Page 140 of Sinful
"Yeah. Really fucking happy."
He kisses me hard. "Good. Then they'll see that. Everything else is just details."
After coffee, Bravos heads off to do some work around the ranch, while I head to the garage.
The garage sits on the edge of Sharp Shooter Ranch property—a massive steel building with three bays and enough space to work on twenty bikes at once.
Phantom built it five years ago when the club was flush with cash from a good year.
Brought in professional equipment, hydraulic lifts, every tool you could want.
Then he needed someone to run it.
That's where I come in.
I've been working here for three weeks.
Phantom offered me the job two days after the assault when he saw me helping Bravos tune up his Road King.
"You any good?" he'd asked.
"I'm better than good."
"Prove it."
So I did.
Rebuilt a carburetor while he watched.
Had the bike purring like new in forty-five minutes.
He hired me on the spot.
Now I spend my days covered in grease, rebuilding engines, customizing exhaust systems, doing the work I love under my real name for the first time in years.
No more hiding. No more fake names. No more underground circuits and cash under the table.
Just me and bikes and the satisfaction of work done right.
I'm under a Softail checking the transmission when boots appear in my line of sight.
"Torque wrench," a voice says.
I reach out blindly and someone puts the tool in my hand. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
I finish tightening the bolt, roll out from under the bike, and find one of the club prospects—kid named Hayes—standing there holding my toolbox.
"Phantom said you might need help today," he says.
"I'm good, but thanks." I stand, wipe my hands on a rag. "You know bikes?"
"Some. Enough to hand you tools and not fuck anything up."
I laugh. "Good enough. Stick around. I might need an extra set of hands later."
He settles onto a stool near the workbench while I move to the Dyna that's been waiting for a timing check.
