Page 1 of Broken Soul

1

DIESEL

“Nowthat’sa nice bike,” Domino says, whistling as he walks toward me.

I finish buffing the custom brass finish of the frame before spending some extra time wiping the gothic cross decal on the back fender until it’s shining. “Took me forever to track down brass-finished foot pegs and a muffler to match. Antonio has been bugging me every day for two months about his damn bike, so believe me when I say I’ll be happy when he picks it up tomorrow.”

“He’ll be fine. Lord knows he already has a dozen bikes to choose from.”

“That’s what I told him,” I grumble. “He didn’t take it so well.”

Domino, the president of Deviant Souls MC, chuckles and claps my shoulder. “I can only imagine his response.”

The garage goes silent as we both stand back and admire the machine in front of us. I’ve been a member of Deviant Souls since I retired from the military over five years ago. After three days of sitting in an empty apartment in the dark, alone with my depressing and twisted thoughts, I knew I needed to findsomething to do with my time if I was going to survive as a civilian.

Luckily, I found a motorcycle club looking for a mechanic. I’ve been turning wrench since I was ten and knew I’d be up for the job. Fast forward a few years and now I’m a member of Deviant Souls as well as the one in charge of the garage.

“Any word on Hell’s Scoundrels?” I ask, breaking the silence.

“After our last encounter with those bastards, things have fallen apart.”

“Good,” I grunt in approval.

“I still have my doubts,” Domino counters. “It feels unfinished between us and our ex-brothers.”

I nod and uncross my arms only to cross them again in a slightly different way. The real falling out happened almost a year ago when the former Prez of Deviant Souls got busted for a laundry list of shit we had no idea he was doing. The club split up, with the majority of us committed to cleaning up our act and being a force for good in the community.

A small fraction broke away and tried starting their own chapter of a national MC, Hell’s Scoundrels. We surrounded them and fucked up the drug deal they were carrying out, managing to get a few of the men thrown in jail.

“I heard Hell’s Scoundrels denied their membership and said they could never join or apply to be a chapter again,” I tell him, hoping he can shed some light.

Domino nods. “It’s true. But I think that will only add more fuel to the fire of rage that’s been blinding our ex-brothers for months if not years now. Rejected from their own club, denied entry into another… I just don’t see these guys as the type to give up.”

“They’ll come back swinging twice as hard,” I mutter, finishing the thought for him.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Our conversation is interrupted by Domino’s phone ringing. I can tell by the dopey smile on his face that it’s his woman, Calista. The Prez tips his chin down in a silent goodbye and then answers his phone. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to the softer tone he uses with Calista. Jett has been that way with Rowan as well.

Two of my closest friends are well on their way to being husbands and probably fathers soon, while I’m just… here.

Not that I’m searching for a woman. Hell no. First of all, it wouldn’t be fair to her. I carry around a darkness few people have seen and even fewer understand. I’d suck the joy and happiness out of anyone who tried to get close, I just know it. That’s why I don’t try. I don’t look. I keep my head down and my hands busy. When I’m idle for too long, bad things happen.

I shake those thoughts from my head and toss the towel in my hand over my shoulder, making my way over to the sink. I wash my hands and take a deep breath, staying in the present moment. My anxiety and paranoia flare up at the most random times, like right now. Nothing’s wrong and yet something… something is off.

Looking around the shop, I don’t see anyone else here. There’s no one in the lobby, either. It’s been a slow day - not that we get many walk-ins. Our clientele is mostly Deviant Souls members and a few motorcycle enthusiasts from the surrounding towns.

A loud pop has me jumping out of my skin, every one of my senses on high alert. Another pop slices through the otherwise silent autumn afternoon, followed by the rumbling of an engine that sounds like it's drowning in motor oil.

Jesus Christ, it’s just a car, I tell myself. A shitty car from what I can hear. A shitty car that is coming closer and closer to my garage.

I step outside in time to see an ancient Ford Mercury shudder and clank and blow out a puff of black smoke from beneath the hood. The pile of rust rolls to a stop outside one of the closed bay doors of the shop, and I stare at the vehicle while the smoke clears.

There's no way this beat-up car is going to be worth the man-hours to fix. Plus, the last thing I want to do is tinker around with a four-wheeled monstrosity. I can do it, I just prefer bikes to cars. I also tend to get along with motorcycle owners better than car owners. Weird.

As I scan the vehicle for any obvious signs of an accident or an external reason for the way the engine is running, I see a flash of white-blonde hair from where the driver is sitting. I take a step closer, something in me drawn toward the silhouette of the woman behind the window.

My feet continue carrying me toward the car. Or, more accurately, toward the woman inside the car. She has her hands on the steering wheel, gripping it hard enough that her knuckles are white. Her shoulders move up and down with a big sigh, and then she rests her forehead on the steering wheel in defeat.

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