Page 12 of Wild Heart
“I was in Iraq with your old man.”
The kid doesn’t even blink.
“If you’re about to give me some spiel about getting my life back, you’re wasting your breath.”
He keeps his gaze on the woman and his expression neutral.
He’s given up. I’ve seen it before, and it only make me more determined to help him.
“I told my dad I didn’t want to see you.” He looks back at me. “No offense. But I don’t need some motorcycle gang. I’m in a fucking wheelchair. I can’t ride.”
He spits the last bit out, and his bitterness is a relief. It means he’s angry, but he also still feels something, so there’s still hope.
I nod slowly and lean back in the chair, watching the dancers for a while. A minute goes by and then another. The boy keeps his eyes on the dancing, but I can tell he’s curious as to why I’m still here.
I observe him out of the corner of my eye. He’s twenty-five, but with his sunken eyes and hangdog expression he looks older.
His father told me he used to be fit. He loved to run and ride and race bikes. He’s loved everything about bikes since he was a kid. He went into the army as a motorcycle mechanic until his convoy got hit moving between bases.
He came back home minus both his legs. A double amputee from above the knee.
That was twenty months ago. But despite the therapy and rehab, he spends his nights drinking and frequenting places like this.
His father called me in desperation to see if there was anything we could do.
“I heard you worked in Mechanic Maintenance.”
The boy blinks lazily. “Yeah.”
“What you know about Harleys?”
He shrugs. “I know I’ll never get on one again.”
I rub my beard, trying not to feel sorry for the kid. He doesn’t need my pity. There’re all sorts of adaptations these days. The kid could ride, but it takes more than an adapted bike. He’s got to want to do it.
“I don’t need you to get on one. I need you to get under one.”
His gaze flicks to mine, and for the first time there’s interest.
“I’m looking for a mechanic. Someone who knows bikes. And I hear you’re the man for the job.”
“I already told my old man I’m not interested. I’m sorry, Mr.… you’ve wasted your time.”
I move the beer bottles away to the other end of the table and lean forward. “I don’t think you’re a waste of time. In fact, Luke, I think you’re just the man we need.”
“I’m not a charity case,” he hisses.
I sit back away from his intense gaze. Damn, the kid’s got it bad.
“And I’m not a charity.”
“You are.” He sits up for the first time and turns his head away from the stage. “My old man told me about you, taking in broken veterans who need help. Well, I don’t need your help.”
He puts his hands on his wheelchair and reverses out from under the table. I stand up and move over to him, pulling a card out of my back pocket.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. We’re ex-military men who love to ride. We’re not a charity, and I expect anyone who works for me to work hard and follow my rules. I don’t dish out pity, and I’m not your therapist. But I can offer you a job and a place to stay so you can conduct your life with dignity and self-respect.”
He stares at the card in my hand for a long time.
