Page 2 of The Bad Boy Rule

So, when I work late at the shop, I park it inside with me so I can keep an eye on it because outside of hockey, my bike is what I’m most proud of.

A ’53 Indian that I found with Tommy in a junkyard one day when I was fourteen.

He wanted to pull old parts for a rebuild he was working on, and since I was working at the shop that day, he let me tag along.

The bike wasn’t shit to look at back then, an old heap of rusted metal, a battered relic from a time that no longer existed.

But I saw past the rust and mangled, wrecked pieces of metal. I saw the potential. I saw what it used to be and knew that I wanted to be the one to bring it back to its former glory.

I used every penny I had saved to buy it as it was, and I spent the next four years restoring and rebuilding it until it was no longer a shell of its former self but something I was proud as fuck of.

I learned everything I could from Tommy and the other guys so that I could save money on labor and do the work myself. I didn’t have two pennies to rub together back then, so it was either that or I wasn’t ever going to restore it.

Yeah, it might not be the fastest bike, but it’s a fucking classic.

Timeless.

They don’t make machines like this anymore.

This bike is the one thing in the world that’smine.The one thing my father can’t fucking touch, and good thing because everything he touches turns to shit. Like a disease, infecting everything he comes in contact with.

“You’re late,” Tommy grunts without looking up from the Mustang transmission he’s bent over. His voice is gravelly from the two packs a day he’s smoked since he was younger than me.

I’ve got no idea how old he actually is, but if I had to guess, he’s somewhere in his late sixties and still working at the shop daily, putting in more hours than most guys half his age.

He probably won’t quit coming in until he’s dead.

His dad opened this shop when he was a kid and named it after him so when he was too old to take care of it, it could be passed down to him. Only the legacy will end with Tommy because he’s got no biological children of his own.

Just a few guys working here that give him more shit than his own kids ever would.

“Yeah, sorry,” I mutter as I grab my old, grease-stained jumpsuit off the hook near the office and step into the legs.

I hate being late, and it’s not something that happens often, especially for… extracurricular activities. I just lost track of time, and that’s on me.

Finally, he looks up from the transmission and catches my gaze. The skin on his face is weathered, like it’s been left in the sun for too long, and there’s a thick streak of grease over his brow, smeared into a nearly perfect line. “Thought we weren’t going to make it a habit?” His brushy gray brow arches.

He’s referring to last week when I was an hour late because I was dealing with shit at home, and I didn’t want to leave Mom, but of course, he doesn’t know that’s the reason behind it.

I don’t tell anyone the personal shit in my life, but if I did, it would be Tommy. He’s an observant old fuck, and truthfully probably one of the only people in the world outside of Ma who gives a shit about me.

“We’re not. Sorry, old man, won’t happen again.”

He hums but doesn’t respond, instead looks back down at the socket connected to the transmission and continues working. He’s never been a man of many words, but when he does speak? You listen.

“You should head to bed. I’ve got this. It’s late.” I walk over to the Mustang, pulling out the black bandana that I left in the pocket of my jumpsuit during my last shift and tying it at my nape to keep my hair out of my face.

It’s too fucking long, but I haven’t had the time or the extra money to worry about getting it cut. I’ve thought about buzzing it all off a hundred times with how hot it’s been this summer but just haven’t gotten around to it.

“Don’t tell me what to do, boy,” he grunts but still sets the wrench down on the engine and straightens. His back isn’t what it used to be, and when he spends hours bent over the inside of a car, he’s even more of a dick because he’s hurting and would never admit it to any of us.

Pride’s a funny thing.

“I’m not, but if you do everything, then what’s left for me to do?” I ask, my shoulder lifting in a shrug, playing it off. “I need the work.”

I’m not lying; I need the money. Even if my dad somehow manages to keep this job for longer than a month, it’s inevitable he’ll do something to fuck it, get fired, and everything I’ve saved will go to making sure rent is paid.

Which isn’t as much as I want right now.

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