Page 8 of Fire Meets Fire

Yawning widely and checking the time, I take a much-needed shower, then dress in my normal uniform of jeans and a tee. Dragging a brush through my short hair, I leave it to dry naturally. As I reverse last night’s journey, now descending the rickety stairs, a scent wafting over from the house reveals Harold is awake, and suggests going over there now might be to my advantage.

Hearing my footsteps as I enter the kitchen, the sixty-year-old man turns. What passes for his welcoming smile fades immediately as his eyes land on me and widen. “What the fuck happened to you?”

Shrugging, I walk over to the kitchen counter, pinching a piece of toast as I pass, and getting my hand batted with a spatula on the way.

His eyes now narrow. “If you want some breakfast, you’re going to have to pay.”

I shake my head. “Board and lodging.” I remind him of our agreement, pointing my now half-eaten toast his way. “That was the arrangement.”

“Must have been out of my fuckin’ mind,” he mumbles under his breath. Despite his words, he piles a heap of bacon and eggs on a second plate, and scoots it over the table in my direction.

“You’re getting a good bargain. Mmm. This is good.” The bacon, as normal, is delicious.

He attacks his own meal, and only when the plate is empty does he question me again, waving a hand at my face. “What were you up to last night?”

“Just out.” I raise and lower my shoulders again, unable to admit where I really was. “Someone jumped me.”

Obviously having made an assessment and deciding no real damage had been done, he snorts. “I take it they look worse?”

“Oh yeah,” I respond, giving the requisite grin. Or, at least, I hope he does. I know I got in a few good licks to the MC prez, but he’d got the better of me when he stopped fighting fair. Not that he knew getting a hard-on while on top of me would trigger my panic attack. If his reaction hadn’t sent me spiralling into my past, I would have gotten out of his hold easily.

None of this I say out loud, and after another sharp look, Harold seems to lose interest in my nocturnal adventures, and turns to his normal topic of conversation. “So how long before you’re finished?”

“You want to get rid of me, old man?” This time it’s a genuine grin as I crease my eyes and consider my answer. “A few good weeks. And that’s if I can source all the parts.” Which will be all the more difficult as I won’t be able to go back to the bikers’ shop to obtain them.

“Weeks?” Harold’s eyebrows rise. “Christ, woman, it’s going to take you months at the rate you’re going. Are you taking advantage of me?”

It was him who’d given me a heap of broken parts and expected me to put them back together. He knows it’s a mammoth, nigh on impossible task. So I ignore his grumbling, and finish eating instead. Then I get up to make myself a cup of coffee, refreshing his as well.

Me and Harold coming together was a stroke of serendipity. I desperately needed a place to stay, somewhere off the radar to regroup. He wanted his son’s crashed motorcycle restored but hadn’t the money to pay for it, and it just so happens I’m an amazing mechanic. But when I was first confronted with little more than a twisted frame and a heap of broken parts, I was dismayed. I wasn’t surprised the professionals had quoted him extortionate amounts to put it back together—honestly, the best thing would be to count his losses and purchase a replacement instead.

His story, though, broke my heart, and is what drives me to do the impossible. Turns out Harold’s son was knocked off his bike when an eighteen-wheeler lost control a couple of years back. He ended up as damaged as his beloved bike, hanging on to life by a thread. For two years, he’s remained in a coma. Harold has nothing but hope to repair his son, so he’s intent on repairing his motorcycle, as if that’s the charm to bring him back to life. Who am I, or anyone, to be qualified to tell him his thinking is ridiculous?

Harold feeds me and houses me in exchange for my work, and however much he gripes at me, I think he’s glad of the company. On my part, I’ve become fond of the prickly older man, and enjoy our sniping repartee.

His son’s medical bills have wiped him out, so he’s got no spare cash for parts. He thinks I source them out of my own funds, but as I’ve no access to money, I have to get creative. It’s not just that it suits me to continue living at this sanctuary that keeps me safe, although I doubt my mission has much chanceof success, I respect Harold, and fully intend to do my utmost best to get this bike up and running. And maybe, like him, I, too, am invested in the hope that its restoration does have magical properties.

Harold’s staring at me, his brows drawn down in a V. “I’m seriously worried you’re never going to leave.”

I grunt. “In your dreams, old man. Why would anyone want to stay with a grumpy grandpa like you?”

He bangs his fist on the table. “Less of the fuckin’ old. And I’ve not got enough years to be your fuckin’ grandpa.” His eyes shutter, then open suspiciously. “Have I?”

Laughing, I wave him off. “Not unless both you and your dad procreated before you were each sixteen.”

A grin comes to his face. “Not that I know of.” He tries to attempt a lecherous wink but just makes me laugh again. He pulls my empty plate toward him and places it on top of his, then points a finger my way. “I cooked. You clean up.” He waits a beat for me to incline my head in agreement, then he gives a rueful shake of his. “Next time I bring me home a woman, I’ll settle for one who can cook and keep house.”

“Keep your complaints to yourself, old man,” I retort. “Where else would you find a mechanic who’d work on your mess of a bike?”

He stands and offers a parting shot. “I’m off. One of us has got to work.”

I smile at his back. Harold, like me, tries to live off the grid. He grows a variety of fruits and vegetables and has a small holding raising his own chickens, pigs and cattle. It’s a ranch, but not one that stretches for hundreds of acres. If you can call having the time of his life work, then he toils damn hard. But he loves what he’s doing. The fact he keeps himself to himself and doesn’t often venture out gives me an additional sense of safety. It’s unlikely that anyone will find where I am from him.

Apart from the sorry story of his son, I know he’s known loss. While there are no pictures around the house, I found an old tin box in the barn. Having nosed through, I found photos of him with a younger man looking so much like him he had to be his son, and more photos of the son with a woman and a young child. A yellowed newspaper clipping explained the car accident where his wife and daughter had met their demise involving an Arizonian monsoon and an out-of-state and ill-prepared driver.

Harold never mentioned the loss of the rest of his family. And like he hasn’t asked me for my back story, I’ve never queried his. Of anyone, I know the right to keep secrets.

Finished with my chores, I collect my overalls and head down to the barn where the bike is kept. On the way, I find I’m reminiscing about how I met Harold. He’d been in town for supplies he couldn’t provide for himself, and I’d had one of my episodes right outside the store.

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