Page 45 of Vapor

As I pull up to our club’s autobody and repair shop, I can’t help but smile. I fucking love this place. The building itself is a renovated warehouse with brick walls painted in a deep, midnight black, accented by vibrant purple trim. The garage doors are vintage, roll-up style, each painted with intricate murals depicting different styles of bikes.

A couple of vintage motorcycles are parked in front, polished to a shine and gleaming in the sunlight, hinting at the craftsmanship that happens inside. The shop’s entrance is framed by two old gas pumps, painted in bright red and yellow, repurposed as decorative pieces that add to the nostalgic vibe.

Above the entrance, a large, retro-style neon sign glows with the shop’s name,“Voodoo Wrench Garage,” in bold, gothic letters, accompanied by a voodoo doll motif. That was Bones’idea. He seems to think it will keep people with evil intentions out of the place. So far, it’s worked, not that I believe in all that.

I’m about to walk in when Broussard finally calls me. His ringtone is the Imperial March, which seemed fitting when I set it. I let it ring a couple of times before answering.

“Vapor.”

“Are you ready to make the drop?” Broussard asks, getting straight to business.

“Name the time and place.”

“Lafayette Cemetery No. 1. Midnight tonight.”

“It’s closed to the public. Renovations,” I tell him.

“Precisely why I’m choosing it.” I can hear his sardonic smile even if I can’t see it.“My men will be there.”

“You’re not coming?” I frown, not liking this one bit.

“You can trust my guys to pick up the money. I never go myself.”

That’s so he won’t be connected to the transfer directly. Makes sense, but I still want him there in person. I don’t trust him at all, especially after what Blue told me.

“I’d rather give it to you directly. Since it’s the first drop,” I quickly add.

“Everyone I work with trusts me.”

“Right. If we’d been in business for a while, I wouldn’t even question it. But we haven’t. You must be able to see where I’m coming from. Would you hand over eighty-five grand to some random men on your first deal?”

The line is silent so long that I check to make sure the call is still connected.

“I suppose not,” Broussard finally says.“I’ll be there with my men. But just this once. After that, you either trust me or we end our arrangement.”

He ends the call before I can confirm anything. Whatever. I’ll be there.

After stuffing my phone back in my cut, I walk through the open door. Motorcycles in various stages of repair are scattered throughout the garage, each on its own raised platform.

Some bikes have their engines disassembled, parts meticulously laid out on workbenches, while others are mid-reassembly, with tools and manuals nearby. The scent of motor oil and metal permeates the air, mingling with a faint hint of incense.

Workbenches line the walls, cluttered yet organized with an array of tools, spare parts, and half-completed projects. Pegboards hold neatly arranged wrenches, screwdrivers, and other essentials, each tool showing signs of frequent use. Shelves are filled with manuals, jars of bolts and screws, and various components, all within easy reach.

The floor, a mix of concrete and scuffed tiles, is clean but bears the marks of countless repairs—oil stains, tire marks, and the occasional scuff from heavy machinery.

In one corner, a worn leather couch and a couple of mismatched chairs offer a place for mechanics to take a break. A radio on a side table blares rock music, but there isn’t a soul around.

Where the fuck is everybody?

I head toward the office door and find it unlocked. When I swing it open, I find Vicki the Hickey on her knees in front of Tank, sucking him off.

“Oh, shit,” Tank pushes her away and stuffs his dick back in his pants.

“How many times do I have to tell you, no fucking on the job?”

“We weren’t screwing,” Vicki says, wiping saliva off her chin.

A tight black tank top accentuates her curves, revealing a hint of a tattoo on her left shoulder—a delicate, intricate design of a crescent moon entwined with vines.

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