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Maybe I wouldn’t be available. While I understood that his job was important, my petty ass remained less than impressed that work ranked higher than I did.
Then again, not being bothered by the detective left me free time to work on the bike.
Soon, my precious. Soon, we’ll be riding.
CHAPTER17
Two days passedwith only brief Brayden visits where he arrived bearing donuts—maple cream being his favorite, and mine. The guy also brought me bouquets, not always the store-bought kind. Some were obviously wild and picked from ditches and fields. Each time he popped in, often while I was working, we spent most of it exchanging kisses. My lingering period—whereupon I passed clots that might be cause for concern—made sure we couldn’t even indulge in a quickie.
During that time, I worked on the bike, which really needed a name. Even sold some scrap. Why anyone would pay me to take the remains of a minivan, I’d never understand. But it would look good at tax time, proving this was an actual job and not a hobby. Doing something I enjoyed and getting paid for it. It took a midlife upheaval to finally get my ass on the right path.
As much as I enjoyed working on the motorcycle, I never stayed past dark. Not anymore. I’d had enough frights, and I also kept hoping the detective would pop by. He did, but could never stay long. I might have to drop his phone in the toilet one of these days.
Despite my shorter days, each morning when I arrived at the garage, it perturbed me to discover that more of the bike had been put together than I recalled. Meaning, either my memory was faulty, or I’d sleepwalked and repaired it. It would have been plausible if the cameras had noticed me coming and going. Yet every time I checked my surveillance app, it showed no motion detected. Not the human kind, at any rate. Only a single incursion by a fox, which had scared the shit out of me at first. Night-vision shit gave the fox glowing, horror-movie eyes.
Since the idea of losing my marbles bothered me, I ignored it. Mostly because if I went to a doctor and he fixed me, Mahoney would probably stop talking to me. He’d been keeping me company a lot as I worked on the bike. Ghost or imaginary friend, I remained straddling the fence on what to call him. Either way, it wasn’t a relationship, no matter how real it felt.
On Thursday, despite being in the home stretch for parts left to install, I actually had to be a junkyard owner. Apparently, word had begun circulating that I dealt in parts, both buying and selling. People called and asked if they could drop off their cars. I took those for free. If they complained and asked for money, I told them they could always drop it off somewhere else, knowing full well that many places charged a disposal fee.
The newer stuff was parked nicely in rows, spaced wide enough apart that people could get inside and strip the interiors if desired. I sold a set of minivan seats, three stereos, and a bumper, all before lunch.
As I munched on some poutine—that I’d paid too much to have delivered—I did the paperwork involved in the morning’s sales and acquisitions. I tried to always stay on top because once shit started piling up, it often got too deep too quick, becoming daunting so it only kept getting larger.
The afternoon continued busily, enough that I couldn’t repair the compactor, even though the parts had arrived. I really should get it fixed. Once I had it good to go, I could commence cleaning the yard of useless metal and selling bundles of it. Eventually, I hoped to be tower-free, replaced by only neatly lined-up vehicles. It might sound weird, but I also fantasized about finding abandoned wrecks in fields and forests. I’d take them all so someone could experience the thrill of seeing their dream car on my lot and having the satisfaction of bringing it back to its former glory.
Speaking of satisfaction and rebuilding, maybe I should put on my big-girl panties and play with the bike after dinner. At six, I locked the gates and, as I passed the garage, popped my head in to ogle the almost finished beauty.I gaped in surprise at the few remaining pieces left to install. So close to being done. Close enough that I could probably fire up the motor in the next hour.
“I have to eat first.” Said aloud as an audible reminder. If I didn’t and something went wrong, I knew how I was. I’d be troubleshooting instead of taking care of myself.
Excitement had me jittery. I couldn’t shovel dinner into my mouth fast enough. My dog almost shed a tear in pride at my gluttony, even as he remained the inhaling food champ. I just hoped I didn’t hack it up later as he sometimes did…on my bed.
Fucker always puked on fabric. If he started to heave on the tile floor, he’d actually race to the nearest carpet, couch—or his favorite, my bed—to spew.
I felt so special.
Rather than join me, Blade chose to lie on the couch, listening to his favorite movie, the one with the ice princess. I’d learned not to say her name aloud because he lost his mind. Sometimes, he even howled along with the singing.
I threw on my red sweater with its deep hood. A chill in the air spoke of the summer shifting finally into fall, which meant cooler temps at night, and a darkness that fell early.
Hesitating on my threshold, I hugged myself. Did I really want to go out?
As fear filled me, I could have sworn I heard Mahoney whisper, “Don’t be afraid.”
My shoulders straightened. My chin lifted. Since when was I a coward?
I marched to the junkyard and my garage. Upon entering, I immediately rolled up the main door and then shone a light outside of it.Ain’t no one getting close without me seeing them first.
The tasing rod hung on a hook, fully charged. A can of pepper spray was within reach of my tools. I had a screwdriver in my back pocket. Although, if given a choice, I’d palm a heavy wrench. Better for bashing heads with.
Only once I’d ensured that my area remained secure did I turn to the motorcycle and the tarp with the few remaining pieces. Less, I could have sworn, than I recalled from before dinner.
I’d already installed the seat I’d ordered and had rapid-shipped. The new wiring for the lights hadn’t fixed the jolt I got each time I touched the bike. I’d gotten used to it, though. Enjoyed it, actually. When I got fanciful, I imagined it was the bike talking to me, guiding me, happy that someone lavished it with love.
“Almost there, sweetheart,” I murmured to the bike. I got to work, putting in the last of the pieces, then moved on to the adding and checking of fluids. Only two things left before I could take it on a maiden run.
I rolled the tires, already on rims, into position and attached them. Checked over the brakes, hesitating to call it done. Had I missed anything?
“It’s ready.”
