Kid's got his dad's build—tall and lean—but none of Ransom's confidence yet. He's shifting from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his pockets, probably wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into.
"You're early," I call out as I kill the engine and swing my leg over the bike.
"Yes, sir. My dad always said?—"
"None of that 'sir' shit," I cut him off with a grin. "Save that for your old man when he's in uniform. Around here, it's just Devil."
The garage is already buzzing with activity when we walk in. Dime's got his head buried under the hood of a '67 Camaro, Razor's working on a bike tune-up, and a couple of the other guys are scattered around various projects. The familiar scent of motor oil and metal fills the air, along with the classic rock pumping from the radio.
"Listen up, assholes," I announce, my voice carrying over the noise. "This is Keegan Thompson. He's starting today, and I don't want to hear any of your usual bullshit hazing."
Storm looks up from his work, wiping greasy hands on a rag. "Thompson? As in Officer Thompson who busted my ass for speeding last month?"
"That'd be my dad," Keegan says quietly.
"Well, shit." Storm grins, but it's not exactly friendly. "Guess we know who to blame for that ticket."
"Cut it out, Storm," I warn.
But Cap, one of our newer guys, decides to pile on. "So what's daddy's boy doing here? Spying for the cops?"
The kid's jaw tightens, and I can see the flash of temper in his eyes. He definitely got that from Ransom too.
"I'm here to work and learn about bikes. That's it."
"Sure you are," Cap continues, clearly enjoying himself. "Bet you'll run crying to daddy the first time you break a nail."
"Enough." My voice cuts through the garage like a blade, and everyone goes quiet. "Keegan, you're with me today. We'll start you on basic maintenance—oil changes, tire repairs, that kind of thing."
I lead him over to a workbench and start pulling out tools, explaining each one and its purpose. The kid listens intently, asking good questions, clearly eager to learn. After about an hour, I can tell he's starting to relax a little.
"Hey, Devil," Dime calls out, finally extracting himself from under the Camaro's hood. "You got a minute?"
I glance at Keegan, who's focused on organizing the tool drawer I'd asked him to sort.
"Keep at it, kid. I'll be right back."
Dime follows me to the office, closing the door behind us.
"So, tonight's the night, huh?" I ask, settling into my chair.
"Yeah, taking Allison to that new Italian place downtown." He runs a hand through his dark hair, looking more nervous than I've seen him in years. "Shit, Devil, what if I screw this up? It's been forever since I've been on a real date."
"You'll be fine. Just be yourself… well, maybe tone down the crude jokes until at least the third date."
"Very funny." He leans against the doorframe. "Dani give you any intel on what Allison likes?"
"She wants you to show her that not all men are lying pieces of shit like her ex-husband." The words taste bitter in my mouth, considering my current situation. "Just be honest with her, Dime. That's all any woman really wants."
The irony isn't lost on me, and I have to look away.
"You okay?"
Before I can answer, there's a commotion outside. Through the office window, I can see a Laurel Springs Police cruiser pulling into the lot. Ransom Thompson climbs out, all six-foot-two of him in full uniform, his K-9 partner Gus jumping out after him.
"Looks like daddy's checking up," Dime observes.
We head back out to the main floor just as Ransom walks in. The atmosphere immediately shifts—everyone suddenly finds their work very interesting, and the usual chatter dies down to nothing.
