Page 66 of Dravin

Dominic stands near the back, by his workbench. I hang back with him.

“I didn’t make any promises,” he tells me under his breath. “About delivering work or making anything for the club.”

“I know. But Hart’s a big place and the Tyrant and Raiden both grew up there. Other guys too. They believe in making it a great place to live. A beautiful place. When I told them about your work, they thought it was a wonderful idea to purchase a few pieces for parks and for downtown.”

He blinks, his face purposely wiped clean of emotion. That’s a skill I never mastered, though Marcus was good at it. Most of the time, when it counted, we were so covered up in paint or masks or shielded by helmets and eyewear, that it didn’t matter anyway.

“I’m flattered,” he mumbles, but it sounds like the opposite. After a moment of silence, he shoots me an accusatory look. “I said I didn’t need help.”

“But you do have work for sale.”

“Yes, I do, but it’s not- I- this is half humiliating, having it happen like this.”

I scrub a hand over my face. “I knew you’d probably say that. What’s the difference between selling to the club or tosome rich fucking collector? At least this way, your work will be seen, loved and adored, for years. Some rich asshole is just going to come along and buy something for their damn garden or mansion, and no one will ever appreciate the mastery, time, and love that you poured into it.”

“It’s because you know that I need money for my surgery.”

I shrug, prepared to be fully honest. “Yes. But it’s also what I said. Your work deserves to be treasured, not locked away. Giving the public access to art is important.”

“The bike you rode up on… Is that…” he trails off, trying to keep the hope and awe from flickering over his face.

“Is it yours? It is.”

“Can we go out and take a closer look?”

I raise my hand in a wave to catch attention. “Tyrant? We’re just going outside to see the bike, yeah?”

He’s near the back of the shop, talking something over with Raiden, but my voice carries easily. “Sounds good.”

Everyone here knows why we built that bike and they’re more than willing to give us this moment of privacy. I didn’t want to manufacture something private, and it happening naturally is the best thing.

The sun hits us full-on as we step outside. It’s early afternoon and it’s riding high up there, unobscured by the fluffy clouds that float around it. The shop isn’t dark by any means, but it still stings to step back out into daylight.

In the distance, over by the fence, three small figures bend and stand up, and bend again. Their voices carry across theyard as snippets of sound, but they’re too far to pick anything out.

I walk Dominic to the bike, unsure what to expect. I’m prepared for anything, including the sharp inhale and the broken, “fuck,” that pushes out after. He spans his left hand over the bridge of his nose, digging his fingers into his eyes.

I grasp his shoulder. “She’s a work of art. I think your family would be proud. Every single one of the guys at the club put some love into her.”

“I can’t believe that this bike was just a rusted old hulk. Not even a hulk. Scraps and pieces. It was nothing just a few weeks ago and now it’s a masterpiece. How did you find tires and parts and an engine?” His voice is thick as he struggles to contain his emotions.

It fucking makes me emotional right back. I’ve never been one of those men who bottled shit up and locked it inside. Instead, I turned to pretty much anything I could to fight off the demons. I watched my father go down that road and it eventually killed him. That said, I can put shit away when I have to, in a non-destructive way.

I’m more than secure enough in my masculinity to admit that my eyes are burning and there’s pressure building at the bridge of my nose and in the back of my throat.

“The guys at the club are bike enthusiasts. They know people who know people and sourcing parts or reproductions, even for a hundred and twenty year old bike, was hard, but not impossible for them. They called in favors, but there was also plenty of custom fabrication at the club’s garage.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes again and sighs. “This is fucking incredible. This is a masterpiece. It’s beyond anything my family could have dreamed of and fucking right they’d be proud. It makes me so damn happy to be here, alive, seeing it now. Thank you for this.”

I reach into my pocket and get out the key. It comes complete with a hammered metal skull keychain. Something badass for a badass bike.

Dominic stares at it. “I don’t ride.”

“That might not always be true.”

“My hand—”

“Doesn’t prevent you from transforming stone into living works of art. It might not always be that way. The body is a marvelous thing. It might just surprise you.”

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