Dead Men Motorcycle Club (2 page)

"You know your way around a bike, at all?"

"Sure, we worked on plenty of bikes, too."

"Good. I'm sure you noticed the line out there. They boys are a bit rough on their rides and they need to keep things in good working order. They're mostly too proud to have anybody else work on their own bikes, but sometimes there's no choice. I get to make sure that everybody who works here at Peasant knows how to get them back on the road," she said.
I could tell that she was extremely proud of the garage and her mechanics, but there was something else in what she said that took a moment to turn over in my mind.

I looked around the room at
the various pictures that littered the walls. I looked at her. I looked at the line of bikes parked outside the office. This wasn't just a garage. This was a clubhouse. I'd seen enough TV shows to recognize one when I came upon it in person. Without knowing it, I'd stumbled right into a motorcycle club garage.

Now, while I hadn't expected to find an MC garage in my perfect little adoptive town, I wasn't entirely put off by it either. An MC garage meant two things - first, you never knew quite what you were getting mixed up in when you went to work for one. Second, there would always be plenty of work to do. The thought of the second pushed me forwards without another thought. I hadn't been ready to admit it, but one of my greatest fears was that I'd find a decent garage but there wouldn't be much work to be had. I can't seem to go for a whole day without getting my hands dirty on an engine, even if it's just tightening this and loosening that for a few minutes. Now that I knew a little bit about who was really in charge of Peasant Motors, I was sure my concerns were unfounded.

"Well, Emma," she said to me, "I tell you what - we really
could
use another set of hands around here. I'm not going to lie to you, though, it won't be easy. I'm not just talking about the workload, either. Between you and me, most of the guys here... well, they're not exactly known for progressive values. I'm certain not one of them has ever worked in a garage alongside a woman before.
In the office?
Sure.
But building an engine beside them, no way."

"I can handle whatever they're dishing out," I told her. "I've been dealing with guys like that all my life."

"I'm sure you have," she said, "But it's not just dealing with it. See, I'm in charge of the books and I do the interviews, but you're going to have to impress them in the garage. I'm sure you're going to have to work twice as hard to make them think you're worth keeping around. Do you have a place to stay?"

"Not yet. I literally just got into town," I said flatly.

"Okay, well, there's a motel out on Rotwood
- the Oceanside," she said, grabbing one of the business cards out of the tray in front of her. She scribbled something on the back and handed it to me. "You tell them I sent you and you'll get a decent room. If you decide to stay
on, I can ask around about some place to rent.
Get yourself settled in at Oceanside and come in tomorrow at
9 and we'll toss you to the sharks."

"Thanks so much," I said with a smile.

"Don't mention it."

I stood up and gave her a final nod as I left the room, but she was already re-engaging with the paperwork that littered her desk. I realized I'd never gotten her name
and looked down at the card. On the back she'd written her name - Karen Waits. I had to restrain myself to keep from skipping and jumping as I made me way back to the car. The last thing I needed was for someone in the garage to spot me and spread the story before I'd even arrived tomorrow.

I found the motel easy enough. San
Viero's
not big enough to really get lost in for long. Judging by the state of the motel, the hospitality in
dustry wasn't exactly booming in San Viero
. The sign was one strong gust away from falling over, and the innkeeper was one strong drink away from the same fate.
I told him that Karen Waits had said I'd find a decent room here. For a moment I thought maybe Karen had played me false and was sending me to this fleabag as a bit of a hazing ritual or something. However, when I got to the room, I realized it looked a lot better on the inside than the outside. The sheets were clean, the lights were bright and the carpet had been installed sometime in the past decade. Maybe having Karen watching out for me wasn't such a bad thing.

I laid
down on the surprisingly comfortable bed and realized suddenly just how exhausted I was. I'd been driving all day and sleeping in my car for the past two nights, and my muscles were feeling it. I barely had time to get my boots off before a deep, dreamless sleep enveloped me.

When I woke, it was early in the morning. I'd managed to sleep the whole night away on top of the sheets. The rays of the rising sun poured through the window - which was decidedly
not
an ocean view, despite the name of the motel. I stripped off my clothing and tossed it in the end of one of the bags I'd brought with me, and then headed for the shower.

The old plumbing sprang to life and I managed a halfway decent - and halfway warm - shower. It was at least refreshing to be out of my clothes after so long, When I decided I was
clean enough, I got out and wrapped myself in a towel I'd brought from home. I wiped away the fog from the bathroom mirror and stared at the reflection I saw before me. I was pretty
enough. My dirty blonde hair was cut short - so much better for not getting tangled in engines - but it could use a trim. My eyebrows were starting to look a bit less than perfect and I found myself wondering whether there was a decent place to get waxed in San Viero.

I stepped out into the room and tore through my bags, looking for something to wear. I settled on a pair of tough black jeans and a faded grey t-shirt. I was extremely happy that, in mid-January, I didn't have to bother picking out a sweater or a coat or something like that to keep me warm. No wonder people had been braving the journey across the country towards California for the past couple hundred years.

Once I was dressed, I grabbed my purse and slung it over my shoulder, across my body. Before I could even think about checking out the
town
, I needed to find some breakfast. I had little doubt that in a
place
like this, a decent breakfast was one of the things you could always count on. I hopped into my Charger and drove back towards
Main Street.

The restaurant I found was just the thing - a little greasy spoon called South
of the Border, though, of course, we were north of the border. I excused their geographical faux pas and ordered a big plate of eggs, pancakes, sausage and toast. I ate my food and drank a cup of strong black coffee while pretending to ignore the conversations of the early morning diners around me. I didn't have the context to understand of what anyone was saying, but I began to pick up on a common theme. Through every conversation, there w
ere
mentions of "those boys." At first I thought they were referring to a notable group of school children, but eventually realized it must be the bikers I was soon to become very close to. It was also when I learned the name by which they rode, when one of the diners dared to openly mock them - they were the Dead Men. It was a suitably chilling name, but not unusual in biker circles.

I paid for my breakfast and headed out into town to kill a couple hours. I left my car outside the restaurant for now and walked along Main Street, where businesses were starting to open and people were hustling about, getting ready to start their days. A few people nodded or said "good morning" as they passed me by and I returned the gestures. This was small town living;
where everyone was friendly and everyone gossiped behind your back.

I got my first look at one of the Dead Men
as I stood outside a hairdresser's salon, trying to peer inside the dark windows to see if they offered any waxing services. I heard the low rumble a few seconds before I saw him and turned to look. He came rolling down
main street
, headed in the direction of the garage. His bike was a glorious steed of chrome and leather. He was dressed all in black, right up to the old style helmet he wore, which left his
face exposed.
I only caught sight of him for a moment before he was behind me. As he got smaller and smaller, moving down the street away from me, I saw the large white patch that adorned his vest. 'Dead Men' was stitched out in black against the white of the patches themselves. I barely had time to contemplate his presence
on that idyllic early morning street, before he pushed the bike forward and I lost track
of him by sight, if not by sound. The echoing rumble of his bike became smaller and smaller before disappearing over the horizon.

I checked the clock on my phone and found that I had to be getting to the garage. The last thing I wanted was to show up late on my first day. I was going to have a hard enough time impressing these bikers
without
having tardiness be my first impression to them. I returned to my car and drove down the street towards the garage. I saw the way people on the street had stared at the bike as it went past. If a lone biker could cause that much of a stir on a Wednesday morning, I wondered if the story of the woman mecha
nic would be better or worse when everyone found out what I was here for.

I arrived at the garage with ten minutes to go before my scheduled time of arrival. I grabbed my purse and took a series of long, deep breaths in an attempt to stay calm.

"Just remember," I told myself, "You're good at this and, no matter what happens, you can take it."

I convinced myself well enough and was soon standing outside my car and stepping towards the business office.
It was time to find out just what I was made of.

I parked my car in the same spot on the street where I'd put it the day before. I gave myself a quick look in the mirror, just to make sure nothing was
too
out of place. This was a garage I was heading into, not a debutante ball. I certainly wasn't wearing any makeup and my hair had been dried by the sun. I took one last deep breath and stepped out of the car.

I was halfway across the lot, walking towards the business office, when Karen came out and greeted me. She seemed to be all smiles this morning, and I was glad for it. I couldn't imagine starting a new job in a new town when my boss was already angry. That seemed like a recipe for disaster. Karen waved at me and when she got close, she looked me up and down.
I noticed that the line of motorcycles that had been outside the office yesterday were conspicuously absent this morning. Wherever the Dead Men were, it wasn't here at the garage.

"'Morning, Emma," she said brightly. "I've got a bunch of legal paperwork for you to fill out, but we can take care of that another time. Why don't you head into the garage?
Zach is in there and I told him to expect you. I've got to go across town to yell at the bank for a while, but I'll be back to check up on you around lunchtime."

I thanked her and turned for the garage.
I was glad to not have to deal with paperwork first thing, but I could read between the lines. Karen didn't want to bother with any formalities until I'd seen what the garage and my co-workers
were like. I was sure that she half expected me to take off and try my fortunes elsewhere. I didn't fault her for that. I had told her that I grew up around engines, but whether she believed me or not, she was probably unsure of my ability to handle a rough crowd. After all, even if I'd been alright at my Dad's garage, it was still my
Dad's
garage. That thought took hold in my mind as I walked. I hadn't really considered the possibility that maybe I couldn't handle anything these guys could dish out.
I was certainly picked on, but back home I'd always had Dad watching out for me and the guys knew better than to really mess with their boss's daughter.

It was too late to worry about that now, and there was no turning back. I pushed open the metal door that led into the garage proper and stepped inside. The sounds of work were already ringing off the walls, even at this early hour. I could see down the line that there was
an old Ford up on the lift, and closer to me was a Jeep. A pair of legs sprouted from underneath the Jeep, clad in brown boots and oil-stained jeans.

I walked up to the legs and gave them a soft nudge with my foot. The man they belonged to scooted out on a dolly from underneath the Jeep, his eyes narrowing to adjust to the light, trying to see who it was that had disturbed his work. He was older - maybe 50 - and his hair was grey and thinned. I wouldn't say it was
thinning
because that would imply that it was a work in process. This man was weather-beaten and looked like he had both feet firmly over the hill.

Without getting up from the dolly, he said, "You Emma?"

I nodded to him. "Yeah," I responded, "You must be Zach. Karen told me to come find you."

"Alright, well, why don't you bring that Toyota out on the lot inside and change the oil. The key's over on the wall. Rest of the crew should get in soon," he said. Then he pushed himself back under the Jeep without waiting for a response.

I let out a small sigh.
An oil change?
I felt like I was Michelangelo being asked to paint a fence. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself with how much I thought of my mechanical abilities, but still. If I was going to be doing oil changes, how would these guys ever see what I was really capable of? There was nothing I could do about it, though. I walked over a cluttered desk that was covered in junk. Above it was a peg board. I found the Toyota key easy enough and headed out to the lot to find my first small project.