Three days later, my bruises finally started to fade.

I covered up the knuckle imprints on my cheek with makeup, but the splotches still showed through. When a man had a battle scar on his face, he wore it with pride, but when it was a woman, people automatically jumped to the domestic violence conclusion. Pigeonholed gender roles sucked.

Sam had taken her responsibility of looking after me a little too seriously, I hadn’t had another run-in with Harley, my father had seemed to have forgotten all about me, and Chaser had disappeared.

They were all absent, apart from Sam, but I wasn’t naïve enough to think I wasn’t being watched. I wanted to give the timid blonde the benefit of the doubt, but I knew she was easily manipulated. The poor woman was squashed under Harley’s thumb so hard she was borderline broken. The only eyes I could trust belonged to Chaser.

Three whole days of testing the Fortitude boundaries had passed, my tattoo was getting crusty, and I still hadn’t ventured out to the garage to see Gasket.

I’d seen some familiar faces among all the new, but they’d kept a wide berth. I was marked with the club logo now, but it wasn’t a one-way ticket into the brotherhood. My father had circulated one of his usual threats most likely. Stay away from my daughter or get your balls shot off. Or something to that effect. Trouble was, he would actually do it if he thought someone was disobeying a direct order.

Still, when I walked toward the exit that led to the garage, no one stopped me. Not like they had when I’d tested the doors elsewhere in the compound. I’d been greeted with a wall of biker every time and shoved back inside.

Hated to say it, but I was getting lonely, and it had only been three days. What did that say about me? I didn’t know, but I missed Yvette’s fashion advice. Even Bobby the bald bouncer’s unquestioned protection and the sleazy one-liners from Teasers’ clientele. Don’t get me started on Brittany and her strawberry milk. When I was missing wailing kids, I was really in trouble.

The scent of grease and exhaust fumes filled my nostrils as I entered the garage.

It was a hive of activity with music blaring from speakers set into the roof, a car hoisted up into the air, another on the ground next to it, and a row of motorcycles against the wall beside me. On the far side was a large room that looked like it was used for spraying paint and detail, and an office sat at the front by the double roller doors.

The entire place was painted with a tattoo inspired mural, which had me thinking of Ratchet. Fortitude Customs was written in script while colorful flames and a scantily clad woman writhed on a motorcycle .

I recognized Spike, glimpsing him before he rolled underneath the chassis of the car he was working on. Glancing around at the other faces, I smiled when I saw Gasket on his knees, working on a motorcycle.

He was grayer than I remembered. His slicked-back hair and full beard were silver with flecks of dark chestnut, and his face was hard and weathered. Paired with his broad shoulders, ripped torso, and thighs the size of tree trunks, the hair color seemed to be the only thing that had changed.

I wasn’t surprised to find him still here, but what got me was him getting wrapped up in legitimate business opportunities.

Gasket had been with Fortitude from the beginning as a lieutenant in the tricycle army. I would like to say he and my father were best of friends, but as the years wore on, it was clear whatever they’d had back then was no longer a thing nowadays. Not since my mother and I came along. Don’t get me wrong, he was still a loyal soldier, but friendship had no place with what Marini had become.

Crossing the garage, I stood next to him. I kind of got why he never sought me out, considering the politics in this place were screwed up to the extreme, but the rule book didn’t forbid me to make contact.

He glanced up at me, sensing I was looming over him. “Well ain’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“Old eyes, more like it.”

Gasket stood, towering over me, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “It’s good to see you, kid, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“You and me both,” I replied, pulling away. He still smelled like spice, though it was now laced with motor oil.

“Never thought I’d see you again.” His eyes sparkled. “Thought you’d gone off and started some new life far away from this shit.”

I shrugged. “I hear you convinced Marini to let you open this place.”

“Five years now.” He nodded. “Best thing he ever did. We’ve got a good rep going for customs.”

I didn’t want to have ‘the conversation’ about what had happened to me in the last two weeks, let alone the last seven years, and especially not in front of the other guys. Gasket knew what was going on. He always did. That was why he didn’t stop me the night I left Fortitude. He’d put his hand on my shoulder, gave me a look, then let me go.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

“I’m tuning the engine on this hunk of junk.”

“How do you do that?” I asked, kneeling beside him.

“What? You want to get your hands dirty? With pretty fingernails like those?” Gasket grinned and shook his head.

“Got nothing else to do.” I made a face. “You know full well I’ve been ordered to stay put. There’s only so much Real Housewives of LA I can take.”

“Still dreaming of being a boy, hey?”

“Careful, old timer. I’m not a little girl anymore.”

“No, you are definitely not.”

I feigned puking and turned my attention to the motorcycle. It was a pretty thing, all black and chrome. It was understated and not as big and bulky as the bikes lined up outside.

“What’s this part?” I asked, tapping the side underneath the handlebars. It was painted a shiny black with the model of the bike written on it in fancy paintwork.

“That’s the fuel tank,” Gasket replied. “Here.”

Standing, he pointed out the different parts. The radiator, muffler, oil tank, shock absorbers, the engine casing, breaks, ignition, and clutch. There wasn’t much to it, but I had no idea what to do with a muffler.

“It’s a nice motorcycle,” I said. “But it’s a lot smaller than the others. They’re all beefed-up tricycles.”

“Tricycles?” one of the other men called out. “Watch yourself, Sloane!”

Gasket snorted, covering up a smile. “Most of the men around here like their bikes big and sounding bigger.”

“Is it a dick thing?”

“A big dick thing!” Spike shouted from under the car, causing a roar of laughter to echo through the workshop.

“It’s Chaser’s,” Gasket said, watching me closely. “I hope he treated you good. He’s got a reputation, and it ain’t sunshine.”

“As well as can be expected when a bunch of fruitcakes are shooting at you,” I said, not letting the mention of his name show on my face. Well, I tried not to. It had been hard to shake the memory of our covert fuck the other night.

Gasket snorted, not looking too pleased.

So, this was Chaser’s bike. Now I knew him better, something classic and simple suited him down to the ground. He wasn’t about overestimating the size of his cock. What was it he said to me when we first met? I don’t need to force any woman onto my cock. They just slide right on.

“I expected something…meaner,” I said, curling my lip.

Spike appeared on the other side of the bike and snorted. “Chaser’s a pretty boy. Pretty boys need pretty bikes.”

Gasket said nothing. He just raised his eyebrows ever so slightly.

“So what are you doing to it? Giving it a tune-up or something?” I asked, steering the conversation away from dangerous waters. Rock the boat too much and I might get flustered and give myself up.

“Right on the money, sweets.”

“He hardly rides,” Spike said. “It’s a wonder it ain’t rusted through.”

“Oil, radiator, brakes, tire pressure, engine.” Gasket tapped each part as he rattled off his mental checklist. “You want to learn or something?”

“Can I?” I tilted my head to the side. It wasn’t bartending or studying to become an educated whatever, but it was something to do and a way to get closer to the men I wanted to win over.

Spike snorted and walked away, giving his verdict on the subject. He thought I was joking.

Gasket narrowed his eyes and sighed, knowing full well what I was like. “C’mere.”

Smiling, I knelt beside him as he got back to work, telling me all the ins and outs of Chaser’s pussy bike’s engine. He handed me a spanner and got me tightening nuts and bolts so I could pretend I was actually helping. It was quite charming…if I were five years old.

“What the hell happened to you?” Spike exclaimed.

“I got a talkin’-to, that’s what happened.” Ratchet.

“For what?” Gasket rose to his feet, the tenor changing in his voice. One minute he was all fatherly and sweet, and the next, his bad biker mode was switched on. It was slightly terrifying.

Turning, I swallowed a gasp as I saw the swollen blob that was Ratchet’s eye socket, and I knew. I fucking knew who’d done it to him. I wanted to shout out the forbidden C-word at the world, but even I was too pious to swear that much. I would stick with the f-bomb, which wasn’t much better, but at least I didn’t flinch when it passed my lips.

“I gave a bitch a tattoo,” Ratchet said, glaring at me with his one good eye. “Daddy didn’t like it.”

Gasket grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the engine. Dropping the spanner, it clattered to the concrete, the metallic clang echoing through the garage.

“Betty,” he exclaimed when he finally saw the tattoo on my thumb. “What the hell are you doing, woman?”

“Don’t call me Betty,” I snapped, wrenching away from him.

“What are you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”

“It’s been a long time, Gasket,” I said. “A very long time.”

“She ran away. Now she wants to be one of us.” Rocket. I hadn’t noticed when he’d shown up, but it didn’t matter. He would be the voice of dissent wherever I went. He would be the hardest to win over if I won him at all. I had to be realistic. There would be casualties whatever I did.

“There’s more going on here than you realize,” I said, ignoring him and focusing on Gasket. “Me leaving has nothing to do with it.”

“It has everything to do with it to them,” he replied. “You know what Fortitude is like, Sloane.”

I snorted.

“What?”

“You called me Sloane.”

“I hear that’s what you changed it to. Don’t fucking call me Betty, remember?”

I smiled, not threatened by him in the least. He was the closest thing to a father I’d had growing up. If you could call a six-foot-six biker a healthy role model for a little girl.

“Watch your footing,” he went on. “You know what your father is like.”

Spike snorted, and I glanced at him, aware everyone in the garage was listening to our conversation. Ratchet was still glaring at me like a sullen child.

“He can’t do this…” I said to him. Marini wasn’t going to own me, let alone scare off every single person in this place. It was counterproductive to my secret plan for world domination.

“What are you going to do, huh?” Ratchet asked, curling his lip. “Cry to daddy?”

I couldn’t do anything, and he knew it. They all knew it. I was just a woman playing at a man’s game.

“You’ll see,” I muttered, turning my back on him. “You’ll all see.”