Rourke continued.
“And he stood the same way.”
“How?”
“Like you were always ready to leave.”
That sentence hit harder than expected.
Caleb looked away.
“You still need work?”
He almost laughed.
“You're asking again?”
“You walked in looking for a job.”
“And discovered you assaulted my father.”
Rourke nodded.
“Strong first interview.”
Caleb stared at him.
Then laughed.
A real laugh.
Rourke smiled.
“Weekend cleanup.”
“How much?”
“Fourteen an hour.”
Caleb shook his head.
“Fifteen.”
“You’re sixteen.”
“So?”
“You don't know anything yet.”
“I saved your garage five minutes after walking in.”
Rourke considered.
“Fourteen fifty.”
“Fifteen.”
“Fourteen seventy-five.”
Caleb held out his hand.
“Deal.”
Rourke shook it.
Then added:
“You touch a motorcycle without permission, you're gone.”
Caleb nodded toward the black cruiser.
“You're rerouting that fuel line.”
Rourke released his hand.
“Already hate you.”
The red-bearded biker appeared from around the corner.
“Definitely Ghost’s kid.”
His name was Mason Reed.
Caleb learned that later.
He also learned the shaved-head biker was Trent.
The quiet man near the tire rack was Omar.
The youngest biker in the shop was Kevin, though everyone called him Stitch because he once tried repairing a torn motorcycle seat with fishing line and ended up needing six stitches in his own hand.
Within three Saturdays, Caleb knew where every tool belonged.
Within six, he knew which cabinet stuck during humid weather.
Within eight, he stopped flinching when Rourke yelled across the shop.
His mother found out during week two.
That conversation was worse than anything Rourke had said.
“You are working where?”
Caleb sat at the kitchen table.
“Iron Ridge.”
His mother went completely still.
She had been opening mail.
The electric bill remained in her hand.
“Iron Ridge Customs?”
“Yes.”
“On Meridian Avenue?”
“Yes.”
She placed the envelope down carefully.
“No.”
Caleb frowned.
“No what?”
“You're not going back.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is when you're sixteen.”
Caleb stared at her.
“You knew.”
She looked away.
“You knew Dad worked there.”
Silence.
“Mom.”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
Anger ignited immediately.
“You knew?”
“Caleb.”
“You knew all this?”
“Not everything.”
“Rourke said Dad worked there for years.”
“He did.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because your father didn't want you involved.”
“In what?”
“That world.”
“They repair motorcycles.”
“That isn't what I meant.”
Caleb stood.
“Then explain.”
His mother pushed the chair away.
“You want explanations?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
She crossed her arms.
“Your father nearly died because of the men in that garage.”
Caleb’s anger faltered.
“Rourke said they accused him.”
“They did more than accuse him.”
“What?”
“They followed him.”
Caleb frowned.
“Where?”
“Home.”
His mother’s voice tightened.
“You were not born yet.”
“I was twenty-two.”
“Your father came through my apartment door with his face swollen so badly I barely recognized him.”
Caleb said nothing.
“He wouldn't go to the hospital.”
“He wouldn't call police.”
“He wouldn't tell me names.”
“Three days later someone slashed all four tires on his truck.”
Caleb’s stomach turned.
“Rourke?”
“I don't know.”