Page 4 of Fire Me Up
Marisol rolled her eyes. “You know, it wouldn’t kill you to try centering your energy once in a while.”
Chapter 2
Dylan
Teaching motorcycle maintenance to beginners was one of my favorite parts of the job. I got to introduce people to the beautiful inner workings of these machines. I’d even set up everything perfectly: tools arranged by size and function, parts labeled, even handouts with diagrams. If I didn’t line everything up in advance, I knew I’d get sidetracked and forget what I was supposed to be teaching.
Shit. Where were the handouts with the diagrams? I sorted through a stack of papers on the table, frowning.
“Ooh, laminated motorcycle diagrams. You look like a new teacher on the first day of kindergarten.” An FRMC member named Lennox wandered in, flipping through my missing handouts. How had they gotten over there?
I snatched them out of his hand and laid them neatly next to the tools.
“Got your lesson plans color-coded too?”
I flipped him off without looking up. “Some of us take our work seriously.”
“That’s why you’re the teacher and I’m just the humble student.” He dropped his massive frame onto one of the metal stools, making it creak ominously. At six-four with shoulders like a linebacker, Nox made everything look miniature. “I brought donuts for the class. Figured I’d bribe my way to a good grade.”
“You can’t bribe me with donuts, mostly because the class isn’t graded.” I paused, considering. “If there’s a maple bacon one, I might reconsider.”
“Obviously.” He opened the box with a flourish.
I caught the box and peeked inside, inhaling the sweet-savory scent. “God, I love you.”
“Save it for someone who’ll fuck you.” Nox stretched his legs out, boots scraping the concrete floor. “So how many victims today?”
“Six total. Including you. I can’t believe you’re finally showing up to one of my classes.”
“I tried to change my own oil. It did not end well. Ruined my pants.”
I shook my head, not even sure I wanted to know what had happened.
Lennox walked over to examine the Honda I’d brought in for the demonstration just as two older guys walked in.
“Carl! Jerry!” I wiped my hands on a shop rag and crossed the room to greet them. “The Harley’s all set up over here. Thanks for letting us use your bike in the class.”
Carl—the short one with the beard—beamed like I’d just told him he’d won the lottery. “I’ve been wanting to learn this stuff for years. It’s so cool that we’ll be learning on my bike.”
“Fuck yeah, it is,” I agreed, leading them to where Carl’s Road King gleamed under the shop lights.
They crowded around the Harley as the door swung open again, and an older woman walked in. She was small but fierce-looking, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a messy bun. I recognized her immediately from the Greek food truck that had taken up residence in our loading dock.
“Mrs. Drakos!” I called, waving her over. “I didn’t realize you’d signed up.”
She marched toward me with the confidence of someone who’d spent decades commanding kitchens. “Dylan, yes? The young man who orders extra tzatziki every time?”
“Guilty as charged. Your gyros are fucking incredible.”
She tsked at my language but smiled anyway. “It’s my grandson’s food truck, not mine. I just help. And please, call me Lena.”
“What brings you to our beginner class?” I asked, genuinely curious. I couldn’t picture this tiny Greek grandmother on a motorcycle.
“Embarrassment,” she declared, setting her purse on the workbench with authority. “Yesterday, a customer asked about his ‘hog,’ and I brought him pork souvlaki. Everyone laughed. My Niko explained it is the motorcycle’s name.” She shook her head. “I want to talk to customers about their hobby and impress them.”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. “That’s… actually a great reason.”
“Also,” she continued, leaning in conspiratorially, “I see these machines every day from the truck. Maybe it’s time I learn what is so special. I used to ride motorbikes when I was young in Greece, but it’s been a long time.”
