Page 28 of Bone Dust

Curiosity wins over fear. I stick my head back out of the car, my ears acting as a satellite to pinpoint where the sound is coming from. Cautious concern and empathy for whoever may be hurt or in need of help outweighs any thoughts of danger. I step out of the car slowly, keeping my hand on the door handle as I listen.

It’s not a moan I hear. It’s a grunt.

I exit the car and take a few steps. Barely making it ten feet away, I see someone lying on the ground by a motorcycle, their bent, jean-clad legs blocking a full view.

“Hello? Are you hurt?”

My words come out on a shaky whisper, caution evident in my tone. I take one step back as the person stirs. Peering, I get a clearer picture of scattered tools nearby.

“I’m not hurt, but I can’t say the same for my bike.” Ian leans up, his eyes widening with recognition.

“Hey, Savannah. Is your show over? It’s kind of early.”

“I’m on a different schedule today.” I had no desire to elaborate on my personal life but, after working around him for a few weeks, our initial animosity has faded to a more civil level. I gesture to the sleek machine. “You have a nice bike there.”

“Thanks. I like it but I’m still getting used to being my own mechanic.” He stands and brushes off his jeans which reveal smudges of oil and grease.

“I’m guessing you didn’t get that around here.” I tip my chin toward the bike. “Would a Harley dealership pick it up and take it to a shop?”

“There’s no Harley dealership around here. The closest one is in Melody Lake. That’s a four-hour drive. Discord Flats has a bike repair place. That’s about a hundred miles away.”

“Discord Flats?” I feel a sudden chill. “Isn’t that the town with that motorcycle gang, Sinful Sons?”

“Yeah. I’ve been there once. Just in and out of town. I picked up a part for the bike. It was a nice ride, but I should’ve just had them ship it to me.”

“I’d think, if you bought the bike there, they’d want to keep their customer happy.”

“I didn’t—buy it there, I mean. The bike was a gift from a friend.”

“Oh, wow! That’s some friend.” The words fly out of my mouth, and I instantly regret the tone. I wish I could bite them back but it’s too late. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound snarky.”

He doesn’t seem offended. In fact, his words are touched with sadness.

“It’s okay. You’re right. She is quite a friend. One of the few I’ve got. Dash Barrows’ widow gave it to me.”

“Oh, I remember. The writer. What’s her name? Sky something?”

“Eden Skye’s her pen name. Her real name is Skylar—or Sky. That’s what everybody calls her.” He thumbs over his shoulder. “He loved that bike. I’m trying to keep it nice. She also gave me one of his guitars.”

Sadness drapes his eyes, and sorrow etches his features. There’s no mistaking the heartbreak in his voice and it hits me with more of a punch than a prick. For a moment we share the deep pain of love and loss. Battered hearts have a language of their own.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

My words hang in the air as his expression softens, revealing a vulnerability that tugs at my heartstrings. The mention of Dash's passing brings a somber heaviness to the conversation. I know I should end it here and make my exit, but I can't resist staying a little longer.

Ian’s expression softens. “I appreciate that. Dash was a hell of a guy.”

“Can you fix it?” I look over his shoulder toward the motorcycle.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Not now, anyway. I don’t have the right tools with me.”

How are you getting home?”

My question is met with a shrug and a defeated tone. “Uber, I guess, or I can go back into the bar. Sam’ll give me a ride when the bar closes.”

“But that’s not ‘till later. A couple more hours, at least.”

His palms turn up as he shrugs. “I don’t see as I have a lot of options.”

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