Chapter 3

To me, there’s nothing more gratifying in this sweet world than to be elbow deep in grease, dirt and sweat, laboring away until the glorifying process is over, and I stare victory in the face with a completed project for a customer.

Today, like any other day is no exception to that rule.

I’m a simple man, really. My mama tells me that I need to do something more … respectful … (her words, not mine), with the trust fund money from my dear old Pop. That was my grandfather who passed away and basically left me every dime he had in his will.

My argument to that? Well it’s modest, just like me. I tell her all the time that I don’t need the bells and whistles. I have plenty to keep me occupied right here, in the back of the motorcycle shop I own in the heart of Mable Falls, Texas. Piles of money in the bank doesn’t change that. It didn’t change me, which is probably why Pop left it to me.

Mix 95.9 blasts tunes from yesterday and today in the background…their catchy lingo chimes through my ears. If the rest of the employees didn’t like it so much, I’d probably change the channel, but at least they play an occasional good song. The sound of drills, a lug wrench tightening against a metal screw, and engines cranking is the real music to my ears though, and I live for this lifestyle each and every day.

I’m the owner of Lone Star Cycles, a beloved motorcycle shop I purchased from the previous owner, Jon MacFarland, when he was so deep in debt he couldn’t afford to keep the place open any longer. I’d already worked here since I was in high school by then, and buying the place just felt right. It got to stay open, and I got to keep my job, even if it is a job many people consider below themselves.

I don’t care much for the spotlight, and frankly the idea of sitting behind a desk all day while punching numbers into a keyboard until my eyes glaze over is not exactly my idea of entertainment. To me, I’d much rather be where the action is, in the back of the shop with Chris, my most prized and valuable mechanic.

Chris has tattoo sleeves up and down both arms and across his neck. I’m talking, the really colorful kind that you could just get lost inside the artistic elements, studying the hidden pictures for days and still not finding everything.

He wears his short, black hair slicked back every day, and you can always find him chewing gum. Hell, I’d be surprised if the dude doesn’t go to sleep chewing gum.

On first impression, he might give off a remotely intimidating vibe with his dark features, but he’s a shrimp and I tease him about it all the time. I don’t think the guy is over five foot seven to be honest. In reality, he wouldn’t hurt a fly and he’s the most loyal friend and employee I have.

Standing up, I wipe the sweat off my brow and pull off my work gloves one finger at a time. Chris eyes me from across the room and in between the frame of a bike he’s working on.

“Taking a break, boss?” he inquires with a slight Hispanic accent.

Chris is originally from Mexico, just across the border. He’s been in Texas for twenty of his twenty-eight years though, and considers himself a true, native Texan. I don’t care, as long as he’s here helping me take apart bikes and putting them back together until they are bright, shiny and gorgeous, I don’t care what his back story is.

I nod, assessing my progress so far and glance around the shop. “Yeah, just a little water break is all,” I tell him and toss my gloves on my workshop bench. I heave a bolstering sigh, knowing that I’m going to finish this project today that I’ve been working on for weeks now.

Walking through the garage to the front of the shop, I greet a few customers who know me by name. Most are returning clients and I thank them for their continual business before moving on. I pass through an enclave and into the little retail part of the shop that’s open for customers to buy accessories and DIY parts for their motorcycles.

From this angle of the store, I have a perfect view of my cousin Alexa’s bakery right across the street. Lone Star Cycles has been here on Main Street since I can remember, but Alexa only opened up her store a couple of years ago.

I smile, delighting in the refreshing contentment of knowing that Alexa is undoubtedly behind those friendly glass entrance doors to the bakery, in the kitchen and whipping up some tasty treats to spread her love with the world. The girl is talented, and I know she’s going to go far in her venture.

Maybe the whole world hasn’t had her cupcakes yet, but at least the general area of loyal Mable Fall’s patrons have been so lucky. It’s much more liberating to stare out the window and see Sweets Bakery than the boarded-up windows with a spray painted sign splashed across them that read ‘Vacant’ before Alexa came along with the mindset to bring people together, binding with a universal love of cake. 

Finally, I stretch my legs all the way to the offices where I find Travis, my manager, just where I expect him to be.

“Hey Travis,” I nod politely and greet him with a slight wave.

Travis leans back in his seat and expels a deep breath. “Oh, hey Mason, what brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“Just taking a little break, that’s all.” I cast him a wink and he chuckles slightly, swiveling leisurely in his office chair.

Travis is the forty-four-year-old son of Jon MacFarland, or, ‘Mac’ as he’s known around town. When Mac got too old to run things himself, I decided to nobly buy the place out from him, but still allow things to run much the same as he did when he was in his prime.

That includes letting Travis crunch his beloved numbers behind the scenes. Travis is more of a people person than me, which is why he’s the better fit to stay manager. He’s wearing khaki dress pants and a button down collared white shirt that’s short sleeved.

He clears his throat and asks me if there’s anything I need help with, to which I shake my head in a friendly manner and move on.

I head back to my saving grace, my domain where I feel most alive. I chuckle to myself, thinking about my mama whose southern drawl forever chimes through my ears.

“Mason, what are you doing trotting off to that motorcycle shop every day? You need to dream big son, get out there and embrace life. Travel, buy property, live a little on the edge.”

My mama sings the same song and dance all the time, but I take it all in stride because I look forward to getting a weekly cherry or apple pie from her, depending on her mood at the time. Mama loves to bake too, much like Alexa. To them, comfort food and a full belly is the way to a man’s heart.

I’ve already taken a sprinkling of mama’s advice and put it into action. I bought my own little slice of heaven on the lake where I enjoy panoramic, wall to wall window views of nature in its full glory. I’ve got a dock where a boat, two jet skis and the ultimate bar and outside kitchen awaits me when I go home each night. To me, that’s all I need in life.

I love to go out on my dock and enjoy a cold brew every now and then, watching the sunset as I wind down and wrap up the day in peaceful serenity. My house might be huge, but all the houses on the lake are huge, and I had to buy one to get the lake access I wanted.
Living small suits me just fine. I’ve been burned too many times by the outside world. Mama wants me to find a nice girl to settle down with, but I’m not interested in tackling the complexities of the female species right now, possibly ever again. All women seem to do is chew me up and spit me out.

When I walk back into the garage, Chris is hard at work on the same bike where I left him, a welding mask over his face as sparks fly and a screeching sound fills the air as metal grinds on metal.

I leave him to his tasks at hand. He can’t hear me anyway, not over his welding gear. I climb under the Harley I’m working on, near the finish line to complete the job and make her shine like a new penny. I grab some screws and a lug wrench to work on tightening the belts of the engine. I get to thinking about my past relationships, ultimately the culprit in my distrust of women in general.

My first love ended in an epic failure. I really went out on an elaborate limb on that one. The girl got the big ring. I mean the rock on her finger would have put the iceberg that sank the Titanic to shame. That’s back when I was a little less conservative with my trust fund.

The heat of that romance went a little off the beaten path, going up in a wildfire of flames soon after the engagement. As bitter and resentful as I was about that fiasco, at least I can say she told me the truth before it was too late, and we were tied down to the ‘I do’s’ of marriage life.

The truth? Well she had told me she couldn’t love a Sharp, and given that was my birth right name, she couldn’t love me.

What was wrong with a Sharp? I had asked her at the time. She had merely shrugged, looked at me as if I was a pity charity case and told me that I was better off a loner. In retrospect, maybe she was right all along, even though I still curse her to this day. Why the hell would she get involved with me, just to string me along?

I take a deep breath as I concentrate on the engine of the Harley, running a hand through the unruly mop of brown, wavy hair on top of my head. I scratch my arm just above the sleeves of my tight white t-shirt that’s sweaty and in need of some tender care and fabric softener. I don’t know why I’m suddenly nostalgic, mentally reminiscing about the nightmare relationships that I’ve had that unfortunately still haunt me and shape some aspects of my untrusting personality in my current situation.

Moving onto the even more gruesome details of my second engagement, thinking back, it was even more over the top than the first one. The ring was bigger, the proposal entailed me getting on bended knee in a pasture at sunset, with the stars twinkling above as my buddy strummed love songs on his guitar in the background.

At the time, I’d thought she’d be the one to steal my heart forever. As it turns out, she stomped on it and crushed it instead. That engagement ended in enormous, profound heartache that still has me reeling even a couple of years later.

When I found her in bed with another man, after coming home late one day after work, I decided right then and there that I didn’t have a single second more to waste on this bullshit.

I’m only twenty-four, and in my opinion, that’s still plenty of time to focus on myself and do some soul-searching for what I really want to get out of life. For now, women harbor no place in my mind, and I’m done with dating for the foreseeable future.

I find my thrills in other ways, and as I finish installing the new bike part and crank up the Harley’s brand new engine, that adrenaline rush I crave like a drug surges through me.

Chris swipes up his welding helmet and grins at me as I sit on the bike, revving in the engine while I holler with glee.

The shop is where I belong, where I’m in a zone of happiness. There’s no doubt about it.