by Nessa Connor
She saw a twinkle sneak into his eyes. “Well, I’m delighted to meet you. Anyone Carly approves of is okay in my book.”
The idea that Carly approved of her warmed her. She didn’t pander to the kids and some of them thought she was tough. It was nice to hear that some appreciated her, even if they’d never say it her face.
As she watched him walked back to the bike, where Carly sat waiting, Melanie automatically glanced around the yard. Brian stood by the classroom door, staring at the front gate as if he was expecting something to happen. He was one of the students who walked home. Normally he walked by himself, leaving right after the bell, but he was hesitating, making her wonder what he was waiting for.
“Can we go now?” Carly asked her uncle.
“You bet, let’s to get greasy,” he said.
“You’re already greasy,” the girl laughed. “Greasy Wrench Jones.”
“And his lovely Princess Grease.”
With Carly wrapping her thin arms around Greg Jones’ waist, he used his body weight to kick start the engine. The throaty roar of the motor rasped, a harsh sound of the bike coming alive. Carly gave Melanie a wave, then hugged her uncle’s waist again. The bike moved smoothly out of the parking lot and they slipped out onto the road.
A twinge made Melanie aware that she was a bit jealous of the warm and obviously supportive relationship between the two. That didn’t seem right—it went against reason, that this smart and balanced little girl adored her uncle who was a biker. He probably had a criminal record and yet Greg Jones surprised her by coming across as a totally reasonable man. And as she relaxed, she realized that she thought him a sexy man. Was it his mystery? He wasn’t afraid to walk a bit on the dark side, maybe a lot on the dark side. She’d seen a scar through the open neck of his work shirt that suggested he didn’t take an easy path through life. Was she becoming a romantic? It seemed that those things made him even more intriguing.
Naturally some of the attraction could be written off to the idea that he lived by some code she didn’t understand. Melanie had lived by the rules of the mainstream world her entire life. To be a teacher, to be respected, you abided by the rules. Even if you didn’t think they were reasonable, the fear of punishment had always been a deterrent for her. And here was a man that didn’t necessarily feel that way at all.
Suddenly she realized that the twinge she felt when she watched the bike disappear was an ache of loneliness and emptiness.
Where did that come from?
She liked a great deal about her life, especially her work, but that ache told her it was far from complete, and no matter how many children she helped, she needed something more. Maybe she needed something quite like Greg Jones.
* * *
When the last child had left, Melanie turned back to the classroom to do the inevitable paperwork, to satisfy the bureaucratic monster schools had become. In addition to grading papers, doing evaluations, there always seemed to be a new form or two in her inbox, with items to be checked, or new rules or procedures to be acknowledged.
Brian sat just outside the door, his back to the wall, reading a book. She had been glad to learn that he was an avid reader. The quiet ones sometimes compensated by turning to books, and that was a good thing, as far as she was concerned. Often she wondered about his book choices, however. They seemed to be awfully serious and rather eclectic for a young boy. She’d seen him reading books propounding theories about the Kennedy assassination, titles on currency manipulation, and others on the perils of world government. She’d checked with Mr. Affir, the civics teacher, and found that none of them were on the reading list for his class, or even titles he had mentioned.
As she approached Brian, he looked up at her and gave her a bittersweet, apprehensive smile. Those stunning green eyes of his, framed with jet-black hair, accented his sad, subdued expression. Given half a chance, as a young man he’d develop the look of a brooding artist.
“What are you reading today?”
He looked guilty. “It’s called Shadow Government. It’s by a man named Grant Jeffrey.” He showed her the cover. “It’s about how the secret elite keeps track of people, and spies on everyone.”
“Secret elite? Who are they?”
He scowled. “It’s the people who really run the governments of the world for their own interests.”
“Is that something that interests you?”
He shut the book. “I don’t know. I don’t think I understand much of what they are talking about. I mean, why would the government let these other people tell them what the laws should be?”
She sat beside him, noting the way the book cover was covered with short blurbs in large type: ‘An ultra-secret global elite, functioning as a very real shadow government, controls technology, finance, international law, world trade, political power, and vast military capabilities.’
“I’m not sure, but then I haven’t read that book.”
“Is it true? Does the government hide things from the people and work for a secret group?”
She considered her reply, not wanting to talk down to him. “I’m sure there are people who, because of their money or position have more influence on what governments do, and there are people who spy on others. I would think that if they were that powerful they wouldn’t let this man publish that story. That’s something to consider.”
“My dad says… this book says these people use the FBI and CIA to secretly spy on people who aren’t even doing anything wrong. Do they do that?”
Melanie felt a bit trapped. “I don’t really know, to be honest. But even if they spy on me, they won’t find anything interesting. I’m just a teacher. The worst thing they could learn is that sometimes I coach my favorite students a bit so they do better on tests.”
“You help all the kids.”
She grinned. “Because you are all my favorites.”
“My dad says this stuff is important.”
She nodded, glad to know where the interest came from. “Does he give you these books? Does he expect you to read them?”
“No.” He closed the book. “My dad believes these things. He believes things that Mr. Affir says are just silly.” He scowled. “But Mr. Affir says some things that don’t make much sense sometimes, too, so I want to find out for myself. My dad talks about this kind of stuff all the time. Sometimes he gets really, really angry about it and when he talks to me I want to understand why he’s so angry. He thinks it’s really, really important.”
“Do the books help you understand him?”
“Sometimes. But some of the books don’t agree with his ideas. Some mostly agree, but not with all his ideas and if I ask him about it, he tells me they are propaganda. So it’s confusing. How do you know which books are right and which are propaganda? How do you know what is right or wrong?”
Her heart went out to him. Brian was a logical kid, and she could see him having trouble accepting radical opinions. “That’s a pretty complicated thing to figure out, Brian. Different people have their own ideas on almost every topic. With things that are hard to prove, like talking about something that’s secret, it can be hard to know the truth, simply because some of the facts are secret. When you read a book, the rule I use is that when the writer says things, claims they are true, but doesn’t explain why it’s true, then doesn’t let you see their reasoning, when they won’t discuss the ideas, that’s usually propaganda. Discussion is important, because even scientists will disagree about what’s true or false.”
“Do the scientists get angry with each other?”
She laughed. “I imagine some do. It isn’t usually helpful. It’s better to talk things through.”
“I wish I understood my dad. If I try to get him to explain things, he just repeats the same thing that’s in the books. That doesn’t help.”
Melanie had zero interest in politics, but the hope she saw on his face was compelling. “I can see that. Why not ask him to loan you the books that he thinks tell the truth? After you re
ad them, you and I can discuss anything that doesn’t make sense to you.”
He grinned. “You’d do that?”
“Sure. I might learn something too. I don’t know much about any of this.”
Brian got up, looking relieved. “Thanks. Well, I guess I better get home. My dad said we could order pizza tonight.”
“I see. I have my work to do too.”
Brian started to go, then stopped. “Do you like Carly’s Uncle Greg?”
“Like him?”
“I saw you talking with him.”
“Yes. He seems rather nice and Carly likes him. That’s a good recommendation.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I saw the way he looked at you, and I think he likes you a lot.”
“You do?” She was used to the kids teasing her about men, but this struck close to home. She’d noticed he was polite, but if was looking at her in a way that Brian noticed… “So what do you think of him?”
“I think he’s a little scary.” The boy said that with admiration. “I also think he’s also really cool. I wish I could ride on that bike.”
She laughed again. “Brian, I think you nailed it—you and I can agree that he’s a little scary but cool.”
And very sexy. She’d noticed him, but it said something about her that it took a twelve-year-old to point out to her that the man had been checking her out too.
Brian gathered up his things and she watched him head home. His explanation of his father’s issues concerned her. He was an extremist of some sort and obviously didn’t trust the government. That would explain why he didn’t make it to the parent-teacher conference or do anything else with the school. He didn’t approve of their agenda.
Eventually she would find out what was going on. Then maybe she’d be able to help the boy.
Maybe she’d even figure out how to help herself.
CHAPTER TWO
As they pulled away from the school with his beloved motorcycle throbbing between his legs, he let himself think of this teacher of Carly’s. Miss Melanie Wilford. Carly had told him she was good looking, and the girl was unfailingly honest, even blunt, but seeing her had still surprised him. Probably he carried old stereotypes of what a teacher looked like in his head from his own school days, thirty or so years ago. Although he wracked his brain, he couldn’t remember having any teachers who looked like this one. He’d been precocious and he was sure he would remember.
More to the point, most women he met, even attractive, sexy women, didn’t grab his attention immediately the way this one did. He felt embarrassed thinking that it had to have shown in his face from the moment he took her hand. At that first touch, he wanted her. He lusted after her. And then, when she spoke, he felt something else, something potent and powerful.
They’d talked about nothing, just the commonplace, yet it felt intimate. An intimate encounter. Far more intimate and interactive than the one-night stands he’d had since his wife died. And that shocked him. Melanie Wilford had woken something in him that was long dormant. Something more than lust.
How could it be?
Greg pulled to a stop at the garage and Carly hopped off the back of the bike and eagerly tore off her helmet. She gave a cheerful wave to a huge, broad, big-handed man with dark, wavy hair, slightly heavy features, intense dark gray eyes and a bit of scruff to his chin. He wore his biker colors and stood by the door with his arm around the waist of a small but curvaceous woman.
“Hey Cutter, hey Audra.”
“Glad to see you’re here Grease Princess,” Cutter said. “My bike needs some of that mechanical magic. It’s running like shit.”
Carly frowned. “You know I can’t work on bikes until after I do my homework.” She looked in Greg’s direction. “I’m not allowed to. I would if I could.”
Greg shook his head slowly. “Priorities, kid.”
Carly snorted. “He’s just being hard-assed because I saw him get soft talking to Miss Wilford, my teacher. I think he likes her.”
“You aren’t allowed to say hard-assed, brat,” Greg said. “Stick to proper English for a few more years at least.”
She made a face. “Then no one around here would understand me.”
“Then suffer in silence. Now it’s homework before anything else time. Off to the office.”
Cutter laughed. “Well, Wrench, if you are sidelining the club’s best mechanic because she told on you, spread the word about a new woman in your life, then I guess I have to settle for whatever you can do.” Cutter looked at Carly. “Sorry Princess, but homework is important shit.”
Carly sighed, grabbed up her backpack and headed for the office. “Audra, when you were my age, did you do your homework?”
Audra chuckled. “There are some things one woman just doesn’t ask another, Carly.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are. I’ll get us each a soda and you get to work. You love the schoolwork anyway.”
“So, Cutter, what terrible thing did you do to your bike now?” Greg asked as Carly went inside.
“Me? I rode it. Audra and I were going fast down the highway. That’s what I did to it. I rode it. So there we were zipping down the Pacific Coast Highway, passing Nissans and Toyotas and all those other American cars, just digging the way the ocean gets all blurry if you go fast enough, and then, all by itself, my bike decides that slow is almost as good as fast. Audra and I don’t think so—I want fast again, Wrench. Fix my machine. Convince it of the right working of things.”
Greg smiled. “We can do fast, man.” He walked over to the bike and squatted beside it.
Cutter squatted beside him. “See anything?”
“Not yet. My x-ray vision takes time to warm up.”
“How’s Jake?”
“So, so. If he actually starts doing the physical therapy they scheduled him for, and takes his meds, they say he’ll stay able to walk fairly well. He won’t be riding again. He could do it, but any big jolt to the spine, even a hard bounce over a railroad track, could paralyze him.”
“Sorry to hear that. At least he’ll be able to move.” Cutter watched Greg run his hands over the engine. “Sometimes I think you work by Braille.”
“Sometimes I do. Something similar anyway.”
“Right.”
“Think about it. You know how sometimes you can walk into a bar and somehow you know somebody in there has bad intentions? I know you do that. I’ve seen you move before trouble had time to happen. For me it’s like that with an engine. Even turned off, it has a way of telling me things. If I don’t find anything that way, then I turn it on and feel how it hums. There’s lots of variations, but an engine has a feel to it. I’ve worked on yours enough to know what it should feel like idling. Now this problem is at speed, so that might not be enough, so I’ll listen, see if the sweetheart can purr or growl or roar with the right amount of encouragement.”
“Is this how you’re teaching Carly to work?”
“It’s the only way I know, man. When I was in the Marines, I worked on choppers and it was the same thing. You can hear a rotor about to come off, or a bearing that is going bad. It’s more subtle with a bike, but the program is the same. Machined parts are whirling around inside and they make noise and vibration.”
“You love the damn things.”
“And you love what they do for you. We all do. But I love them for what they are too—cantankerous beasts, that need a lot of coaxing to get them to do their best.”
“So you coax, and when she’s doing her best, I’ll ride the crap out of her.”
“Let me see what I can do. I’ve still got several other jobs going on, too, you know. The parts came in today for Bernie’s rebuild. Seeing as Carly will do the carb, I can take a bit to get your machine roaring again.”
“She’s got a knack for this stuff, Wrench. She really does.”
“And I’m all for her learning engines inside and out, as long as it doesn’t mess with her schooling.” He grinn
ed. “I made a deal with Willow about that. She’s scared to death that because Carly hangs out here, she’ll wind up being somebody’s old lady, with no job skills but being a waitress. This way she’ll have schooling and the choice of being a mechanic if she wants. If she meets a guy she likes, hooks up with some biker, well he’ll have the best running bike around.”
“Well, if anybody can herd a kid down that narrow path it’s you. I’m with Willow. I’d hate to think how she’d turn out if she spent all her time around this crowd without that direction.”
“Well, your old lady is another good influence. Audra manages to be a biker chick and still have class.”
Cutter smiled. “Yeah, she does that.”
“And you aren’t half as bad-ass as you make out.”
“Hush, dammit. We all have an image we need to project, dude, and I’m supposed to be the Enforcer for this crowd. But I thought we weren’t allowed to say bad-assed after school.”
“The princess is occupied.”
“And you think she doesn’t hear every fucking word?”
Greg shook his head. “You aren’t being helpful, pal. You want your bike fixed or not?”
“I’ll make myself useful and go find some beer.”
When Cutter walked off, Greg turned his attention to the bike, touching it, and letting his mind visualize the flow of energy through the machine, the way air and gasoline were compressed and ignited to produce an explosion that moved the cylinders. When Greg got like this the others called it his fix-it trance. And now Cutter, returning with two bottles of beer, saw him engrossed and stopped a distance away. Greg watched the power circulating in his mind, thought about what Cutter told him, that power just fell off while riding, then he opened his eyes and held a hand out for the beer. Cutter came over and handed it to him.
Greg took a long sip and then stood. “Probably the coil,” he said.
“I knew it. The fucking coil. It had to be the coil,” Cutter agreed. “What’s a coil?”
Greg laughed. “You better hope nothing ever happens to me.”
“Shit, the crew would beat me to a pulp if I did that. I think it’s in my job description—no one and nothing harms Wrench.”