Chapter 2 Chapter two

Murphy's Garage sat on the wrong side of Coldwater, wedged between a pawn shop and a laundromat that had been closed since I was twelve. The building's red brick had faded to the color of dried blood, and the sign out front buzzed even when it wasn't lit. It wasn't much, but for the past three years, it had been my sanctuary.

Now it felt like a trap.

I'd arrived at eleven-thirty, too anxious to wait at home in the cramped studio apartment I could barely afford. The garage bay was open, and I'd thrown myself into work, trying to lose myself in the familiar comfort of engines and grease. Old man Patterson's Ford needed a transmission flush, and I'd stripped down to my tank top despite the morning chill, my hands already black with grime.

Work was the only thing that quieted my mind. The only thing that made sense in a world that had been chaos since Dad died.

My father, Chen Wei, had been the best motorcycle mechanic in three counties. He'd learned his trade in Taiwan before immigrating to the States, and he'd taught me everything he knew. How to listen to an engine's heartbeat. How to feel a problem through the handlebars. How to transform a broken machine into something beautiful and powerful.

What he hadn't taught me was how to deal with the Iron Wolves .

Three years ago, Dad had been contracted to customize bikes for the club. The president at the time, Dutch Steele, Dax's father had commissioned an entire fleet of custom choppers for the club's twentieth anniversary. Dad had poured everything into that job, his time, his money, his reputation. He'd taken out loans to buy the parts, hired extra help, worked sixteen-hour days.

Then Dutch claimed the work was substandard and refused to pay. Not just refused, he'd spread word throughout the biker community that Chen Wei was unreliable, that his work was shoddy. The loans came due. Clients vanished. Dad's shop went under in three months.

He had a heart attack two weeks after losing everything. I found him in his garage, slumped over a partially assembled engine, his tools still in his hands.

I was nineteen years old, working my way through community college, when I became an orphan and inherited a mountain of debt.

The rumble of motorcycles pulled me from my memories. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. That particular deep, powerful sound belonged to only one club in Coldwater.

The Iron Wolves.

I wiped my hands on a rag and stepped out of the garage bay. Five bikes rolled into the parking lot, their chrome gleaming in the noon sun. Dax Steele rode at the front, his Harley customized with details that made my mechanic's heart appreciate the craftsmanship even as my brain screamed at me to run.

He dismounted with that same predatory grace I'd witnessed last night. Today he wore a leather vest over a black t-shirt, his club patches prominently displayed, Vice President. The Iron Wolves logo, a snarling wolf's head surrounded by flames and dominated his back.

The other riders fanned out behind him. I recognized a few faces from around town. Tank, the club's enforcer, built like his namesake. Reaper, the road captain, covered in tattoos. And two others whose names I didn't know but whose expressions were equally hostile.

"Mia Chen," Dax said. It wasn't a greeting. It was a statement of fact.

"You're trespassing," I replied. "This is private property."

"Murphy knows we're here. Called him this morning." Dax pulled off his gloves. "He's a smart man. Knows when to make himself scarce."

Anger flared in my chest. "You threatened him?"

"I asked nicely. There's a difference." He stepped closer, and I forced myself not to retreat. "We need to talk. About your debt. About last night."

"I don't need your help."

"Fifty thousand dollars says you do."

"I'll figure something out."

Dax's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Right. You'll just magic up fifty grand in what, sixty hours now? Face it, Mia. You're screwed. Snake doesn't forgive debts, and he doesn't forget. You know what he did to the last person who couldn't pay?"

I didn't answer. Everyone knew what Snake had done. The guy still walked with a limp.

"But here's the thing," Dax continued. "I can make your problem disappear. All of it. The fifty grand. Snake's threats. Everything."

"Why?" The question came out harder than I intended. "Why would you help me? Your club destroyed my father. Or did you forget that part?"

Something dangerous flashed in Dax's eyes. "I forget nothing about your father, Mia. Nothing." He pulled out a cigarette, then seemed to think better of it and put it away. "But what if I told you that everything you think you know about what happened three years ago is wrong?"

"I'd say you're a liar."

"Your father's work wasn't substandard. It was perfect. Better than perfec, it was art." Dax's voice dropped lower. "My old man didn't refuse to pay because the work was bad. He refused to pay because he was being blackmailed."

The world seemed to tilt slightly. "What?"