None of that means anything to the guys in my family who love me. Dad’s not going to listen to logic when he’s too busy seeing me with his heart instead of his eyes, so I play it light and matter-of-fact. “I have a life. Harass Patch for grandkids—he’s the older one. Your little girl handed a bunch of guys their asses in a race tonight because you raised a strong, capable woman. Speaking of which...” I grab the envelope from my coat, and slide it across the table. “Put this on the new frame order.”
He takes half of the seventeen grand, knowing arguing is pointless, and pushes the rest back to me. “Put this in the Duc fund instead.”
I grin and don’t argue. This is the one thing outside the shop I save for. I’ve wanted a Ducati since I was eleven and I’m almost there. We finish the meal in comfortable silence. Dad doesn’t bring up the shop again and I don’t bring up racing.
What’s got Dad so tense all the sudden?
CHAPTER TWO
Matthew
I should be pissed that I lost the race, but I can’t get her out of my head.
Andy Perris. Eyes like fresh grass and one hell of a kick. My hip and shoulder hurt where she slammed me to the ground, but at least I didn’t hit a barrier or slide into the kitty litter and jack my bike up. Well, more than the scratched fender. Can she touch it up for free at her family’s garage?
I wasn’t expecting her when I went over to give my competitor shit. Do the delicate freckles dusting the creamy skin of her face cover her whole body? I shake my head. She’s Patrick’s little sister? He and I didn’t hang out a lot, but we were friendly. Why does he have an attitude now? Dredging my memory doesn’t help; I barely remember her, though she’d have been a kid when I left.
She’s definitely not a kid now.
“What the hell are you grinning at?” Uncle Kingsley sends a murky scowl my way. With his lanky frame, pointed chin, and dark hair, he looks like a smaller, watered down version of my dad—his older brother. Locking the winch, I fix my bike into place on the back of his truck and hop into the cab.
“Nothing.” This ride home is going to be stellar.
He slams the door behind him and adjusts the steering wheel. “You forget why you’re back, boy? Only you seem to be having a fabulous time when you just fucking lost the race. I can’t think of a single thing to be grinning about right now. You know why you’re back here?”
“To save your ass?”
He spits out the window. “To save your brother’s. You think on that next time you’re on the track, and fight a little harder.”
Like I could forget it. He’s right though; I should have fought harder to win. But short of taking people off their bikes, there was nothing I could have done. I’m not ready to go there yet.
Luke wanted away from this life as much as I did, but tried to get out easy instead of with hard work like me. The big drug dealers can always use runners and Luke was a great rider with a reputation for being a hard ass, so when he traded in small time dealing for running, he thought he was gaining freedom.
When he got busted, the guy he was dealing for decided Luke was responsible for the cost of the drugs that were seized, to the tune of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of heroin and cocaine. If I’d known he was involved in that shit, I’d have kicked his ass myself, but when he got out of jail, they put him in the hospital. Dad and the family managed to buy some time by selling anything of worth, and giving the guy a little shy of fifty grand before calling me.
Kingsley’s got his personality issues, but at least he cares about family. I’m just glad I don’t have to make small talk with Dad right now.
Kingsley starts the truck and turns to me. “By the way, how’d it feel to be beaten by a little girl?”
I smirk. “The fifties called. They want their misogyny back.”
He grunts and shuts up. It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it.
Being back in Miami chafes my skin like a wool shirt against a bad sunburn. I never wanted to come here again to the crowded heat and salty-aired flatness. I don’t know if it’s the humidity or my past that makes it difficult to breathe here, but a small town in Colorado is my home now. It feels private there in the cold mountain air, wooded winding roads to ride my bike up and down. It’s hard for a city to sprawl when there’s a mountain in the way. Best of all, no family name drags me down before people get to know who I am.
I’ve been back two days and someone already has a problem with me. Patrick Perris and I will have to have a talk at some point in the near future to get to the bottom of that, because I can’t think of anything I might have done to him.
Or, I’ll talk to Andy instead. That grin claims my lips again and I’m still smiling when we pull up to the house.
Dad’s sitting on the porch in a sweat-stained gray tank top, drinking a beer. “Now that’s what I like to see. How much did you win?”
The smile dies on my lips. Around here, people only smile when they’ve got the upper hand or are up to something. Leave it to my family to weaponize facial expressions. “Didn’t.”
Dad runs a hand through his slicked back hair. “Oh?”
Kingsley grunts. “That little Perris bitch won again.”
My chest tightens and I stomp down the urge to protest on her behalf. I’m not in Colorado anymore; I’m back in Miami playing by Roland Mercy’s rules.
Dad sucks back the rest of his beer. “Maybe she needs to be taken out. It was bad enough when her brother was racing, and she’s better than he is.” His gaze pins me to the deck. “What do you think of her?”
I clear my throat. “She’s good.”
Kingsley slaps my shoulder. “Matthew’s better.”
“Except he didn’t win.” Dad’s voice has grown softer, snapping my spine straight.
“She fought dirty. Throws a man off being kicked by a girl.”
I don’t correct Kingsley’s assumption that I knew Andy was a woman and that’s why I hadn’t fought back. There was a time I’d have been deep in the thick of things, throwing elbows and boots out with the worst of them, but I haven’t been that ruthless in years, and I like who I’ve become. Not being an asshole is surprisingly relaxing. I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder waiting for someone to take me out for something I’ve done.
“You taught her a lesson?” The can crunches in Dad’s fingers.
New Matt’s not going to make it here. I shake my head. “Didn’t get close again until the finish line, then there wasn’t a point. What good’s beating up some chick?”
“There’s no place for chivalry in racing.” Dad glares at me. “Your brother’d do it for you.”
Yeah, he’d do all kinds of things I wouldn’t do, and that was precisely why I had to come back here to help him. I don’t fight without a reason, I don’t cheat or steal anymore, I don’t care what she does first—I don’t hit women, and despite Dad’s assertion, I know Luke wouldn’t either. “I’m here helping, aren’t I?”
Dad’s lips press into a thin line. “No use being here if your head’s not in the game.”
“What do you want me to do, Dad? Burn their house down and piss on the ashes?” I lean against the wooden railing and cross my arms. He’d have me wreck my life with illegal shit to save Luke’s ass; I’ve already vetoed bank jobs and knocking off liquor stores, but if I don’t find money fast, I won’t have a brother to help.
Resentment at the situation throbs in my bones. There’s no fucking way I’m robbing anything to raise the money. I’m back on the circuit, but that’s as deep into my shady past as I’ll go. I’ll race hard but not dirty—never again. I’ll find a way to help Luke that doesn’t involve sliding back into the swamp of who I used to be.
Kingsley clears his throat. “Making it personal isn’t a bad idea. You’re good, but so is she. If you’re rough enough, you can beat her in the street races, but she’ll take any legit ones.”
Dad lights a cigarette and waves the match to extinguish it. “What do you have in mi
nd, King?”
“She seemed to like Matthew. Quite a bit.”
My uncle’s words stir up heat in my gut and I do my best to suppress the pleasantness that accompanies it. If she was into me it’s more than mutual, but no need to let these guys know that. Around here, feelings are a weakness. “Yeah? So?”
Kingsley squints at me. “Since you’re reluctant to take her out on the track, you could take her out before she gets on the bike.”
Dad smiles at his brother. “Exploit her feelings. Use them to get in her head.”
Kingsley nods. “Women ain’t like us. They can’t compartmentalize love and sex. You need to get in there and fuck her up. Keep her distracted so she doesn’t care about racing anymore.”
Dad steps into my space with a smile on his lips and a threat in his eyes. “The only crotch rocket she should be thinking about is the one in your pants. I know you got it in you, the way you used to carry on with the girls. Like father like son.”
While the thought of getting to know Andy better is appealing, this is sleazy as hell. “I don’t think so. Even if she was interested, that doesn’t mean it would go anywhere.”
“Make it go somewhere.” Dad’s voice thickens with anger. “You make it personal with her, or we will. Either way, that bitch is winning races and taking the purses—money your brother needs right now. So, unless you’ve got a hundred grand in cash or assets we can liquidate, you’d best get on it.” As he pats my cheek, equal parts disgust and loathing slither up my spine and my hands clench into fists, itching to show this asshole he no longer scares me.
Uncle Kingsley sniffs. “Your brother would do it for you.”
I relax my fists. No matter how much I hate my father, I’m not doing any of this for him. Everything’s for Luke, to get him out of trouble, and when I do, I’m going to do what I should have done years ago: I’m taking him with me, getting him away from this life and these assholes.
“Fine.” I smile coldly. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Good. We’ve already dealt with her brother.” Dad sits back and grinds out his smoke.
Familiar shame and anger fill my chest and make me want to hang my head. What did these assholes do? That’s got to be why Patch has a problem with me.
Great, another Mercy family mess to clean up. Dad and Uncle Kingsley want me to get closer to Andy, and I’ll do it, but not for their reasons. Andy’s family are good people who don’t deserve to be swept into this situation. Her dad owned the circuit for fifteen years, beating guys half his age using skill, not rough play, though he definitely held his own, and I’ve always respected the hell out of him.
When I was sixteen, he’d seen my injuries, knowing they weren’t from falling off a bike, and offered refuge at his home. He never outright said he knew my old man was hammering the hell out of me, but he gave a shit and that meant something, even though I turned his offer down.
I didn’t feel worthy of staying with him as one of the family, and there was no way I could leave Luke behind to deal with my old man alone. But right now, I need to concentrate on the future, and find a peaceable way out of this mess, for everyone.
If getting closer to Andy Perris means being able to do some damage control, I’m all in. “I’ll see you guys later.”
Dad grunts acknowledgment, and I stride from the porch, unload my bike, and head to Andy’s dad’s shop.
CHAPTER THREE
Andy
My calls to Patch go straight to voicemail. He’s either drunk or avoiding me. Maybe both. If Dad already ran the plan by my brother, he’ll be feeling guilty enough to avoid me—not that the guilt would stop him from taking the shop. He’s not an idiot and the shop is successful.
I unlock the door to the garage, wipe the tears from my cheeks, and breathe deeply. Oil, coffee, tire rubber, and degreaser mingle in the air, calming me like aromatherapy. This is the smell of my childhood, my happy place. My escape from it all. I’d never have changed Dad’s name above the door, but I assumed the place would be mine one day.
How can they take this away from me? I roll my bike inside and onto the nearest lift and close the large garage door. Would Dad really leave this place to Patrick? Patch likes bikes, not mechanics. His attitude is: Does it run? Cool. How does it run? Not in the realm of my interest.
I straighten a couple of wrenches on the stainless steel counter where I repair parts. I need to check my suspension. While I won the race, it felt like I was riding high, and my front tire wasn’t gripping like it should. The last couple turns were harder than they should have been.
It can wait until tomorrow. I’ll baby the crap out of my bike and give her my full attention then. I walk past a client’s Honda on the way to the door that leads up the stairs to my apartment. That can wait until tomorrow, too; my finger’s too raw to deal with reed valves right now.
Another part of me throbs thinking about how I got the sore finger. Matthew’s face pops into my head when I slide the key into the lock and turn it. Oh, he noticed me. Would he have asked me out if Patrick hadn’t broken into the moment? Matthew’s even bigger than he used to be, sexier than I remember. God, the way he looked, finessing that bike around the track...
Temporarily weak-kneed, I step inside and flick on the light. I strip my leathers off and toss them to the floor of the otherwise immaculate apartment.
Maybe it’s superstitious, but before a race I need everything to be orderly and clean. After, the place goes back to comfortable and relaxed. My little ritual hasn’t failed me lately. With a sigh, I pop a couple ibuprofen and turn the television on for background noise before heading for the shower in my fancy undies.
If anyone knew that underneath my leathers I wore these lacy, matching panty and bra sets, I’d never be taken seriously again. Most of the time, my long hair is tucked up under a cap or helmet, but I keep it long because when I’m by myself, when the overalls come off, it makes me feel pretty. It’s the one thing I have that really reminds me of my mom, though she was a bombshell, always done up. I don’t wear makeup to work, but my one high maintenance “girly” concession? I regularly get my lashes tinted, since without mascara they’re basically invisible.
I’ve cultivated this tough personality in the races, and had to be strong to be taken seriously at work. Sexism is still rampant in most trades, particularly the racing and mechanic communities, and I deal, but some days it chafes. Most days it chafes.
Dad’s comment about finding someone to make grandkids with stings more than it should.
Outside of work, I’m so tired of being Andy ‘one of the guys’ Perris. Andy the mechanic. Even when I want a hot customer to notice me, the overalls I wear aren’t exactly built for seduction. A rectangle isn’t a sexy silhouette, an hourglass is. Sometimes I want to be seen as the woman I am. My last date took me out for beer and monster trucks, which was fine, but he treated me like a buddy instead of a date. By the end of the night, I felt more like fist-bumping him than making out, so that was a total wash.
Maybe it’s my own fault for training everyone to see me as the rough and tumble mechanic. I don’t know. Am I supposed to wear pink leathers and look soft and vulnerable? Hell, Dad and Patch would hover even more protectively than they do now.
I get pedicures every two weeks as well as the sneaky lash tinting. Something pretty for me that I can hide away during the day inside my work boots, and secretly know it’s there. I had a manicure one time a year ago, and three clients called me ‘Sweetie,’ and left the shop when they learned I was the one who’d be tearing their motors apart.
My breasts are two visible strikes against me, so Victoria isn’t the only one with a secret under her clothes.
While the hot water streams over my body, exhaustion makes me debate not bothering to wash my hair, but I’ll sleep better if I’m scrubbed up, so I lather and rinse with my tea tree and mint shampoo, then scrub with the matching body wash. Fruity scents don’t generally cut through the motor oil like this one does—I only end u
p smelling like someone dumped fruit salad into an engine. Maybe I should create a brand that covers the garage odors. Strawberry Exhaust. Kiwi Carburetor.
I chuckle and towel off. Somehow I don’t think those options would fly off the shelves.
After slathering on thick, cucumber lotion—my hands and arms are chronically dry from all the chemicals and scrubbing—I slip into a tank top and shorts, and flop onto the couch. I glare resentfully at the kitchen where hydration is so far away, but if I don’t hydrate now tomorrow will suck.
A thud from downstairs injects too much energy into me. I sit up and mute the television, holding my breath to listen.
Something metal hits the cement floor down there, a sound I know all-too-well, and I pad over to the counter to grab my phone.
Wait.
Does this have anything to do with why Dad was being weird? Did someone threaten him, or me? Competition is fierce in racing, but mostly stays on the track, and besides that, people respect my father. The shop has a solid reputation.
No matter what the hell is going on, I won’t be made to feel scared in my own home.
I haul my boots back on and grab the wooden baseball bat sitting beside the door. Mechanic work is hard and the tools I sling around every day are heavy. I’ve been doing this for years, and am strong. Thanks to Dad’s paranoia, I’m also fantastic at kick boxing and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. Whoever has the balls, or stupidity, to break into my shop is going down. I’m not a weak little girl anyone can mess with. I’m going to swing hard and fast with no regrets, then use the ten minutes or so until the cops arrive to make the intruder regret ever opening my door.
That’ll show Dad and Patch who’s weak and needs protecting.
The assailant is already halfway up my stairs when I open the door. Shocked, I lower the bat. “What the hell are you doing here? How’d you get in?”
Matthew Mercy holds his hands out and stops with one foot propped on the step above. “The lights were on downstairs and the door was open. I thought you’d be in the shop and was looking for you when you weren’t down there. That’s it.”
Begging For Mercy Page 2
