Page 2 of Ace of Spades

I walk up to the desk and add my resume to the pile.

Looking around, past the chaos taking place on the desk, there are bike parts, stacks of boxes with vague labels like “Things” and “Stuff.”

I’m sure that’s super helpful when trying to find things… or stuff.

On the other side of the office, there's a wall that catches my attention. Old newspaper clippings from the shop in it’s prime. There’s a framed picture of the old crew, the one everyone knows from the AutoTV show that made Steele King’s Customs a household name.

Faces that have since probably moved on surround the gruff owner of the shop. A man whose gone silent over the last decade to the rest of the world. In the picture, he doesn’t smile, but his eyes are bright and full of life.

Levi Steele.

Army vet. Reality TV star. The rugged, yet undeniably handsome, face of SKC. He’s the one I’m planning on meeting today.

I touch my fingers to the picture. I can’t believe I’m actually here. Sure, it’s not the happening place I imagined it would be, but that doesn’t mean all is lost.

Making my way through the small office, I pass a bulletin board with what looks like random notes written on the faces of playing cards in bold permanent marker. All different handwriting. All in different states of decay.

We reserve the right to refuse service to assholes.Yeah, I can get behind that.

Password is PassWord.They should probably change that.

All the cards are stuck onto the board with what looks like a nail gun. And judging by the look of some of them, there must be years worth of cards.

The one at the very top of the stack, must be the most recent addition, still fresh and crisp: It says,Don’t trust the goat!

Huh.

Male voices echo through the garage, muffled by the sounds of buzzing tools and my new friend’s music. As they approach the office, their words get clearer.

“Shouldn’t this be your call to make?” A mature voice protests just outside the door.

A heavy sigh. “I’ll make the call. Just handle the interview, Benji. I have more pressing matters at the moment,” a weary voice replies.

I know that voice. It’s a voice that’s deep and smooth, like aged whiskey. A voice that makes my stomach dip and my thighs tense. And if he’s leaving before I get a chance to introduce myself, then what’s the point of me being here?

I consider coming out and telling them I can come back another time when heavy boots stomp off and the sound of a motorcycle engine roaring outside of the garage tells me the man has left.

A moment later, the handle on the door jiggles and opens, and my spine instantly straightens.

The man standing there is an older gentleman with soft brown eyes and a greying goatee, chewing on a toothpick. He’s wearing navy coveralls that look like they’ve seen better days, but he smiles as he steps inside, easing my nerves just slightly.

“So, you’re the one looking to be the new wrench?” he asks, crossing the office and pulling out the cushy desk chair. The one I’m apparently not allowed to sit in.

I clear my throat. “No, sir. I’m the one looking to run this place.”

He sits back, making the office chair squeak under his weight and levels me a look.

His face looks oddly familiar, like I’ve known him in a past life.

I grab the stool sitting off to the side and take a seat. Then, I lean over and offer him an outstretched hand with as much confidence as I can muster. “My name is Sienna Riley.”

He gazes at my hand for a moment as if waiting for it to shapeshift before taking it into his own and giving it a stern shake.

“Benji Morales,” he says, cautiously, like I’m some kind of wild animal that will show it’s claws at any moment. “Aren’t you a little young to be a foreman, Ms. Riley?” He cocks his head to the side and waits for my reply.

“To some, maybe. But I’ve been around bikes my entire life, sir. And as you can see from my resume–”

The man waves a hand in the air, dismissing whatever I’m about to say.

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