Page 7 of Baby for the Bikers

“Early bird gets the chrome,” I remind him, taking the turn onto Main Street. “Besides, garage opens in an hour.”

Something’s off about the street ahead. A crowd’s gathered in front of our building, the kind that usually means trouble. My hands tighten on the wheel.

“The hell?” Maddox sits up straight, suddenly awake. “That better not be what I think it is.”

It’s exactly what he thinks it is.

I park the truck half on the curb, not caring about blocking traffic. The crowd parts as we approach; they know us and our reputation. Know what those bikes mean to us.

Three custom builds lying like fallen soldiers. Months of work scattered across asphalt. Paint jobs that took weeks to perfect are now scraped and dented.

“Jesus Christ.” Maddox is laughing even though it’s not funny. “Someone’s got a death wish.”

Ryder moves through the crowd like a shadow, examining each bike with a mechanic’s eye. His custom paint job—the one that won three shows last year—is gouged down to the metal.

My own bike took the worst hit, being first in line. The chrome we just replaced last week is twisted like modern art.

“Security cameras caught it.” The voice of our assistant, Lucy, breaks through my mental calculation of repair costs. “Clear footage of the whole thing.”

“How long ago?” I keep my voice steady. People are watching, judging how we handle this.

“Maybe an hour? I called as soon as I saw it, but you boys were already gone.”

We need at least five grand in repairs, and we’ll have to wait weeks for custom parts.

“Show’s over!” Maddox’s voice carries down the street. “Unless you’re helping move these bikes, clear out.”

The locals know when to leave and when to help. A few stick around to help us get the bikes inside.

The garage door groans open to the morning sun. Our workspace smells like oil, metal, and home. The bikes look worse under fluorescent lights—the damage you can’t hide even in the shadows.

“Parts might work.” Ryder’s voice is desert-dry. “Some of them, anyway.”

He’s being optimistic. The frames are tweaked. Even the wheels took damage from the domino effect.

The morning crowd starts rolling in—regular customers, parts deliveries, the normal flow of garage life. We handle it all while processing what happened. Multitasking is in our blood.

“Insurance forms are on your desk.” Nora appears like smoke, already handling paperwork. She’s been running our office since we returned to town six months ago. “And that security footage is ready when you want it.”

I want it now, but I need to finish this first.

Maddox finds dark humor in everything, and he’s already planning how to improve his bike with the repairs. Ryder works silently, focused, memorizing every detail of the damage. Me? I calculate costs and consequences.

“Parts inventory’s updated.” Ryder appears at my elbow, quiet as always. “Orders placed for what we need.”

“Insurance?” I know Nora handled it, but double-checking is a habit.

“Forms filled. Adjustor coming at ten.”

Efficiency runs in our blood too. Tank taught us how to handle problems head-on.

The morning rush slows around nine. Bikes are stable, damage documented, and parts ordered. Time to see exactly what happened to our machines.

“Lucy’s still upstairs.” Nora hands me coffee I didn’t ask for but definitely need. “Says she’ll fill you in on everything she knows about the new lady in town.”

A new lady who just cost us thousands in repairs and weeks of work, and who fled the scene instead of facing the consequences. One who’s about to learn how we handle problems in Wolf Pike.

“Let’s check the footage.” I head for the office, my brothers falling in step. “Want to see what we’re dealing with.”

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