back on his face and a bounce to his step.
“Thanks for that,” Delaney muttered, once they were out of earshot. Much of her joy about the bike show had evaporated, leaving her feeling sick and strained.
“I’ve got your back. Don’t worry.”
“I know, but...” Delaney paused, pushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead. “Those guys are really trying to mess with me now.” She closed her mouth and shook her head, ashamed at herself. Was she really letting these guys get to her? So many years of dealing with the loneliness of being a female marine, of dealing with sexism and stalkers and being underestimated, and she’d taken them all on, pushing her way through and smacking them down.Suck it up, Squeaky, Dad would say. Or, if it were Boom,No weakness. Sal’s version: Que verguenza!Don’t let anyone take up space in your head for free,pequita.
“Hey.” Sean took her gently by the arms, both of his hands on her biceps.
Delaney looked up at him, waiting for the usual platitudes.I understand how you feel. Which he didn’t.You’re bigger than them. Delaney was tired of having to be bigger.Ignore them. Which solved nothing.
Sean glanced down at Wyatt, who was smiling up at them, wagging his tail against the grass. “I’m not going to let those guys mess with you,” he said.
Delaney tried to smile, too, but it wouldn’t come. She wasn’t used to being the one who needed protecting. She wanted to lean on Sean, but leaning too often led to falling.
“C’mon,” Sean said. “Let’s go near the stage. Looks like they’re about to announce the winners.”
They did just that as over the next half hour the winners of the various categories got ribbons tied to their bikes and the emcee—an older man in jeans and a faded Ride for Kids T-shirt—announced them over a microphone. Best in Show was last, and as the judge wove through the bikes, inspecting each one and writing on his clipboard, Delaney passed on to Sean what she knew. “He’s looking for stock pipes, stock paint, carbon in the pipes. My uncle Zip judges these kind of events and he says that by the time he’s checked the plates, pipes and paint he’s eliminated nearly three-fourths of the field.”
“Your uncle Zip must really know his shit.” Sean’s brow narrowed as he eyed the motorcycles. “Some of them are really flashy.”
“A lot of times the flashy ones don’t make it because they’re trailer queens,” Delaney said. “Or what I call divas.” She grinned. “Which would be fine for a show event, but this isn’t that. This is all about how classic is your classic. So once Zip gets past the plates and pipes and paint he’s literally down to the nuts and bolts. Gauges. Front forks.”
Sean’s face fell as the judge hung a ribbon on the Dudes’ Triumph.
“It’s okay,” Delaney said. “He’s just marking all the finalists.” She pointed as the judge walked past several other bikes to hang an identical ribbon on the ’65 Ducati Mach 1 that Delaney had admired on her way in this morning. The judge then walked near Dad’s ’33. He would either walk on by or stop and hang a ribbon. Unless she was seeing things, Sean crossed his fingers and hid his hand behind his back.
