One That Came Back by Lexy Timms Page B

component to fail before a piece of hardware does. Those things are cranky even in Harleys. Leave it for Saks.”
    “But,” George said as Luke gave him a warning look. He wasn’t going to listen to George’s argument about being in first today.
    “Look.” Luke clenched his jaw before continuing, “I’ve no doubt you’re damn good at what you do, but this is my business and I can’t afford to fuck up anyone’s bike. Play the part of the eager intern all you want, but you aren’t handling the big stuff.”
    “I can do it.”
    Luke sighed, his patience wearing thin. “No, you can’t. There are guys who go to Harley College to learn how to do this work.” Not pomp-ass little police shits trying to ruin my life and my shop!
    “Harley College?”
    “They certify as Harley mechanics through certain schools.”
    “Did you go to one of these schools?”
    He’d had enough. “Don’t you have a fuckin’ dossier on me to check that shit?” he snapped. “Of course I did. Did it through the G. I. Bill.”
    “I still can’t believe you served, man.”
    “Yeah, neither does the Navy.” He shoved his iPad toward George. “Go do the inventory.”
    “Again?”
    “Yeah, and each time I tell you. You missed five fuel injectors on the last one. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”
    George opened his mouth to argue, which was always a mistake, but shut it when the distinctive roar of several Harley engines rattled the open garage doors.
    Luke stepped to the entrance and nearly shit his pants. Four Rojos sat on various models and model years of Harleys, ranging from the eighties to the first decade of the millennium. The Rojos sat on their bikes poised in front of the entrance, letting their engines idle. The ominous rumbling of the bikes drew George to the entrance as well.
    “You the owner?” called out the foremost rider to Luke above the sound of the engines. The man was dark skinned and his face round. His unruly dark long hair held back by the Rojos trademark red bandana. He wore the standard Rojos uniform, denim cut, blue jeans and a white wife beater. His shoulders were hunched a bit, folding in the cut toward his chest so Luke couldn’t see the exact patches, but there were a number of wings, which did not testify to the man’s good character.
    “Yes.”
    “I hear you fix bikes.”
    “You could say that,” Luke said tersely. He stared down the man, wondering what the hell the Rojos were doing at his shop.
    “I’ve got an oil leak no one can find. I hear you’re the best.”
    “Yeah? You sure you want me to fix it?” Luke crossed his arms, careful not to sound angry. “I’m sure you’ve heard I’m not in good standing with your club.”
    “Yeah, I got that pendejo . But when it comes to my ride I don’t care what color yellow you are. If you can fix it, I’ll pay. So, let’s just say for today, your shop is neutral territory.”
    Luke looked away then turned back and slowly nodded. “Okay, man. But don’t fuck with me. My friends wouldn’t like that.”
    “Do I have to wave a fucking white flag? My baby’s ailing here and I can’t afford to lose her.”
    Luke walked over to the bike. He whistled as he looked over the bike. “What is it? A 2007 Sportster?” His interest in the bike outweighed the trouble of the rival club.
    “Yeah, it was my old man’s.”
    “You mean your old lady’s,” joked one of the other guys on a bike.
    “ Silencio ,” hissed the Rojos.
    Luke knelt beside the bike to examine it while the Rojos had it idling. “I’ve a 2009 Sportster,” Luke explained, “one of the pearl orange ones. It’s a bike made for speed like yours.” He straightened and tapped the handlebar. “But your baby’s eight years old and looks like it can use some deep maintenance, a little more than changing the oil and brakes. Hop off and I’ll take it into the bay.”
    “No fuckin’ way. No one rides my bike but me.”
    “And your mechanic. Insurance says either me or one of