Keep Out!

The 5:30 AM alarm didn’t chime with a soft melody from my old penthouse system. It was a sudden, loud, annoying tone from my cracked smartphone that made me jump upright, nearly falling off the mattress. My head was throbbing, a result of the cheap, boxed wine I’d drunk in a moment of self-pity the night before. The air in the apartment was thick and humid.

"Six o’clock," I croaked, my voice sounding like I’d swallowed sandpaper.

"I have to be there by six."

I scrambled into my new "uniform": a pair of stiff, dark denim jeans and a plain grey T-shirt. I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. My skin, usually glowing from monthly facials worth thousands of dollars, looked pale and stressed. I looked like a stranger. I looked like Eloise Miller.

The drive to Cane’s Garage & Recovery was a rush of early-morning fog and the smell of stale coffee from a gas station. When I pulled the white Corolla into the gravel lot at 5:58 AM, the garage was already busy. The massive doors were rolled up.

I stepped out of the car, and the smell hit me again. It was the oil, yes, but it was also that primal earth scent that seemed to linger in the back of my throat.

"You're late," said a clipped voice.

I spun around. Standing by a rack of heavy-duty tires was a man. He was leaner than Cane, with sharp, disciplined features and eyes that moved with precision. This was Vane.

"My watch says 5:59," I countered, trying to summon a shred of Thorne confidence.

Vane stepped toward me. He didn't just walk; he glided, his boots making almost no sound on the gravel.

"In this shop, 5:55 is late. 6:00 is a fireable offense. I’m the foreman here. I handle the inventory, the invoices, and the people who think they can slide by on a pretty face."

"I don't expect to 'slide by,'" I snapped.

"Good. Because I have zero tolerance for expensive mistakes, you mix up a part order, and you cost us a contract. You show up late again, you’re back on the street. Follow me."

He led me to a small, glass-walled office that sat on a raised platform overlooking the main bays. It was cramped, smelled of old paper, and was covered in a thin layer of fine dust.

"This is your cage," Vane said, gesturing to a metal desk and an ancient computer.

"You handle the phone calls, the walk-ins, and the filing. We deal with high-end custom builds and recovery. Most of our clients are... private. You don't ask for IDs, and you don't keep digital logs of certain plates. Understand?"

"Why? Are you running a chop shop?"

Vane’s eyes flashed, a sudden, predatory gold that vanished so quickly I thought it was a trick of the light. He leaned over the desk; his presence was suddenly suffocating.

"I told you: no questions. You handle the banking and the paperwork that we don't want on a server. You are our public face. If a cop rolls up, you smile and tell them everything is legal. That’s why you’re here, Miller. You look like the kind of girl people believe."

Before I could respond, a low whistle echoed from the bay below. A young man, maybe nineteen, with wild hair and a smudge of grease across his nose, was dragging a massive engine block across the floor...by himself! He was moving it as if it weighed no more than a suitcase.

"Hey, Jax! Get the cleaner over here!" Vane shouted.

The boy, Jax, looked up. He caught my eye and paused. He didn't look at me with the lustful gaze I was used to from men at Jaxon Reed’s parties. He looked at me with a strange curiosity, his nostrils flaring just like Cane’s had.

"Is that her?" Jax asked, his voice bright.

"The one who got lost on her way to the country club?"

"Ignore him," Vane said, turning back to me.

"He’s the gofer. He cleans the bays and hauls the scrap. He’s the lowest rung here, but he’s stronger than ten of you. Don't get in his way."

I watched Jax as he went back to work. I felt a flick of my old elitism. He’s just a cleaner, I thought. A janitor with a gym membership. I didn't realize that in the hierarchy of this room, I was the only one truly at the bottom.

Vane pointed to a heavy iron door at the very back of the warehouse, painted a deep, warning red. It had three heavy deadbolts and a "KEEP OUT" sign that looked like it had been punched into the metal.

"One rule, Miller. The most important one," Vane said, his voice dropping to a deadly serious tone.

"That back area, the Loft, and the Rear Bay, are off-limits. Completely. I don't care if the building is on fire. I don't care if you hear someone screaming. You do not go past that red door. If I catch you even looking through the keyhole, I won't just fire you. I’ll make sure you’re never found."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry.

"What’s back there?"

"The parts of this business that don't concern you," a new voice entered.

I looked down. Cane was standing at the base of the office stairs. He looked even more massive from this angle. He was wiping a dark fluid, too thick to be oil, off a heavy wrench. He looked up at me, his amber eyes pinning me to the spot.

"Get to work, Miller," Cane commanded.

"The phone is ringing."

I hadn't even heard it. But a split second later, the ancient landline on my desk let out a shrill, piercing ring. I jumped, reaching for it, as the three men below went back to their work.

My first day had begun. It was ten hours of filing greasy receipts and dealing with men who spoke in grunts. By the time 4:00 PM rolled around, my hands were stained, my back was screaming, and I was more intrigued than I had ever been in my life.