Instead I turned and carried my tool box out into the garage area.
It was a nice sized garage: four bays total, two in the front, two in the back, all with bay doors. It was perfect. Probably got a moderate amount of traffic per day and built to suit.
I expected the place to be oil stained and dirty, but it was spotless. There were dark marks where oil must’ve fallen, but it was well-swept. Minimal dust meant less build up on tools and better work. But clean took time. Or discipline.
I looked around. Someone from the service had to run this place.
“He shows up, and early too. Told you, Thrash. Knew I picked a good one.”
Rage walked around a car that was jacked up, a broad grin across his sharp face. The other man from the bar followed behind. He must’ve been Thrash.
“Looks good around here. Military boss?” I reached out my hand to shake his. He took it, his grip strong.
Yeah. I was in the right place. Rage filled me in. “That’d be Mick. Vietnam. He keeps this place running. Knows his shit and can still kick ass.” Rage chuckled.
Thrash got straight to the point, his eyes narrow and watching me carefully. “So, you know how to work on a car?”
I took the chance to inspect him, too. He kept his head held high, judging me with dark eyes.
It made me bristle. I didn’t need to be judged, and I had no quarrel with him. Just wanted to do my job and knew better than to back down. Back down once with a man like that and he’d walk all over you.
I looked him straight in the eye, said, “Spent four years working on wheeled vehicles for the Army, in worse conditions than this. I can fix just about anything you put in front of me.” And I puffed my fucking chest out for good measure. My leg might be gone but I still kept up as if for fit reps. Had to stay strong. I wasn’t going to depend on anybody.
“Good. You’re bay four. It’ll be yours. You can leave your tools, or take them. I don’t give a shit. No one’ll touch them, or they’ll have to deal with me.”
“Touch my tools and they’ll deal with me. Just hope you know where to hide the bodies.”
Thrash smirked at that, but in a way I was all right with. Maybe we could get along.
“I’ll take them with me. For now.” I gave Thrash one last look and then headed over to bay 4. It was completely empty.
I took a minute to get acquainted with everything: the equipment that they kept in the shop, things I couldn’t pull around with me. Then I turned and looked at Rage. “Orders?”
My military speech didn’t bother him. Instead, he looked me right in the eye and said, “You’ll do a lot of wrench turning here, I can promise you that. I’ll start you on brakes, rotors, and oil changes today. Ain’t much, but I wanna see how you do.”
Rage was right: this was the easy work. But it got me turning a wrench again. I was on the floor with the tires, all day. Sweat, grease, and the smells of old metal and motor oil. Take the disk off, shimmy the rotor off, put a new one on, put a new brake on. Easy shit, but I was glad to be at it again.
So when I started sweating, I ignored it. It was hot as hell in the garage. Who wouldn’t sweat in that?
My fucking hands were cold and clammy as fuck, though. And my heart started racing.
That’s when I heard it.
Gunfire.
I’d felt this before, so I knew what to do. I knew that I couldn’t let it take me with it, so I did what I knew worked. I focused on the shoe of the break and stared at it. Not moving my eyes. Not moving a muscle until the voices and familiar gut-wrenching rat-a-tat echoing in my head abated, floating back into nothing.
It was a small attack this time, but I felt it loud and clear.
The horror was there with me, stalking me, waiting to swoop in – or was it swoop out? – and swallow me whole. Every time I tried to get back to my own brand of normal, it was going to come out.
It was going to try and fuck me over.
Not this time, motherfucker. I thought, grinning grimly, my jaw tight as the brake-clamps, as I got back to work. No big deal. It was just another day for me.
One more brake job and quittin’ time was callin’ my name. I’d fucking earned a beer, and a show, and that was my aim.
When the MC President walked in, my hands were steady, my gaze straight.
“Damn, you got through three days of work in one shift. Fuck.” Rage grinned as he looked at me, my jumpsuit covered in grime. “Whatcha think, Thrash?”
The other man nodded, his eyes hooded. “He’ll do.”
“Oh, he’ll do alright. We’ve been backlogged for weeks with jobs. Going to clear that out real quick. Tommy, how you makin’ out?”
The kid in stall three murmured, then dropped his fucking tool, followed by an “ow.”