Chapter 4

I was dragging the bike up the gravel path when I heard a screen door scrape open.

“You look like you’re one busted spark plug away from throwing that thing in a ditch,” a woman called out.

I turned to see her leaning against the doorframe, cigarette in one hand, steaming mug in the other. Gray hair in a messy bun, a T-shirt that said Hell Ain’t Hot Enough, and a face that could cut through drywall.

“Marge,” she said, introducing herself. “I keep the books and remind the boys to wash their hands before eating.”

“Joan,” I said. “Just passing through.”

“Uh-huh.” She took a drag and blew smoke. “That what you call showing up twice today with a busted bike and a look like someone just set your life on fire?”

I stared at her. She sipped her coffee and added, “Don’t worry, honey. I’ve seen worse.”

She nodded toward the tree line behind the lot. “There’s a rental out back. Cabin. Small bed, leaky faucet, smells like cedar and regret. Last guy skipped town owing rent and a screwdriver set. You interested?”

“Seriously?”

“You look like you could use a roof and no questions. I’ve got the key if you’ve got first week’s rent.”

It wasn’t part of my plan, but then again, I didn’t have a plan. Just a dead engine and grief.

“How much?”

She named a suspiciously low number.

“Why so cheap?”

“Because no one with good sense wants to live behind a biker garage,” she said. “And because I don’t like empty space. Makes people lonely.”

I nodded.

She pulled the key from her pocket and tossed it underhand. “Second left. There’s a half-working heater and a whole-working lock. Keep the windows closed. Birds like to get cocky around here.”

Then she added, “You run long enough, you forget what it’s like to stop. Don’t waste the chance.”

She went back inside.

The cabin was exactly what she promised. Small, crooked, but clean enough. The floor creaked, pipes wheezed, and the wind made the walls click. But it was mine for now.

I dropped my duffel on the bed, stood still, and embraced the silence. Outside, I could see the garage lit by a single bulb. Jax worked under it, steady, like nothing in the world could touch him.

The next morning, I woke to the smell of gasoline and old metal drifting in from the garage. It reminded me of Sundays with my dad and rides that ended in burgers and the hiss of cooling engines.

I pulled on a hoodie and boots, my head still heavy. I needed air. Or caffeine. Or both.

I walked to the gas station's Mart. The coffee wasn’t great, but it was hot and didn’t leak. I got two.

By the time I got back, Jax was already outside, leaning over a bike, sleeves rolled up, grease on his arms. Blues rock played softly from an old radio, matching his movements.

I stood there for a moment, unsure what I was doing. Then I walked up and held out one of the cups.

He eyed it like it might bite him. Or like I might.

“It’s not poisoned,” I said.

He wiped his hand on a rag, took the cup without saying thanks, just nodded, and sipped.

After a while, he said, “You staying in the cabin?”

I nodded.

“Marge usually keeps it for burnouts and ghosts.”

“Well,” I said, sipping. “I’m a bit of both.”

That almost got a smirk out of him. Almost.

More silence.

Then he asked, “Fix your own bike before? Or did your dad handle it?”

“I helped him in the shop,” I said. “Knew how to change oil before I could parallel park.”

He glanced at me, his expression softening for a heartbeat. “Then you know the belt’s shot. Front tire’s low too.”

“I figured.”

“You planning to fix it or just admire the damage?”

“Bit of both.”

He almost laughed, then went back to the bike.

“Most people who run don’t come back,” he said.

I looked at him. “I’m not most people. I’m Joan.”

He didn’t reply, just sipped his coffee and went back to work.

But he didn’t ask me to leave, and I didn’t offer.

The second night in the cabin, I couldn’t sleep.

I lay there, staring at the warped ceiling, the mattress creaking with every shift. The radiator hissed like it was breathing beside me. It was too quiet like the silence after everything’s already fallen apart and the world’s just waiting to see what you’ll do next.

Around 3 a.m., I unzipped my duffel bag not to organize, just to remind myself there was still something I owned. I found the old hoodie I’d grabbed on autopilot, and beneath it… a flash drive. Tiny, silver, innocuous.

I knew what it was, my digital vault. Backups of reports, contracts, things I thought might protect me if anything ever went wrong.

I plugged it into my laptop. Most files were labeled neatly, but one folder stood out: "Reception Seating." Inside, fake invoices, fake names, a wire transfer that didn’t match the budget, and my company’s signature. My name.

I slammed the laptop shut, needing air, needing distance.

---

The next morning, Marge handed me coffee without asking. I took it in silence.

The garage was already busy, engines roaring and tools clanking. Marge introduced the crew with the same casual tone she used for everything.

“That’s Rafe,” she said, pointing to a bearded guy. “He’s the shop’s conscience. Don’t let it fool you. He’s stabbed someone for less than a busted chain.”

“Not recently,” she added. “But the vibe sticks.”

Then came Mouse, twitchy and awkward. Marge waved him off. “Skilled with wires, terrible with eye contact.”

And finally, Ghost. tall, bald, and scarred. “Don’t ask why he’s called that,” Marge said. “He doesn’t like questions.”

I nodded as they walked past. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t hostile either. That was something.

Later, I helped Marge find a tool. I didn’t think about it. Just pulled a box from the shelf, remembering how I used to stock inventory in my dad’s shop.

Marge looked impressed. “Useful and traumatized. You might just fit in here.”

An hour later, Jax tossed a pair of work gloves on the counter. “If you’re gonna keep hovering, might as well earn your spot.”

I stared at the gloves, then at him. “I didn’t ask to be part of your club.”

He shrugged. “And yet, here you are.”

I put them on.

---

That night, I walked home from a close by pub, the cool air biting. As I passed the garage, I heard Jax’s voice, rough and low, on the phone.

“I told you I’m out,” he muttered. “If they’re looking for me, tell them to keep looking.”

I kept walking, but then he snapped his head toward me. His eyes locked on mine.

“You lost?”

“I...” I stepped forward. “I wasn’t...”

“Eavesdropping?” he said, pushing off the post. “Sure looked like it.”

“I was just walking...”

He took a step toward me, shoulders tight, eyes burning. “You think just because you’re staying in our leftover cabin, you get to lurk around corners?”

I bristled. “I didn’t mean to hear anything...”

“But you did.”

His voice cut through me, louder now, angrier. “You’ve been here five minutes and already you’re watching everything. Like you’re taking notes. Like you’re trying to figure out where the cracks are.”

I clenched my jaw. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing, Joan?” he snapped. “Because you show up with a dead engine and dead eyes, act like you don’t need anyone, but you’re all over my shop like you’re scouting it.”

I swallowed hard. “I’m not the one making shady phone calls in alleyways,” I said quietly.

His face darkened.

We stared at each other for a long second.

Then he shook his head. “This place is full of broken shit. Engines. People. Promises. I fix what I can. I don’t need another stray making everything worse.”

“Then maybe don’t offer me gloves next time,” I bit out.

“I won’t.”