Page 1 of Diesel’s Second Chance

Chapter 1 - Diesel

The engine block sits on my workbench like a puzzle someone gave up on halfway through. Cracked head gasket, blown rings, oil pan that looks like it went three rounds with a sledgehammer. Canvas's bike, which means he rode it hard and never mentioned the knocking sound until it quit on him completely.

I wipe my hands on a rag that stopped being clean six hours ago and glance at the clock mounted above the tool board. 6:47 PM. Dinner's at seven.

Anticipation and dread punish me in equal measure, same thing that happens every third Thursday when I know I'm about to sit across from June Brannigan and pretend I'm only there to honor Tommy's memory.

I should cancel. Text her something about club business, about the war with the Vipers making everything unpredictable. She'd understand. June always understands, which is half the problem.

Instead, I toss the rag onto the bench and head for the bathroom in the back corner of the garage. The mirror above the sink shows exactly what I expect: grease smeared along my jaw, gray creeping further into my hair every month, eyes that look older than forty.

I scrub my face and hands until the water runs clear, though the stains under my nails never fully come out. Thirty years of engines will do that. My father had the same permanent shadow along his cuticles, the same rough palms that caught on fabric. He used to say that honest work left honest marks.

I miss him most in moments like this, standing in a garage that still smells like his cigarettes even eight years after his heart gave out, trying to decide if I'm brave enough or just selfish enough to finally tell the truth.

Walt Reed didn't believe in secrets or regrets. Lived his whole life straightforward and transparent. He loved my mother openly until cancer took her when I was twelve, raised me without pretense, ran his garage with integrity that everyone in Millhaven respected. When he died, there wasn't a single thing left unsaid, no relationship unfinished, no love unexpressed.

I've spent years being his opposite. Burying feelings so deep I sometimes forget they're there until I see June's smile and remember exactly why I've been lying to myself.

The front door chimes as I'm pulling on a cleaner flannel shirt. I button it halfway and walk out to find Saint leaning against the counter, looking too casual for someone who just got death threats from his own brother.

"Diesel," he says, nodding once.

"Saint." I grab my keys from the pegboard. "Need something, or you just checking if I'm still breathing?"

"Phoenix wants everyone accounted for before nightfall. Patrols doubled, no one solo after dark." His expression doesn't change, but there's tension in his shoulders that wasn't there a month ago. "Where you headed?"

"Dinner."

"Clubhouse?"

"No."

Saint stares at me for a beat longer than comfortable. He's the club medic, which means he notices things—breathing patterns, the way people hold themselves when they're lying. I keep my face neutral and wait him out.

"Be careful," he finally says. "Demon's out there somewhere, and he's not thinking straight. You're still a target."

"I'm always careful."

"That’s what you call it?" There's almost a smile behind the words, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Always dinners on the same schedule, same place. That's not careful, brother. That's predictable."

He's not wrong. June and I have been doing this every third Thursday since Tommy died—dinner at Lou's Diner on Main Street, the booth in the back corner, the same damn burger I've ordered ninety-something times in a row. Started as a way to remember Tommy together, became something neither of us has figured out how to stop.

"Noted," I say, because arguing won't get him to leave faster. "I'll keep my head on a swivel."

Saint pushes off the counter, pauses at the door. "You carrying?"

I lift the flannel enough to show the Glock tucked into my waistband at four o'clock. He nods, satisfied, and disappears into the early evening without another word.

The garage suddenly feels too quiet. I lock up, double-check the deadbolts, and head out to where my bike sits under the overhang, a '04 Harley Road King I rebuilt from the frame up three years ago. Matte black, custom exhaust, engine that purrs like it's personally offended by the concept of mechanical failure.

The sky's gray and heavy with clouds, but the rain's holding off. For now.

I swing my leg over, settle into the seat, and fire her up. The rumble echoes off the garage walls, vibrates through my bones in a way that's always felt like coming home. My father taught me to work on cars, but I taught myself bikes, and spent my twenties taking apart anything with two wheels until I understood them better than I understood people.

Main Street is a ten-minute ride from the garage. Millhaven isn't big enough for much traffic, especially this time of evening. I pass the flower shop where June works part-time, the hardware store that's been going out of business for five years straight, the church where she married Tommy when they were both too young to know better.

I was best man. Gave a speech that made everyone cry, including me, though I blamed it on the whiskey afterward. Tommy clapped me on the back and told me I was a hell of a friend. June hugged me and said she was glad he had someone like me in his life.