Page 14 of Devil's Queen

I have to warn her, and to do that, I have to step into the lioness’s den and pray she doesn’t kill me where I stand.

REMY

The sunbarely peaks over the horizon as I pull into the shop. A large, white box truck sits backed into the driveway by the large bay door.

I park my bike near the side entrance before walking back to the front, helmet in hand, and approach the middle-aged man who steps down from the truck’s cab with a clipboard in his hand. His gray hair is tucked back under a baseball cap, the ends of it peeking out from underneath.

I stifle a yawn as he notices me. It had taken every ounce of willpower I had and three cups of coffee to get here this early. But when my biggest client to date requests an early morning pickup after multiple production delays, you make it happen.

“Morning, ma’am,” he greets me with a slight wave of the clipboard, peering down at it before he continues. “I’m here to pick up a delivery for Diaz. Are you the person I’m supposed to talk to about it?”

“I am.” I nod.

The man extends his hand toward me, a gesture of camaraderie. I shake it firmly. “My name is Rick,” he introduces himself. “I handle all of Mr. Diaz’s special purchases.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Rick. I’m Remington. Let me run inside and get the bay door up.”

I slip past the man, feeling a mixture of excitement and trepidation. There’s so much riding on this bike that I barely slept last night, knowing how early I had to be here for the arranged pickup. If the client likes this bike as much as I hope he does, this could put us back on the custom motorcycle map, and we desperately need that kind of recognition right now with everything looming over me.

The air inside the shop is thick with the scent of motor oil and anticipation. I hurry toward the control panel near the entrance, my steps echoing off the cold concrete floor. As I reach for the switch to open the bay door, my fingers tremble with anticipation.

The metal groans in protest as the door slowly rises, revealing the cavernous space beyond. Rays of morning sunlight stream in, casting long shadows across the workshop. My heart pounds in my chest.

Returning to the man waiting outside, I motion for him to follow me. “Come on in,” I say, my voice laced with anticipation. “The order is all set up in bay two.”

We make our way through the maze of tools and equipment, our footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the workshop. The man’s eyes scan his surroundings, taking in every inch of the space as if committing it to memory. I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of this place—my sanctuary, my domain.

As we approach bay two, a sense of pride swells within me. I poured everything into the design and subsequent paint job. The detailed pattern created specifically for my client is a testament to our shop.

I watch as the man’s gaze lingers on it for a moment longer than necessary, a flash of recognition crossing his features. He clears his throat before speaking, his voice tinged with awe. “That’s quite a bike.”

“That she is,” I reply with a smirk. “Custom-built from the ground up.”

The man nods appreciatively, his eyes tracing the sleek curves and intricate details. “I can see why Diaz chose your shop for this project. Your work is truly exceptional.”

I feel a surge of pride at his words, knowing that all the long hours, sleepless nights, and meticulous attention to detail have paid off. This bike is more than just a machine—it’s a work of art.

“Do you mind if I take a closer look?” he asks, his voice laced with genuine curiosity. “Mr. Diaz requested white-glove service, so I need to verify it’s intact prior to loading it.”

“Of course,” I say, stepping back to allow him space to work his magic.

I watch him closely as he approaches the bike, studying his every reaction. His fingers trace the embossed patterns on the tank, his eyes drinking in every little nuance. It’s as if he can feel the passion and dedication that went into creating this masterpiece. He finally straightens up, turning toward me with a smile that reaches his eyes. “This is truly one of a kind,” he says. “Diaz will be thrilled.”

Relief washes over me, mingled with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. This delivery couldn’t have come at a better time for our shop or me personally. It’s more than just another project—it’s a lifeline—a chance to prove we still have what it takes.

“I’m glad you think so,” I reply with a grateful nod. “It was a labor of love, through and through.” A surge of curiosity bubbles within me. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did Diaz come to hear about our shop?”

Rick’s gaze flickers with a hint of amusement as he tilts his head to the side.

“Diaz has one of your dad’s first customs he built.”

“Wait, He has one of my father’s customs?” I ask, my voice trembling with emotions I can’t quite name. Dad had taken on limited clients for his customs at the beginning. Opting for more specialized builds with a higher price while using the everyday modifications to pay the bills.

Rick nods, a knowing smile on his face. “Yes, he does. He’s been an avid collector of unique motorcycles for years, and when he found out you were carrying on your father’s legacy, he couldn’t resist.”

A mix of pride and sorrow swirls within me as I absorb this information. My father’s memory lives on not only through me but also in the hands of those who appreciate his artistry. It feels like a validation, a confirmation that I am on the right path.

“I’m grateful that Diaz appreciates my father’s work,” I say softly, my voice filled with gratitude. “It means the world to me.”

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