THE HARD BODY BETWEEN MY thighs came to life, and I reveled in the feeling. The vibration from the purring engine could rock me to sleep better than any lullaby. Closing my eyes, the peeling walls of the repair shop fell away, and I was on the circuit surrounded by stands filled with spectators screaming my name as I raced for the finish line.
“How’s she holding, girl?”
Snatched from my fantasy by the sound of my boss’ gravelly voice, I cooed, “Like a newborn baby.”
Gruff grunted and chuckled, making the sixty-year-old’s impressive beer gut jiggle, and his sharp blue eyes lighten as he stroked his gray, bushy beard. He was also the only person I knew who possibly loved bikes more than I did. He definitely knew more—I’d give him that.
“Think she needs another run?”
I nodded while concealing my growing excitement. Even though I was confident the owner wouldn’t have any problems, I never risked sloppy work. If bikes were plants, I’d have a green thumb.
Gruff took me under his wing seven years ago once he got tired of chasing me away. When all the other kids were forging friendships, I was sneaking into Russell’s Repairs. Sometimes, I’d simply watch the guys work, but on the more daring days, I’d give in to my urge to run my fingers over cold, hard metal. The first time Gruff caught me, he threw me out onto the pavement. He said the shop was no place for a kid.
Having no sense of self-preservation, I snuck back inside the next afternoon and almost every one after that until one rainy afternoon, I found a new sign banning profanity. No one ran me off that day. Tim, one of the workers, had even brought out a chair from the office, which was much more comfortable than crouching behind metal shelves filled with used parts. It wasn’t long before Jasper—Gruff’s only other employee—taught my first lesson. Gruff, whose real name was Robert Russell, had offered me nothing but an occasional grunt or grimace. His rough demeanor was actually how he got the nickname. Weeks later, when Rosalyn discovered where I was spending my free time, I learned the grump was really a big ole sweetheart. I was a latchkey kid without a sibling or friend, so Gruff had offered to keep me out of trouble during the hours she worked as a hotel maid. Her reluctance was embarrassingly obvious, but to my delight, she agreed. It would have sucked to sneak around again.
Gruff quickly became sort of an understudy to the father I would never know. Jasper and Tim also undertook brotherly roles until a swanky new automotive shop opened up a few towns over, and they moved on to greener pastures. Cherry’s three thousand souls was a mere drop in the bucket. Most of the locals had to travel to Rochford, a small city thirty minutes away, for business and work—Rosalyn included.
“Well, hop to it, kid. I’ll make the call.”
Gruff ambled into his office, and I grinned as I swung my leg over the bike and retrieved my gloves and helmet. I got my license a few months after I turned sixteen, but I didn’t have a bike of my own yet, so I relished any opportunity to ride. I was eleven when I finally convinced Gruff to teach me how to ride—off the record, of course. Widowed, and with his only son living a couple hours away, it was hard prying him away from his shop. It was a good thing I made him promise when I became his employee that he’d teach me. I thought it was a fair bargain—he needed the help, and I needed the lessons. He still even paid me a small wage that I saved for a bike and used to enter bidding wars for unique and sometimes rare helmets. So far, I’d collected twelve, a couple signed by professional racers, and others signed and sold by legendary undergrounds.
I quickly shoved on my worn leather gloves and pulled on one of my newer additions—Number Ten, a black, old-school, full face with a yellow outline and detachable eye shield and visor.
“I’m off, old man.”
My boot was poised to kick back the stand of the Ducati 1199 Panigale when Gruff stuck his head from his office. He had the cordless plastered to his ear with a stern expression.
“No joyriding, Four.” My smile was challenging, making the wrinkles on his forehead deepen. “I mean it.”
“Up one way and back again, Gruff. I promise.”
I passed through town, lazily eyeing the people spilling in and out of our few shops. Cherry was a frictionless place. The small Virginian town offered little, so anyone in residence was either a native or running away from something. Rosalyn rarely spoke of her past, but I learned a long time ago which party we fell in.
I reached the edge of town and noticed the local soap maker vigorously scrubbing her shop window. She whipped her plump frame around as I parked at the curb in front of her shop. Her distress was palpable as she clutched the soaked sponge to her ample chest.
Her fear didn’t wane until I lifted my helmet to take a closer look at what had upset the sweet woman. Spray painted on the glass was three-quarters of a red X with writing underneath.
I am not led.
My mind raced as I read it a second and third time. “Who did this?”
The vandalism couldn’t have been personal. Patty was a kind, middle-aged widower, who made the best scented soaps and spoke only in soft tones, even when angry. We met in the frozen food section of the town’s only grocer when she scolded me for speeding through the parking lot. She quickly departed before I could apologize, so when I saw her watering the plants in her shop window, I paid a visit. She’d graciously accepted my apology by offering me one of her soaps: coconut water mixed with açaí berry, melon, jasmine petals, and vanilla. Now it’s the only soap I’ll use.
“Some out-of-towners rode through here last night causing trouble. The sheriff’s had his hands full tracking them down.”
This was the part where I would say something consoling, but I was pretty creeped out myself. I am not led? It sounded like some cult bullshit. “I’m sure they’re gone by now,” I assured her, though it sounded more like a question.
“I hope so.” She pointed her soapy sponge at me. “You be careful, hear?”
“I will.” I brought the Ducati back to life, shoved my helmet on, and headed for the open road. Late that night, I was scrubbing my dinner dishes clean after another night of ‘grilled cheese for one’ when my phone chimed. Anticipation didn’t allow me to dry my hands before I hurriedly flipped open my phone.
It’s a go. Curtis Pond Rd. Usual time.
The crowd parted, and I coasted through on the back of the orange, black, and white Ducati. No one ever asked questions, so I never had to explain why I showed up on a different bike every race. Borrowing bikes I helped to fix in Gruff’s shop without his knowledge was risky business, but so far, my luck held.
Spotting Mickey’s brown tattooed skin and shoulder-length dreads as he talked to another rider on the sideline, I stopped at the marked line and lifted my helmet. The smell of decay from the swamp on the other side of the trees hit me instantly. A tense Mickey swaggered over as fast as his sagging jeans would allow.
“I should have given your spot away. You know,” he said with sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “to someone who actually bids to race and can show up on time.”
I just barely kept from rolling my eyes. Mickey had a violent track record, but he didn’t scare me. I was too valuable. I pretended not to notice him checking me out as I laughed and leaned forward. Worn black and yellow leather creaked as I rested my forearms on the handlebars. “I had algebra homework, and we both know you’d lose way more than you’d make if you cut me out.” I could always count on Mickey’s bet in my favor because he could always count on me to win.