Page 58 of The Order of Disorder
I pull it from the wall and bring it over too. A prospect whistles like I’m Wyatt’s pet performing a trick.
“Didn’t know you spoke wrench,” Cash says, grinning, bent over a stripped-down FXR with a split gas tank and half its guts exposed.
“Oh, she’s got all kinds of talents,” Wyatt says, not looking up, and the leering whoop that follows from across the hangar makes my face go hot.
He straightens up and nods to the open space beside him. “You want to help?”
I nod.
He shows me where to hold the axle steady while he slides the new bearings in. The grease is thick and black, cold on my fingers. But the motion, the rhythm of working beside him, is muscle memory.
Just a few months ago, this was our routine. Days at the garage, Wyatt running Leathernecks while I rang up parts and tried not to flinch at the sound of pneumatic tools. He didn’t have to teach me anything, but he did. Patient and exacting, he never once made me feel stupid for what I didn’t know. Just pulled me in and showed me how to see a machine from the inside out.
Here in the hangar, it’s not so different from a day on the Leathernecks floor. He works fast and efficiently, as always. But every time his hand brushes mine, every time he glances at me, my cheeks heat. My heart cracks with longing. Working with him like this feels familiar, yet everything between us is different. And all I want is to go upstairs and have him to myself all over again.
We’re mid-assembly when Billy walks up to us, wearing mirrored shades although the sunlight doesn’t stretch this far. Silas stalks behind him as usual, dark and clingy as a shadow. The sight of him makes me shiver. I avert my eyes.
“Well shit,” Billy says, taking in the scene—me kneeling by a stripped axle, Wyatt crouched down, coaching me through it. “Didn’t know you could tell a 10-mil from a spark-plug gapper, Maxwell.”
I look up and shrug, pretending Silas isn’t there. “Just trying to be useful.”
Billy smirks, slow and deliberate. “If you’re looking for work, Max, I have a gig that pays by the hour. I think you’d bring in a nice sum of money for the club.”
My skin goes tight. My fists clench before I even think about it.
Wyatt stands. Wipes his hands on a rag, voice steady. “Morning, Prez. You need something?”
Billy doesn’t miss a beat. “Just appreciating how you’ve inspired Max’s spirit of industry.” He tilts his head, eyes cutting into me. “She always did do her best work on her knees.”
Silas watches the whole thing without blinking, eyes half-lidded, a small, creepy smile on his face.
Heat creeps up my neck, but I hold Billy’s stare, refusing to shrink. Wyatt’s jaw ticks once before he turns back to the Dyna, signal clear: conversation over.
Billy lingers another beat, watching the smooth handoff as I pass Wyatt an extension bar, then he claps, breaking the tension.
“Carry on, folks. Club loves productivity,” he says loudly. He pivots and saunters toward the back of the hangar with Silas in tow.
Wyatt exhales through his nose and gives me a quick glance, half exasperation, half apology. I shrug and get back to work.
The day is long and loud and hot. Too many bikes and not enough space. Wyatt didn’t sit still for more than a minute, bouncing between rigs, rechecking chain tension, swapping out calipers, making sure every idiot with a throttle wasn’t also carrying a death wish. By the time the last bike’s tucked under a tarp and the hangar starts to quiet, my muscles ache from crouching, standing, reaching. Grease stains ring my wrists like bracelets.
We climb the stairs together without talking and take turns showering in the shared washroom.
After my turn, I come back to the room wrapped in my threadbare robe, the fabric soft from too many washes, tied loose at the waist.
Inside, the fan hums low from the shelf across from the bed. Wyatt’s already on the mattress, stretched out in boxer-briefs and a faded gray t-shirt, arms loose behind his head, looking like he hasn’t moved since he got there.
I watch him for a long beat. Even exhausted, he’s arresting. Muscled chest rising slow beneath thin cotton, long legs stretched out, boxer-briefs riding low on his hips. His hair’s damp, darker where it’s wet, contrasting with the gray cutting sharp at his temples. It shouldn’t make him more attractive, but it does. It always has. He’s not even trying to look good. He just is. He’s built for purpose. All presence. Leaner than Ryder, but carved from the same steel.
I climb onto the bed, straddle his hips, brace my hands on his chest, and his eyes open.
His hands come to my thighs, but his expression tightens into something guarded.
I give him a slow, seductive smile.
“Max—” he says, and his voice stops me. “We should get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”
“C’mon, old man,” I say with a frown. “I thought you were trained for stamina.”
