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“I’ve got a solution. You can quit and get the hell out of here.” He juts his chin to the saloon doors, glaring at me like I’m his worst enemy.
My insides knot up, my outside—my skin all over—feeling a lot like the afternoon of the meeting. As though I’ve been slapped. Warm and sensitive and tender.
Every interaction I have with him now puts me on edge. It makes me feel like I have to be on guard, like I can’t relax in his presence.
I’m not one to avoid people. I tend to force confrontation or make people uncomfortable when they themselves seek to avoid it. Yet I find myself, as days go by, avoiding Mason. If he’s in the living room, I wait inside the den ’til he’s gone. If he turns up at the saloon while I’m on the floor, I invent an excuse to go to the back.
It’s unlike me. It’s almost… cowardly.
But what else can I do? I’m in the world of the Steel Kings, and it just so happens, their King hates my fucking guts.
To what extent, I don’t even want to think about. On some level, even though I don’t want it to, it hurts. It’s a rejection at a time when I’ve lost everyone. At a time when I’m wandering the world on my own, just trying to find justice…
The first day we’re set to work together, I have to mentally prepare myself. I dress in one of my looser t-shirts, trying to hide the curves I’ve been displaying, and I slide into distressed boyfriend jeans that hang off my hips. I put my hair up into a messy bun and forgo any make up.
In the past, I prided myself on never dressing for a man. Yet here I am, considering what Mason will think as I piece together a modest outfit and look.
I walk into the Chop Shop for the first time like I’m invading a foreign land. The bike shop sits right next to the Steel Saloon, yet in the almost two weeks I’ve been in town, I haven’t bothered to come by.
The acrid smell of grease and gasoline attacks me the moment I walk in. It’s a strong enough stench that I also taste it—if the burn in your throat can be considered a taste.
The Chop Shop is all stacked tires, broken down pieces of bikes, and the tools that fix them. The buzz of an electric drill fills the air followed by the crank of a wrench.
I walk through the garage feeling like I’m more out of place here than at the biker bar. Just when I thought I couldn’t feel more like an outsider.
I wander until I find him.
Mason’s by the last garage door, standing by a couple of Harley’s that look half put together. The sad thing is, I think twice before approaching. Do I really want to choose trouble today, or do I want to save myself the headache?
In the end, I approach. I do it with a roll of my eyes and an almost slump to my walk, but I head over to join him.
“There you are,” he says. “About time. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes.”
“We agreed on three o’ clock.”
“It’s three o’ five.”
“Since when are you punctual?”
“Since I’m forced to do shit I don’t want to for some dumb fundraiser,” he answers. He kicks at the nearest half broken down bike. “I don’t want to do this anymore than you do.”
“There’s a good chance it’ll go by faster if we just… focus on the display.”
He doesn’t hide the dissatisfied roll of his eyes. Luckily, somehow, he still looks good—he’s in another white t-shirt that emphasizes his toned, tattooed arms and hints at the flat abs underneath. His eyes catch in the window light of the garage and gleam a new shade of forest green. It’d be easier to hate him if he didn’t look so damn good.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s get started then. I was thinking we could put the original Topper on the first display. It’s a classic that bike enthusiasts love seeing. Ours is out of commission, but I can get the mechanics to get it in decent shape before the fundraiser.”
I pull out my purple notebook and jot down his idea. “What year is that bike? Maybe we can do a different bike from each decade. Kind of like through the ages?”
I can’t tell if he likes my idea or finds it stupid. His expression is that confusing.
He eyes me, then strokes his chin, and turns to look at the Topper nearby.
“The Topper’s from 1965. We do got stuff from different years,” he admits finally.
“People would like that—being able to see vintage bikes and modern bikes.”
“What do you know about what anybody would like looking at bikes?”
