Page 19 of Broken Trails
“Oh, piss off,” Harrison grumbles, dragging himself toward the door.
“Don’t forget the tongs, babe,” Imogen calls after him.
“That’s right,” I say. “Wouldn’t want you burning your delicate hands, princess.”
“Careful, Mikey boy,” he calls from the doorway, “I’ve got tongs and no adult supervision out here.”
“Oooo, I’m terrified.” I wiggle my fingers in the air.
Joseph, still perched on Imogen’s hip, points at me. “Pith off!”
Everyone freezes. Harrison pokes his head in the door, and I point straight at him. “Right. Now that one’s on you now.”
“Michael!” Harrison groans.
“I’ll be outside,” I say, already heading for the door.
Behind me, Imogen mutters, “Lord help this child,” and Xavier bursts out laughing.
The clang of a spanner hitting the concrete echoes through the shop, followed immediately by Jono’s muffled curse.
“This bloody transmission’s possessed, I swear to God,” he grumbles from beneath the lifted ute, tools rattling around him. Typical Monday. Slow, sticky, and already testing everyone’s patience by ten-thirty. The kind of day where you question every life choice that led to being elbow-deep in grease while the rest of the world enjoys their aircon.
Jono wipes his hands on a rag, a streak of black across his cheek as he leans against the tool bench. “I swear that thing’s got a vendetta, mate.”
I huff out a laugh, bent over the open bonnet of an old Falcon that’s been giving me hell since this morning. The radiator’sstuffed, and the plugs look like they haven’t been touched since the ‘90s. I run a greasy forearm across my forehead, the heat of the day building already. Burnt oil clings to everything. Smells like work— familiar and safe.
“You reckon you’ll finish that one today?”
The sudden voice makes me jump slightly. Harrison appears, rounding the Falcon with that loping stride of his, wiping his hands on a rag before slinging it over his shoulder.
“Should do. Just needs the radiator flushed and plugs swapped.”
He tosses me a cold water bottle from the Esky, the crack of plastic on metal loud in the lazy hum of the garage. “Mum dropped off muffins again. Blueberry.”
I pause. Not because of the muffins, but because a year ago, that sentence would’ve sounded like bullshit. Now, it’s just… normal. Our mum’s sober. Present. Knitting weird scarves and baking her way through guilt and second chances. “I’ll take two if she added lemon zest this time.”
Harrison chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s good—this, us. Working side by side, not walking on eggshells around him or waiting for another spiral. Seeing a psychologist, opening up—hell, becoming a father—it’s done wonders for him. Grounded him in a way I didn’t think possible. As his brother, watching that shift… It’s everything. Just as I’m about to ask when we’re headed out for lunch, the squeal of tyres crunching over gravel draws my attention to the shop’s open roller door. A low growl of an engine follows, and a blue ‘85 Holden Commodore VK rolls in, its paint still good as new, gleaming in the sun. A muscle car that growls like a beast and purrs like sin.
In the driver’s seat, a cigarette perched between his lips, sits Jax—all tanned skin, sun-creased eyes, and an ego that never aged past his teens. We met when I was sixteen, doing dumb, reckless shit together before I even had a license. He’s in histhirties now, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he still dresses like a burnout and grins like he’s hiding fireworks in his pockets.
Jax leans out of the window, that cocky smirk already spelling trouble. “Oi, you free in two weeks?”
I squint into the light, walking over as I dig out a smoke of my own. “Depends on who’s asking and what for?”
“There’s a race on. Next Saturday night. Out past Cobden. You remember Dutton’s track?” Panic settles in my gut. Shit. I thought I had more time.
“You serious? Thought that wasn’t happening for another three months.”
Jax shrugs, taking a long drag of his cigarette. “Yeah, nah, that’s still the main event. But the organisers wanted a pre-run. Smaller thing. An evening run. Invite-only. Just a bit of a taster.”
“Like hell I’m missing that,” Harrison chimes in, sidling up beside me. He slaps a hand around my shoulders, pulling me into a rough hug. “Just like old times, eh?”
I grunt, trying to shove him off. “Yeah, you mean when you flipped the bike into Mrs. Godwin’s blackberry bush, mate?”
“Which broke my fall, saved my ass, and your Yamaha. You’re welcome.”
I eye Jax, doubtful. “Last time they did a late pre-run, the place was crawling with cops.”
