Page 6 of Diesel’s Second Chance

I smile despite myself. "Tommy got you that mug."

"Yeah. Like fifteen years ago. Thing's indestructible."

I walk further into the shop, running my fingers along the edge of the workbench. There's an engine block sitting there, partially disassembled, tools laid out in order around it. Several motorcycles are parked in various states of repair, some on lifts, others waiting their turn.

"Business looks good," I say, gesturing to the bikes.

"Steady enough." Jackson moves to stand beside the workbench, picks up a wrench and turns it over in his hands. "Keeps me busy."

There's something in the way he says it, *keeps me busy*, that makes my chest tight. Like he needs the distraction. Like without it, he'd fall apart.

I move closer to one of the motorcycles, studying it to avoid his gaze. It's big, intimidating, all chrome and black metal. The Iron Phoenix logo is visible on the fuel tank, a bird rising from flames. I've seen that symbol around town for the past few years, ever since the MC set up on the outskirts of Millhaven.

Everyone knows about the Iron Phoenix. Hard not to when nine bikers roll through Main Street or gather at Lou's Diner. The town's divided about them. Some people are wary, remembering wilder clubs from decades past. Others appreciate that they keep to themselves, pay their bills, don't cause trouble in town.

And then there's the war. The one people whisper about but don't discuss openly. Something about another MC called the Vipers, about territory and violence and things most people in Millhaven would rather not know about.

I know Jackson's part of it. He joined the Iron Phoenix a few years back. I've never asked him why. It felt like crossing a line, like acknowledging a part of his life I'm not supposed to know about.

"Is this one theirs?" I ask, nodding toward the bike.

"Canvas's," Jackson says. "The club's tattoo artist. Rides it like he's trying to kill himself and never mentions when something's wrong until it's catastrophic." There's fondness in his voice despite the exasperation. "Cracked head gasket, blown rings, oil pan that looks like it went ten rounds with a sledgehammer."

"Will you be able to fix it?"

"Eventually. Need to order parts." He sets the wrench down. "Been working on it between other jobs. Gives me something to focus on."

*Gives me something to focus on* instead of *keeps my hands busy*. The difference is subtle but significant.

"You work too much," I tell him.

"Says the woman who's at the flower shop six days a week." He finally looks at me. "When do you rest, June?"

"I rest."

"When?"

I don't have a good answer for that. The truth is I don't rest. Haven't rested in seven years, maybe longer. There's always something that needs doing: arrangements that need making, bills that need paying, a father who needs caring for, a house that's too big and too empty and too full of memories I can't escape.

"Right," Jackson says when I don't respond. "That's what I thought."

We stand there in silence, both staring at Canvas's destroyed engine like it holds answers to questions we're not asking. The rain drums against the metal roof, a steady percussion that somehow makes the silence feel less oppressive.

"I'm worried about you," I finally say.

"I know."

"The war with the Vipers…"

"I know, June." He still won't look at me. "But I'm careful. The whole club is. Phoenix has us on rotating patrols, no one goes anywhere alone after dark. We're doing everything right."

"That doesn't make me worry less."

"I'm not asking you to stop worrying." He turns to face me, and the exhaustion I saw at dinner is even more visible now under the harsh fluorescent lights. "I'm just asking you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?"

The question comes out sharper than I intended. Jackson's jaw tightens.