Page 47 of Diesel

“You don’t have a choice.” His tone was firm but not unkind. “If you keep walking on it, you’ll make it worse. Could turn a sprain into something that needs surgery. Is that what you want?”

Silence filled the small room. Greta’s mouth opened then closed. Her orange-nailed fingers gripped the edge of the examination table until her orange polish stood out.

“No,” she said finally. “That’s not what I want.”

I was surprised Greta had conceded so quickly, happy she was cooperating. Now all she had to do was stay off her feet until she healed.

For Greta, easier said than done.

Chapter Nine

Diesel

The trucks arrived at Edith’s place just after six in the morning. Preacher had called everyone the night before, and nobody questioned why we were spending a workday rebuilding some old lady’s porch instead of opening the shop. The club took care of its own, and Temptation’s seniors fell into that category whether they knew it or not.

My truck led the convoy, bed loaded down with pressure-treated lumber, boxes of deck screws, and every tool we’d need for the job. Behind me, the rumble of motorcycles filled the quiet residential street. Preacher on his Road King, Deadeye on his Softail, Mayhem and Riot bringing up the rear on their choppers. The noise probably woke half the neighborhood, but that couldn’t be helped.

Ollie stood on the curb in front of Edith’s house, coffee cup in hand and a grin on his face that made my wolf sit up and take notice. Again. The animal had been restless since we’d claimed the male, circling and pacing like it was waiting for something. For what, I had no damn clue.

Pulling into the driveway, I killed the engine and climbed out. The morning air was cool, dew still clinging to the grass.

“Hey.” Ollie crossed the distance between us before I’d fully closed the truck door. “You guys came.”

“Said we would.” My hand found the back of his neck, pulling him in for a quick kiss that tasted like coffee and toothpaste. “Morning.”

“Morning.” He glanced past me at the other guys who were already unloading tools from the truck bed. “This is really happening. Thank you.”

“Thank me when it’s done.” My hand squeezed his hip.

The front door opened before we reached the porch. Edith appeared in the doorway. Her eyes went wide when she saw all of us standing in her yard.

“What’s all this?” Her gaze traveled from me to the truck to the bikes lined up at the curb. “Did someone die?”

“Your porch did.” Preacher stepped forward, jerking his thumb at the sagging mess behind her. “We’re here to fix it.”

“Fix it?” Edith asked, her brows furrowing. “How much is this going to cost me?”

“No invoice,” Preacher replied. “If you don’t mind, ma’am, we’d like to get started before the day gets too hot.”

“You boys—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re really going to do this? For free?”

“Already said so.” Mayhem was pulling two-by-fours from the truck bed, stacking them on the lawn. “Now get yourself settled somewhere comfortable. This is gonna take a while.”

“I’ll see if I have a coupon.” She glanced at everyone before stepping back inside.

“For what?” Deadeye asked.

“Don’t get me started,” Ollie said.

The work went faster with five sets of hands. Crowbars pried up rotten boards, revealing the framework underneath that was somehow in even worse shape. Termite damage had eaten through half the support beams. The concrete footings were cracked and shifting. This wasn’t just a surface problem. The entire structure needed to come down and get rebuilt from scratch.

Preacher had already started ripping up the old boards, crowbar in hand. The wood came away with screaming protests, nails pulling free from rotted joists. Decades of neglect showed in every splintered plank, every piece that crumbled when touched.

“This is worse than I thought,” Preacher muttered, tossing another board onto the growing pile of debris. “Surprised the whole thing didn’t collapse.”

“Edith’s lucky it didn’t.” Deadeye crouched next to one of the support posts, examining the base. His gaze kept drifting to the garden gnomes lined up near the flower beds. There had to be at least twenty of them, all different sizes and poses. Fishing gnomes, sleeping gnomes, gnomes that looked like they were judging your life choices. “Those things watching us?”

“They’re gnomes.” Riot looked up from where he was measuring joists. “They don’t watch anything. They’re ceramic, man.”