Squatting down, Jace pretended to be absorbed in the bike he was repairing. “Not familiar with that name.”
“Walt worked here years ago, when this was my garage. I’m Al, like the Al on the sign.”
Yeah, I know. The same Al who fought and killed a member of a rival bike gang and left me and Mom to fend for ourselves while you were supposed to rot in prison.
Al wandered closer into the garage. Jace’s stomach tightened. Old man wasn’t supposed to be in here, only employees, but he acted like he still ran the place. Why couldn’t they have kept him locked up and tossed away the key?
“Garage looks good, same as it did when I was here. Some improvements.” A deep inhale. “Still the same smell. Love that smell. Miss it. Oil and power.”
Jace pulled out the carburetor and examined it, saying nothing.
Al began talking about the bikes he’d fixed, the machines he adored, while sweat trickled down Jace’s back, banding in the waistband of his jeans. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt.
“You don’t talk much.”
No kidding. Finally, Jace gritted his teeth. “Can I help you with something?”
“Came here to ask for a job.”
“Not hiring now.”
Al walked around the bike’s other side until he stood directly in front of Jace.
“Who would I talk to about a job around here?”
Jace mumbled something.
“Look at me when I talk to you, son.”
Now Jace did look up, the term sending him into a slow boil. I’m not your son. I ceased being your son the day you killed that biker.
He stood, wiping his grease-stained hands on a somewhat clean towel. “No work around here. Lance runs the place and he doesn’t have any jobs open.”
“Huh. You look like you know what you’re doing. Experienced. Good for Lance, having you as a mechanic.” Al’s tone deepened. “Always good for a man to have a trade to fall back on. I always told that to my son. Damn, I haven’t seen him in years. Wish I could find him, but I heard his mother moved out west. She probably took him with her.”
Now he got a long look at his father. The dark hair, so similar to his own, had been replaced with a shock of iron gray. His cheeks were leaner, and a sense of weariness hung around him like baggy clothing. He looked presentable in clean, somewhat new jeans, a crisp white T-shirt and a denim jacket.
But his blue eyes, an echo of Jace’s, held a sadness previously missing, edging out the hardness Al always exhibited.
Prison had done something to his father. Didn’t matter. They were finished, and he only wanted the old man gone before he started sniffing out the truth.
“Anything else? I’ve got to get this bike fixed.”
Al gave him a long, thorough look that made Jace squirm internally. Finally, he nodded. “I get it. Old biker like me, and you have no time for me. Got it. No worries. But if you run into Snake or Vic, tell ’em Diesel was here.”
His father walked out the open garage bay doors.
Too close. No warning. No time for him to reel in his emotions, pretend he didn’t care.
Good thing no one else witnessed this little interaction. Jace blew out an angry breath and saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He headed for the back door, saw a bulky, large figure disappear around the corner. It might have been one of the guys. Or not. Couldn’t worry about that now.
At least he’d succeeded in driving away his old man, who hadn’t a clue he’d chatted with the son who hadn’t seen him since the day Al got hauled off to jail by the cops.
An hour later, he headed to the apartment rented for his undercover assignment. Home never looked so good to him, even though this temporary place was to crash. It was safe from prying, suspicious eyes. Here, in the privacy of this little studio, he could be himself.
As he pulled into his assigned space, he saw Oscar Porter, the neighbor who’d recently moved into an apartment on his floor. Oscar was in his assigned space, putting new wiper blades on his elderly sedan.
The man turned and pushed his glasses up his nose, grinning, as Jace roared into his spot, pushed down the kickstand and switched off the engine.
“Hey, Jace. Wow. I love your bike. Harley, right?”
Jace bit back a smile as he removed his helmet. “Yeah.”
As if the bike’s insignia wasn’t already a clue, but Oscar wasn’t bad. Guy kept to himself and didn’t cause problems. Not too curious, either, which Jace appreciated after a long day of dodging questions and trying to act the part of someone he was not.
Someone he’d vowed to never become.
“Great bike,” Oscar continued, walking over and giving the motorcycle the same look some men gave an attractive woman. “Mind if I look her over?”
Jace dismounted. “No problem. Just don’t touch the chrome.”
Oscar whistled as he ran fingers across the hand-tooled leather seat Jace had specially installed. “Custom job, right?”
“Yep.”
Oscar’s dark brown hair was cropped short and spiky on top. With his button-down shirts, neatly pressed trousers and white socks with black shoes, he might as well carry a pocket calculator.
“You think I could get a bike like that?”
