Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
“Home sweet home,” Diesel says, his voice dropping an octave as he gestures to the sprawling workshop. He isn’t looking at the machines. He’s looking at me, tracking my reaction with those dark, unreadable eyes. “We’re busier than one-armed paper hangers right now. We’ve got two customs, and Benny’s currently losing a war with a ’69 Mustang transmission.”
“It’s incredible,” I whisper, and I mean it. The scale is massive, a cathedral dedicated to internal combustion. Grease and chrome everywhere, but not like I expected. The place is weirdly spotless. The floor isn’t littered with parts or those shop towels the color of old blood—you could practically eat off the polished concrete. Racks line the walls, every tool hung perfectly on its hook, gleaming in the light, as if Diesel personally threatens anyone who leaves so much as a socket out of place. “I expected… I don’t know. Something smaller. Grittier.”
Diesel lets out a low huff of a laugh, a sound that vibrates somewhere deep in my chest. “Bones and I don’t do small. We do it right, or we don’t do it at all. Come on. I’ll show you the guts of the operation, and if you feel brave, I’ll teach you a little bit about what I do.”
“I can handle whatever you throw at me,” I tell him as he leads me deeper into the shop, weaving through a maze of half-finished projects.
“That’s my girl.” We pass a tall, skinny man covered in tattoos, swearing rhythmically at a heap of gears and a dismantled transaxle. Diesel introduces me to him, and I find out this is Benny. Further back, two identical men who I assume are the twins, Edwin and Chris, are working in eerie sync on a matte-black bike and a vintage car parked bumper to bumper. They barely pause to acknowledge me.
“Diesel!” A booming voice echoes from a raised office platform. A massive man with dark hair and a jawline that could cut glass starts down the stairs.
“Bones,” Diesel acknowledges, his hand finding the small of my back. It’s a light touch, barely there, but through the thin fabric of my sundress, it feels like a brand. “This is Serenity. Alana’s friend. She’s staying with me for a bit.”
Bones stops in front of us, his gaze sweeping over me with calculated precision. He isn’t being rude; he’s assessing. “Nice to meet you.” He smiles at me.
I straighten my spine. “You too.” I return his smile.
Diesel’s hand tightens slightly on my waist, and electricity flows down my spine. Bones blinks, slow and deliberate. “Welcome to the Boneyard, Serenity. We’re happy to have you.” He nods toward Diesel and disappears toward the back.
I watch Bones disappear, every muscle in his back radiating confidence. The man is enormous, but he moves like he owns every square inch of this shop.
Diesel leans in, dropping his voice to a rumble only I can hear. “Don’t let him intimidate you. Bones is a big softie unless you mess up one of his engine builds.” He grins, and the smile does something wild to my insides.
“Noted,” I mutter. “Don’t touch his engines. Got it.”
A muscle jumps in Diesel’s jaw. Damn, he’s hot when he’s in his element. “Come here, sweetness,” he says, already walking past a half-gutted motorcycle. “Let’s get your hands dirty.” Oh, boy. What I know about vehicles could fill a Post-It note.
He leads me to a workstation where a partially disassembled old Mustang sits. Diesel grabs a pair of nitrile gloves and hands them to me, his fingers brushing mine as I take them. The contact sends a jolt up my arm that I try very hard to ignore.
“This is a ’68 Mustang,” he explains, his voice falling into a rhythmic, professional cadence. “She’s got a nasty leak. It’s a simple fix, but it requires patience. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of that if you’re willing to stare at tax codes all day.”
He steps behind me, his large body acting as a heat-sync against my back. He doesn’t touch me, not at first, but the air between us feels thick, pressurized. “Reach in there,” he commands softly, his breath ghosting over the nape of my neck. “Left side. See that bolt? We need to loosen it, but not all the way.”
I reach out, my hands trembling slightly. The cold steel of the wrench feels alien in my grip. I fumble with the placement, my knuckles brushing against a jagged edge of the engine block. Before I can pull back, Diesel’s massive, warm, calloused hands envelop my smaller fingers.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his chest pressing against my shoulder blades. I can feel the hard, solid lines of his pectorals, heat radiating through his shirt. “Don’t fight the tool. Let it do the work for you. Just a slow, steady pull. Feel that?”
I feel everything. His voice vibrating through my spine. His thumb tracing the back of my hand as he guides the wrench. The slow, deliberate friction makes my skin tingle. The clanging of metal, the distant rock music, and Benny’s creative swearing all fade into a dull blur. The only thing in high-definition is Diesel.