Page 54 of Price of Angels

“An engine is like a woman,” he repeated, “because you have to know what you’re doing. You make the right diagnosis, the right adjustments, and it’ll start right up.”

“Wait, I’m confused,” Mercy said. “You diagnose all those poor women you sleep with?” He bit down hard on his grin when Aidan shot him a dark look.

Beside Mercy, Tango reached for another onion ring from the communal pile in the middle of the table and said, “Nah. The diagnosing comes after. When the burning sensation starts.”

Mercy couldn’t contain his sharp, punching laughter.

Tango chuckled.

Carter turned a thin smile into a throat-clearing.

Aidan said, “Alright, how’s an engine like a woman?”

“Hey, man, this is your analogy. I’m just making fun of it.”

Aidan made a face.

“God, you’re a cry baby these days,” Mercy said with a dramatic sigh, earning a scowl. Aidan had been seriously on edge for the last few weeks, and he for one was tired of it.

Gracefully, Carter stepped in. “No, I think I know what he means,” he said, defending his sponsor. “Engines are touchy. You’ve gotta put some work into them, to get them running right.” Then he frowned, disappointed in his own explanation.

Mercy reached for his soda. “An engine is like a woman in that you have to love it,” he said, relenting. “You learn. You make understanding its strengths your top priority, and you help doctor it through its weaknesses. You become an expert, on that engine, and then you stand back and marvel at its power.”

Tango whistled. “Cajun biker poet,” he said, appreciatively.

“I don’t guess anybody has to wonder which woman you were comparing it to,” Aidan grumbled.

“Nope.” Mercy grinned at him. “You can suit yourself, brother, but I like a quality engine.”

Again, Carter tried to hide a smile.

Growing serious, Mercy said, “You’ve just got to study up, kid,” to Carter. “Being a mechanic’s a trade like anything else. Some people take to it more naturally than others, and some have to work a little hard. Same as any job.”

Carter nodded and sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Yeah, I know.” In the afternoon sunlight, his hair was brilliant gold, his young face dotted with faint freckles.

It was lunch time, and despite the forty-two degree temp and the tugging wind, the day had turned out sunny, and all of them were too restless to be cooped up any longer. Their hands were tight and chapped from the cold, joints stiff from working on unhappy bikes just as resentful of winter as they were. When the pavement gained the faintest trace of warmth from the sun, they sent Carter out for Burger King, and were now eating it on the picnic table out in front of the bike shop.

“Ghost’s got other stuff you could do,” Mercy went on between bites of burger, “but you’ll need to be able to work on your own bike. You gotta learn this stuff anyway.”

Carter’s shoulders slumped further at the mention of “bike.” He was having trouble with the idea of trading his red Mustang for a Harley.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, staring at his food.

“You could get something decent, with the money you get from the trade-in,” Tango encouraged. “Better than what I had.” He snorted. “You guys remember that old Indian I had?”

“I remember the sound of it backfiring every fifteen seconds,” Mercy said.

“We shoulda had it bronzed,” Aidan said. “Proof it even existed.”

There was the sound of a throat clearing behind Mercy, and it startled all four of them.

Aidan’s eyes tightened, narrowing a fraction, signaling a threat.

When Mercy turned, he was prepared to see something he didn’t like, and there was Michael, hands on his hips, watching them from behind his sunglasses with his expressionless semblance of a face locked in its usual positions.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked.

Mercy was beyond done with this asshole’s failure to be a human being. He feigned searching the table. “You’re talking tome?” Hand on his chest, overly dramatic.

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