by Juli Valenti
“You don’t need to wear it once you get to the shop, but keep it close no matter what. If you move across the garage, you make sure it moves with you. And anytime you go anywhere, you keep it on, you understand?”
Hating when people told her what to do, she swallowed her ire and nodded. He was only trying to protect her, which she knew, as well as maintaining the laws and rules the club upheld and had put into place for her. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to be armed; she just knew she was going to feel silly as hell walking from one side of the shop to the other with a gun in her hand for no reason.
To keep you safe.
Grumbling at herself, she took the key Tonka held out to her. “This is for the Sportster 883 outside. It doesn’t belong to anyone, so it’s fair game for you. The weight should be fairly balanced for a comfortable ride,” he told her. “I’m sure, like you said, you know how to ride, so I won’t waste my breath in that regard.
“You’ll need this too,” he continued, extending his hand with a smaller key in it. She took it, peering up at him, waiting for his explanation. “It’s to this room, my room. I have every intention of meeting you at the shop before riding home tonight, but just in case, I don’t want to lock you out and keep you away from your things. This doesn’t mean you’re chained to sleep in my bed, so I hope you don’t take it as some sort of imposed prison. If you want, I can get a mattress brought in and blown up before we get home.”
“Tonka, I’m not worried about staying here with you, or in your fucking bed. Hell, if I’m being honest, I can’t fucking wait to be naked with you inside me, between your sheets again. I appreciate the chivalry, but it’s not necessary.”
“You have a dirty mouth,” he replied, his eyes flashing with a desire that made fire blaze in her stomach. She knew she needed to be careful or they were going to end up tangled, naked in bed once more, the reasoning for why that was a bad idea slowly disappearing. No. She needed to be at the shop. “I can’t wait to put it to use later.”
Fuck. If that wasn’t one of the sexiest fucking things anyone had ever said to her. She shifted and, saving what little face she had left, turned toward the door. Before exiting the room she said, “Just wait. You may have gotten me to beg earlier, but you’ll be the one begging later, big man.”
With that, she exited and made her way outside the clubhouse, and toward the bike Tonka’d had pulled around for her. Mercy could already tell it was going to be a perfect ride, a SuperLow painted a perfect plum purple. She’d just started the engine when the roar of another engine sounded to life before pulling beside her. Artist rode up beside her and she cocked a head at the other woman.
“They making you play babysitter?”
Artist laughed, a musical sound amongst the machinery. “Hardly. I offered. Besides, I wanted to get the fuck out. We’ll have a couple prospects with us too, but they’re slower than fucking molasses.”
The latter of her statement had her voice growing louder, and Mercy could hear cursing before boots on gravel. Moments later two more bikes started up, and the other woman chuckled. “Fucking prospects. They’ll learn.”
“They always do,” Mercy replied, nodding, unsure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. Here, it seemed like the former, but experience had taught her the latter was generally the norm in their world.
Prospects were the ones who wanted in the club, but weren’t members yet. They had sponsors, members who vouched for them and got them their basic cut - generally without the rockers and prospect clear for any other rider to see. Bottom of the food chain, they were often tasked with everything from the most menial tasks to the mundane — from grocery shopping to basic grunt work and manual labor. They were another part of the clubs that was just a fact of life. The unfortunate side of prospecting is that the length of time it actually took to patch varied. Some could get their member patch and rockers pretty quickly, others prospected for years. It was a matter of proving oneself.
And, because of that, more often than not, at least in Mercy’s experience, it made them loose cannons. They were most likely to kill, trying to get where they wanted to be. Sometimes they took out other members in a crazed rage, other times they took out rivals or targets, going against orders. So hungry to prove themselves, they often sabotaged everything they’d worked for.
“Relax, Mercy,” Artist said, nodding toward the bike. “Let’s get this show on the road. I want to feel the wind, without there being blood at the other end for a minute.”
Buckling her helmet, Mercy turned, hiking a leg over the side of her own borrowed Harley, and started the engine. It purred under her and she smiled, revving it. The other woman grinned broadly at her and, together, they started off toward the shop. She was grateful Artist had taken the lead, because she didn’t know where she was going, but it hadn’t surprised her. Club riding was an art form of its own, one that showed everyone were they belonged in the food chain, so to speak. The highest-ranking member rode forefront, the next slightly behind them, but still to the side. Others rode behind them, in the same formation, until all officers were accounted for and members rode side by side. Prospects always tailed the rear.
For her, it made complete sense for Artist to be in the lead, but Mercy was unsure of her place. Because, while she knew the laws, she wasn’t a part of the club. Rules didn’t necessarily apply to her, and, yet, she wanted to be respectful. She voiced as much to the other woman at the first red light they stopped at.
“Jesus, just ride, woman. Enjoy the metal between your legs, and the fact that you’re riding solo. I’m not Poet, nor one of the men. I don’t give a fuck where you ride so long as you don’t try to overtake me or make us wreck.”
Artist’s words were playful, her smile never faltering. The differences between them was stark. Mercy had grown up in a dark club, full of horrors she didn’t wish on anyone. Artist had grown up around the club, and more than that, had liked it so much she’d wanted to join. Where Mercy was serious and a giant overthinker, Artist seemed mostly carefree when she wasn’t working — a trait Mercy envied. She wanted to be that carefree, that happy, to merely feel the wind on her face and the sun on her back as she rode.
Your attitude is a choice, her mind chimed in helpfully, and Mercy didn’t argue. It was right. She was going to enjoy the rest of the damn day, regardless of how much it went against her nature. Smiling herself, she pulled slightly to the side of Artist, careful to stay behind the other woman. When Artist increased her speed, so did she. Buildings blurred as they passed, colors blending and mixing, creating a beautiful work of industrial nature. And, just as she was truly beginning to enjoy herself, Artist slowed, leading her through the gates of the garage and up to the bay doors.
Mercy had expected the biker to leave her there at the doors, but she didn’t. Instead Artist killed her own engine, removed her helmet, and moved toward her.
“I figure I’ll hang around a bit, that cool? My shop isn’t open this early and it’s too late in the day to catch some shut-eye. Plus I’m going to go fucking insane if I have to watch ‘Speare stare at security footage anymore.”
Remembering that Tonka had talked about the VP and his computer ingenuity, as he’d put it, she couldn’t help but grin at the mental image of the man in front of a computer. It seemed so out of place for the guy, who looked like he belonged in a western movie with a Colt 45, minus the cowboy hat. But, the calculation in his eyes when he spoke made it completely believable.
“Sure, not sure what all I’m going to get done today, but I’ve gotta start somewhere. Truth be told, I’ve never taken over a shop before, even if only temporarily.”
“No?”
Mercy shook her head as she threw the bay door up easily, the sound of the wheels scraping like an aria to her soul. “Nope. I started my shop from the ground up, pretty much. Outfitted the whole damn place. Custom lifts, oil pits, the works. All my tools were picked to match the weight I preferred, and the chemicals I kept around — from antifreeze to wi
ndshield wiper fluid to oil — was all preplanned. I have no idea the setup Lock had here, or his reasoning behind his choices. I don’t know if he has a work book, or if he had any bookkeeping at all, really.
“A lot of mechanics don’t, especially if they’re a one-person shop. They just know, keeping all the info up here,” she said, tapping her temple and glancing around. Gone was the mess that had been there earlier, nothing looking out of place, not that she’d know. From an outsider looking in, it was a just a garage. The stains on the ground were from oil and grease, not blood. “It’s not necessarily a bad thing, of course. I could tell you each and every project I had on deck just waiting for me. I knew where the keys were and exactly what needed to be done. But I also kept things organized. Well, Chey did, mostly.”
“That the boy your pa took out?”
She appreciated the almost nonchalantness in which the words were spoken. The loss of Chey was still fresh, but it was easier without sad eyes peering at her, expecting her to break. And she wasn’t going to. She’d already done that, consequences be damned.
Mercy nodded. “Yep. He was badass at shit like that, but he stayed on me for the first few months. He really drilled his ideas home — the who and why and how. It gave me a whole new appreciation for organization I hadn’t really thought about. We had a wall with keys, each tagged with the make, model, and the last name of who dropped it. A number was always on the corner of the tag, which coincided with an entry in this leather-bound log book. There, it was recorded what all needed to be done, what had been completed, and what wasn’t going to be touched that was found.”
“‘Speare started a whole system for the Wicked Wing,” Artist said, moving with a purpose toward the room at the end of the shop. It was marked in black lettering, boldly stating OFFICE. “He said it was important to remember clients and to keep logs of what ink I’d done, as well as what said customer had already that had nothing to do with me.”
“Tonka told me you’re a tattoo artist. You any good?”
“Poet told me you’re a mechanic… are you any good?”
A laugh escaped Mercy. “Fair enough. If I told you I was one of the best, would you believe me or would you think I’m some conceited bitch?”
“That depends. If I told you I was one of the best, would you believe me or think I’m just some dumb biker trash?”
“I’d never think you were trash,” Mercy told Artist, meaning it. There was no way the brunette beside her could be confused with club ass or someone less than. She was too bright, her personality damn near blinding, even for her, another woman. And the more she talked to the woman, the more she liked her. “I’d probably make you put your needle where your mouth was, but that’s about it.”
“Same, girl, same.”
Artist flipped the light on in the office and pointed to a large, black pegboard along a wall behind the desk. There, even from where she stood in the doorway, Mercy could see keys with yellow tags. “Seems Lock liked to run things the way you do.”
“Score, that’ll at least make bringing the autos in here easier,” she said, moving toward the desk. There was no work log, just a scattering of receipts and a computer that looked to be about as old as she was. “No work book. Prospects clean in here, too?”
“Nope, this is all Lock’s mess,” the other woman replied, patting the computer monitor. “Shakespeare would have fucking kittens if he saw this.” Mercy watched as Artist pulled her phone out of her back pocket and tapped, before typing. “First things first, you’ll need a new computer. Check. Let’s see what else.”
With Artist’s help, Mercy found several office items that were needed, but one that was most important. Lock seemed to only accept cash and check, having nothing to run cards. Artist had suggested a POS system of some sort, but that sort of information went above her head — she’d had a credit card machine that ran off a phone line at her shop. It had worked, the percentage taken for each swipe low, but Artist merely said she’d get with the VP on which was the best for what she’d be using it for. Next, the part Mercy both anticipated and dreaded, were the big dog items. Tools.
The stuff Lock used wasn’t bad, per se. They just wasn’t up to Mercy’s standards. He seemed to have a couple of each tool — lug wrenches, screw drivers, the basics. One of the prospects, named Nature of all things, had proudly held up a hammer, and she shook her head. It wasn’t something she used very often, if ever. A mallet? On occasion. A hammer? Damn near never unless she was hanging a picture or something. What Lock could have used it for, and it was used judging by the scuff marks and splintering handle, she had no idea.
A lot of the bigger things in the shop didn’t seem to work. The electric tire changer didn’t start up, leaving only one manual spreader. His electric lifts in bay one and three didn’t power on, and neither did the air compressor. Oil drums had less than three quarts each, and Lock had zero inventory of the basic repair items: no air filters, oil filters, nothing. Not even windshield wipers.
“Odd.”
“What is?” Artist asked, snatching a shop towel from the top of a beat-up old tool box. Even that wasn’t in working condition - two of the drawers were permanently stuck in the open position, covered in rust and flaking red paint.
“Nothing, I guess. I’m just confused.”
Artist waved a dirty hand, waiting for her to elaborate. “It’s like… all the innards are here, but it’s like painting a garbage can. Things that should work, don’t. Things that should be here, aren’t. I don’t understand how he did any business, honestly. Our list keeps growing, and it’s a lot, just to do the most mundane of repairs.”
“I’ll look into it, see what I can dig up. Lock must have records somewhere, and if not here, then Shakespeare can snoop some. Because I see what you’re saying. Hell, the only rag I can find is this one, and it’s damn near crunchy,” the other woman said, making a tsking sound before wiping her hand on her pants. “Anything else you want to add to the list?”
Mercy shook her head. “Nah, what we have down should do… for now, at least. But whichever prospect you send, have them tell the shop to send basic inventory. I can give them a credit card if they need one for those charges.”
“No,” Artist said, glancing out at the prospect, Nature, who stood with his back to the shop. “HR’s got it.”
She shrugged, knowing better than to argue with her. It hadn’t gotten her anywhere with Tonka, and it most certainly wouldn’t with Artist.
“All right. I’m gonna pull a couple in and see what all is going down. Maybe I can fix something while they go.”
Mercy was pretty sure she heard Artist mutter under her breath something along the lines of 'good luck,’ but she didn’t question her. She’d need some luck, judging by the state of the shop, so who was she to condemn the wish, even if it was more than likely a moot point.
14
Chapter Fourteen
There’d been little Mercy could do that day, or the next for that matter. She’d tried, but her efforts were in vain, and frustrating as hell. By the end of the third day trying to work, she’d wanted to throw her hands up. Maybe she could tell the club they were screwed, more than they already knew they were. Because without proper equipment, all that was left was her covered in grease and oil, the knowledge of what was wrong, and no way to take anything apart or the parts to fix them. Bikes needed alternators, starters. Cars ranged anywhere from oil changes to entire engine rebuilds.
Luckily, just as she was ready to throw one of the bikes through the window, large trucks began showing up. Tonga had arranged for a somewhat speedy delivery, though not as fast as she would’ve preferred, for equipment. More, he’d arranged for installation as well. So she stood off to the side, directing the traffic of delivery men who poured from semis. Mercy instructed each man to where she wanted things, pulling out what she could to make room, and completely rearranged the entire garage.
Her efforts were more than likely for naught. They expected her father
to be there any day, the following day at the very latest. Still, that did little to deter her. She very rarely did anything half-assed, especially when it came to work. Even if she only had another day to work, she was going to do it the way she wanted to. Plus, all the equipment would raise the value on the place, should whoever had control of it choose to sell it.
Prospects, workmen, delivery drivers, the entire shop was bustling with activity, each person working hard to put everything together and in its place. Even Artist and her friend Teagan, one of the club’s sweeties, came to help. The latter wasn’t expected or originally wanted. But after speaking with the fiery redhead, Mercy reluctantly admitted, even if only to herself, that she liked the girl. It took a lot of effort on her part to ignore the aspect of her life that kept her in the club world. Underneath it all, though, she was bubbly, bouncing around with boxes of parts, and was meticulous in her placement of each item.
Tonka had come with her to the garage the day before and had wood planks delivered. He’d surprised her and built almost an entire wall of storage space. Once he’d finished, he produced a large box from the same duffel that had held her clothes only days before. It seemed Shakespeare had decided she needed not only a new computer, equipped with QuickBooks and CCC, an organizational garage program, but also a scanning system. So, as Teagan sorted and arranged all the basic odds and ends every shop needed, Artist placed labels beneath them on the wood, before scanning it with a handheld scanner.
“It tracks inventory, which is directly connected with the shop in town. Once it reaches a certain threshold, they’ll automatically send out replacements.”
“Wow, high tech,” Mercy said, backing up as Teagan swept back in, her red hair bouncing wildly as she moved.
“That’s my man,” the other woman answered, shrugging.
“Nah, it makes sense. I just never had it - I knew about it, but in Sheridan it was more difficult to get on the books at a shop.”