Blazing red hair on a ponytail bouncing around, overalls tied at the waist and a toolbox barely able to click closed, Lynn strode trough town like a woman on a mission.
The wired fence of the compound loomed ahead, a couple of blocks behind the Rusted Fang. This whole part of Mudwater Bay screamed Black Venom MC, as if the graffiti around didn’t make it clear enough. She’d avoided this place like the plague, refusing every invitation to the parties and barbecues the Club held.
Brick buildings scattered around a piece of land where grass didn’t grow, the compound was the very image of old industrial sectors. The main building looked like it was once a fabric, with its high windows and huge doors. The rest of smaller buildings might have been lodging for workers or to carry administrative chores.
He certainly insisted a lot for her to come.
How ironic she chose now to finally listen.
The guy at the guard shack spotted her, the electrical gate sliding to the side a second later. “What’s your business here, girl?” he said with a nod as she approached.
“None of yours,” Lynn answered without breaking stride.
She heard a door open and the guy yell something, but she was already halfway the wide stretch of cracked asphalt leading to the main building. The expanse of open air made her feel exposed, the curious looks and whispers following her as she walked deeper not helping ease the feeling. Bikers gossiped like old ladies at tea hour. None stopped her, though.
Lynn spotted a big gray building that seemed new. The garage-styled massive doors were up, revealing bikes and cars in various states of repair, worktables, machines, lifts and stands.
She changed course and aimed straight for that place.
A firm hand on her upper arm stopped her. Alarms went off in Lynn’s head, making her yank her arm and face the offender.
“What are you doing here, Matchstick?” Brock said, broad frame blocking the sun and thick brows furrowed with concern.
“Don’t call me that,” Lynn snarled. “You don’t know me enough to pet-name me around.”
Brock’s face relaxed, taking on a mocking smirk that contrasted the harsh angles of his face and thick beard. “Ah, back to brooding asshole, I see.”
Lynn narrowed her eyes. “I owe you nothing, big guy.”
“Aw, now look who’s pet-naming around?” he mocked. But his voice dropped, “Look, I get you’re upset about Ne—”
“Fuck off.” Lynn couldn’t hear his name here, with so many people around. “I come looking for work. I’m a mechanic,” she amended, lifting her toolbox and shaking it in the air.
Brock studied her. “So… not a cosplay then?”
Lynn couldn’t stop her jaw dropping to the floor. The man built like a tree with muscles on muscles only laughed in her face.
She wanted to punch him so bad.
Still laughing, Brock started walking towards the busy garage. “Come here, matchstick, I’ll introduce you,” he said waving a hand over his shoulder.
Lynn reluctantly followed.
The closer they got, the louder the noises of a working mechanic shop became. Lynn couldn’t help the smile that bloomed in her lips and the little spark of excitement in her cold chest.
The oil stains on the floor. The hot and heavy air. The pegboard with its tools neatly hanged, some missing already. The graveyard table were parts went to die or be reborn.
It felt a lot like coming home. Except—
A loud noise. Blood pooling on the floor—
“Get me the 10mm, boy!” A voice yelled from across the shop, snapping Lynn back to the present.
A lanky teenager passed around her carrying at least three wrenches in his hands. Lynn remembered him from last night, he was also at the Fang. Who was he related to? None of her business. She didn’t care. Still, she stopped the kid with a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around.
“W— wha—” he startled, but Lynn merely took two wrenches from him, leaving only the 10mm in his hands. Wide-eyed, the kid looked her up and down, then the tool, then her again. “Thank you,” he mouthed finally, running to the man that was yelling again.
Brock watched silently from her side. Lynn ignored him, went to place the tools back on the board just to have something to do with her hands. She studied the table underneath closely, cataloging every bolt and nut, every wire and chip, all messily scattered around.
“Brother!” The man yelling for the 10mm greeted behind her. He was approaching Brock, clasping hands when they met. “What brings you to my humble abode?”
Brock chuckled, “Not so humble since we got you that hydraulic lift, huh?”
Lynn glanced at said lift. Nothing to write home about. Standard issue table with enough power to rise a medium bike. Still, it was better than laying on the floor trying to reach a pipe.
“I bring you a sacrifice, brother.” She heard Brock answer.
A scowl already graced her face as Lynn turned around. The man furrowed his brow in confusion, then studied her slowly. His eyes lingered on the toolbox hanging at her side.
The mechanic scowled right back at her. “Already got Stinky. No need for more hands.” His damn tone made Lynn clench her teeth. “Ain’t desperate enough to hire a girly, either.”
Ah, there it was.
Brock sighed. Lynn took a deep breath. The man’s scowl deepened.
But it was the teenager, Stinky, who said, “Don’t be a douche, Hammer. Girls can be mechanics too. Get on with the times, old man.”
Hammer snapped on him. “What did you—”
“I know my way around bikes,” Lynn started.
The older mechanic eyed her with suspicion. “I don’t care,” he said finally. It felt like a door slamming on her face. “Pretty chicks can’t stand oil stains. It’s a fact.”
Lynn saw red. She dropped her toolbox on the table with more force than necessary. “Is that so?” she practically growled, then marched to the bike propped on the hydraulic lift. The case was open, so without breaking eye contact with Hammer, she dipped a hand in the oil compartment. A dirty rag sat to one side, but she ignored it. Instead, she smeared the oil all over her shirt.
“The primary chain has too much slack, by the way.” Lynn declared, crossing her arms and not caring for the sticky feeling that lingered on her fingers.
The garage was silent. That’s when Lynn noticed the group that had gathered outside. Fucking bikers and their damn gossiping.
“What’s this?” A deep voice boomed from behind the wall of leather, making everyone tense. As it parted, Lynn glimpsed tattooed arms, ebony locks bouncing with every heavy step, and a scowl to match her worst one.
The Black Venoms’ prez looked ready to bite off some heads.
“I said. What. Is. This.” Kavagh demanded.
The bikers exchanged looks.
Lynn stepped up. “I’m just looking for work.”
All the intensity of Kavagh’s gaze settled on her. It made every muscle on her body tense, ready for a fight.
But before he could speak, Hammer interjected, “Which she won’t find here. I already told her girlies have no place at my garage.” He looked pointedly at her shirt, the fresh oil stains a stark contrast against the white fabric. “Less of all crazy ones.”
The change on the prez took Lynn by surprise. His posture relaxed, and the deadpan look he threw to the mechanic said he was utterly unimpressed by the his statement. With a deep sigh he said, “We’ve talked about this, brother. This ain’t the fucking fifties.” His voice hardened, “This garage isn’t yours, Hammer.”
The old mechanic bristled. “I’ve worked in it for over a decade. I think that gives me a say on hiring a chick who would do nothing but wave her pretty little tight ass around.” He gulped as he looked back at Kavagh. Checking his tone he added, “Prez.” But the damage was already done.
Kavagh took a single menacing step forward. Hammer instinctively took one back. “You talk to women like that, say that shit again, and I won’t hesitate to put you in your place,” he growled. “Brother.” The word came out almost like an insult.
Lynn huffed. A feminist biker. Yay for women’s rights, I guess.
Kavagh’s attention darted back to her. Something dark passed across his face, too quick for Lynn to decipher it. “You’re that chick. The one who was with Ne—”
“Yes,” she cut him off. “He always told me I should come here to try for a job.”
Lynn had the sudden urge to shove his face against a wall. Because there, in the eyes of the man everyone around was afraid of, something akin to pity was taking hold.
“I know my way around bikes,” she restated, angrier.
“That shiny new paint job he showed up in.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “That your doing?” Kavagh asked.
Lynn’s breaths turned shallow. “Yes.”
He studied her from the tip of her shoes up to the top of her head. Slowly.
Lynn fought not to squirm. It wasn’t leering, nor did she felt disgusted at the perusing. But it certainly did something weird to her insides, having that intensity the leader of the Black Venom MC carried himself with fully aimed at her.
“One week trial. Only basic work.” Kavagh held up a hand in anticipation of Hammer’s retort. “If you can convince this old piece of shit to keep you on skill alone,” he smiled—a wicked thing that almost reached his eyes—, I’ll give you extra points.”
Lynn opened her mouth to say something, but Kavagh was already giving her his back, addressing the gathered group that had grown bigger with his arrival. “Dismissed!”
Then he simply marched through, bikers parting to let him pass. Whispers rose as they dispersed, with curious looks aimed at the new mechanic now officially challenged to prove her worth.