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"Yeah, but did you have to turn her little putt-around-town car into something that drives like it came off the set of Fast and Furious?"
"Who wouldn't want to do their grocery runs faster?"
"She rides this thing, she might literally pull a Back to the Future," he says, slapping the hood. "Or at least she’ll think she is, when the damn g-forces make her pacemaker go out of control."
"If you two are done fondling that car and staring moony-eyed at each other, we need to close up shop," Rook hollers from the other side of the garage.
"You talk like you run this place, Rook. Whose name is on the sign out front?" Bullet answers.
"The name of the child who's going to get punched in the face if he makes me late to my dinner date with Eliza," Rook calls back. "And I'll remind you, I haven't been in a proper fight in months. I’m itching for a good one."
"Months?" Bullet replies. "It wasn't that long ago that you killed, what, three, four men working for the Covingtons?"
"At least. But those weren't men. Just pathetic boys wearing their daddy's clothes, playing at being tough."
Bullet and I trade a look. We both know the question we want to ask, but neither wants to speak up and ask it, because there's a good chance that the answer Rook gives will leave us traumatized.
Finally,curiositygets the better of me.
"Rook, when was the last real fight you had?"
"Killing my brothers in my old MC. And nearly killing my actual brother, too."
Stunned, Bullet and I trade another long look, each of us urging the other to ask.
Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me again.
"Your old MC? And your actual brother...? What was the story there?"
Rook leaves his place on the other side of the garage and slowly walks toward where Bullet and I stand. Neither of us can move. We’re transfixed.
He stops right in front of me.
Looks me directly in the eyes.
"They all tried to keep me from going on a dinner date with Eliza. Just like you're doing right now. Do you want to stand here talking and find out more about just how big of a mistake you're making, or do you want me to get out of here so you can live another day?"
"You can go, Rook. Thunder and I will close up. I got a date with Maddy in a few, too. Something with her parents," Bullet says.
"How are they taking to their precious daughter dating an outlaw and a mechanic?" I say.
"It doesn't matter. Maddy and I, we're together, that's what counts. So, if they've got a problem with it, they can keep it to themselves, you know?" He chuckles, then shakes his head. "They're fine with it. First time really sitting down with them was awkward, but once they found out I own my own business and have plans for expansion, we really got along."
"Expansion?" I say. "The garage?"
He shakes his head and winks. "The MC. But I didn't tell them that. I'll let them think what they need to think, as long as it means they keep some beer in their fridge for me." Bullet turns to Rook. "Where are you taking Eliza? If you sayChez Patisse, I need to call the restaurant and change my reservation, because I will not have your scary ass staring at me, creeping me out while I'm trying to enjoy dinner with my Maddy."
Rook grunts. "Somewhere down south, in San Francisco. I don't know. It has some fancy Italian name. All I remember is Eliza came home from the hospital saying a coworker was just raving about it and she really wanted to go there. I called the place to get a reservation, they said they were booked solid for months, so I rode down there and found the manager. We talked. I got the reservation."
"When you say you two talked, you mean..." Bullet says.
"I mean, he came to understand just how important it was to his survival that he give me that reservation. You think I ever want to tell Eliza that I can't bring her something she really wants?"
Bullet nods. "I get it. The things I'd do to make Maddy happy."
"You understand it, Bullet. When they look at you, and they smile, and it's not just a smile on their face, but in their eyes..." Rook pauses, coughs. "I'd slit a hundred throats just to see her smile that way one single time."
I turn my attention to the car, to the overly powerful Toyota Corolla I've created. Maybe Eileen O'Connell—the old woman's name according to the registration papers I found in the glove box—doesn't need a car she can drag race in. Maybe I've been a little overzealous.
