CHAPTER FOUR | ACE
The opening guitar riff to Don’t Fear the Reaper crackled out of the cheap stereo speakers, flooding the cinderblock walls of the Lucky Brake garage bay with sound.
The socket wrench I wielded became a makeshift drum stick, and I hammered out the song’s beat on the edge of my rusted-to-shit old toolbox.
I was just about to croon along to the song’s verse, but my impromptu attempt at Blue Oyster Cult karaoke was cut short by a loud SWOOSH.
I glanced up just as a lanky body slammed down onto the garage sofa, causing a violent gust of air to woosh out of the tired vinyl cushions as they compressed under his weight.
The lanky body belonged to none other than my half-brother, Asher Boone. He finished off his dramatic entrance by slamming his head against one arm of the couch and kicking his feet up on the opposite arm.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” I asked, eyeing him sternly. “You know this ain’t the ‘Sit Around on Your Ass All Day’ Motorcycle Club, right?”
“Coulda fooled me,” Asher muttered back under his breath. He tossed a football up towards the garage ceiling, then caught it between his outstretched palms. “You’ve been sitting on your ass all morning, tinkering with that stupid bike.”
I glanced at the “stupid bike” that was propped up on a milk crate in front of me and a deep scowl instantly dug into my brow.
“I’m working,” I snarled, my voice sounding more bitter than I intended it to. Under my breath, I added, “You should try it sometime.”
“Funny you should mention it, Ace,” Asher snapped back sarcastically, hurling the ball up into the air. “I’m actually a damn hard worker. You’d know that if you actually gave me a chance.”
I rolled my eyes. I’d heard that line before.
It was no secret that my kid brother was desperate to join the High Rollers. But while most aspiring prospects would focus on playing up their strengths and proving that they were a valuable asset to the club, Ash was hellbent on doing the opposite: begging and pleading obnoxiously until he had alienated every last one of us.
He was always talking about getting some sort of “chance” or “opportunity” to prove that he could roll with the gang, as if it was a fucking American Idol audition. He didn’t realize that I was giving him chances left and right; chances that he blew every day he spent bitching and moping around the shop.
“Alright then,” I said, nodding my head to a closet door at the opposite end of the garage, “There’s a bottle of bleach in that supply closet over there. You wanna grab it for me?”
Asher’s ears perked up like a puppy that just eyed a ribeye. He clutched the football and sat up on the couch.
“Okay,” he said. “What’s the bleach for?”
“For the bathrooms down in the basement. They’re fucking filthy, and they could use a scrub down. Especially the urinals.”
“Fuck that!” Asher’s face folded with disgust and he slumped back down on the couch.
“You said you wanted a chance,” I shrugged.
“Yeah, to do something important.”
“Around here, every job is important.”
“Then how come I’ve never seen you scrubbing the shit stains out of those toilets?”
“I’ve been cleaning up shit all my life,” I glared back, gritting my teeth together. “Who do you think changed your dirty diapers when you were a baby?”
I knew I had hit below the belt almost instantly. The words left a bitter twang in my mouth, like I had just gargled gasoline.
We didn’t talk about the past. That was an unspoken rule between the two of us; had been ever since Asher showed up out of the blue on my front doorstep six months ago.
To call my brother’s arrival unexpected would be an understatement. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Asher in ten years. He had fallen off the face of the planet after our father died. Come to think of it, that’s when everything fell apart.
I was seventeen at the time, and Asher was eight. Despite the nine years between us, we had always been close. We were best friends; brothers. And none of that “half” bullshit. We were as real as two brothers could be, even if we did have different mothers.
I had practically raised the kid. I taught him how to walk and talk, and then I taught him how to say curse words under his breath and ride a bike without training wheels. And yeah, I changed plenty of dirty diapers, too. Someone had to do it, and since Pops was always working and my step-mother was always popping pills and zoning out in front of the TV, that duty fell square on my shoulders.
Things weren’t perfect, but we were happy enough.
That all changed when our old man died.
The day after we laid Carson Boone to rest, my step-mother packed up a U-Haul truck and fled town. She took everything: the pots and pans, the sofa, the TV, the Nintendo. Even the fucking encyclopedia collection that I had garbage-picked from the county dump. The only thing she left behind was me.
I didn’t give a shit that she left me alone and essentially homeless. In fact, I didn’t give a shit about her at all. The only thing I cared about was my baby brother, and he was long gone.
And for ten long years, he had stayed gone… until that fateful morning, six months ago, when he rang my doorbell.
I hadn’t seen him since he was eight years old, but I recognized him right away. Those baby blue eyes, that dimpled chin, that scruffy brown hair… there was no doubt about it.
My long-lost baby brother had finally found his way home. It hadn’t been easy, either. Apparently my step-mother’s mean streak hadn’t faded. She had kicked Asher to the curb the day he turned eighteen. He had nowhere to go and no one to turn to. No one, but me.
I took him in on the spot, and he had been staying with me ever since.
I wish I could tell you that we picked up right where we left off, but that wasn’t the case. Ten years had been hard on us both, and even if those blue eyes and dimpled chin were unchanged, my baby brother had grown into someone I no longer recognized.
I knew that I had changed, too. I wasn’t the shy, soft-spoken big brother that Asher remembered. That Ace Boone had died a long time ago.
Even with Don’t Fear the Reaper blasting from the stereo, the garage suddenly felt too quiet. I tightened my jaw, waiting to see which one of us would break the silence first.
“I don’t know why you’re always bitching about being here,” I said finally, turning my eyes back to the bike. “You’re the one that wanted to spend more time around the shop.” You practically begged to tag along, I added silently.
“I know,” Asher sighed, hugging the football against his chest. “I guess I just thought that hanging out with an outlaw motorcycle club that runs an underground casino out of the basement of a sham repair shop would actually be—”
“Different?”
“Exciting,” he shrugged, spinning the ball around between his fingertips.
“Sorry to disappoint,” I snorted. “But this ain’t some sort of bullshit Boy Scouts summer camp where we all make friendship bracelets and tell ghost stories by the campfire.”
Asher’s forehead wrinkled, mimicking my scowl.
Despite being half-brothers, Asher and I didn’t look anything alike. He was scrawny and tall, like a scarecrow, with gangly arms that dangled awkwardly at his sides, a douchey mop of blonde hair that covered half of his face, and soapy blue eyes. He’d be nineteen in six months, but in the fluorescent garage lights he didn’t look a day over sixteen.
I was the polar opposite: dirty blonde hair, tanned skin covered in tattoos, and built like fucking Stretch Armstrong.
That heavy neanderthal brow was one of the few traits we actually had in common. It was kind of ironic, really; we only looked like brothers when we were angry.
“I just want to be part of the club,” Asher said, forcefully tossing the ball up again. It sailed up towards the ceiling, then dropped back towards him. “I thought you’d let me do something. Like help with the casino, or go on rides with you guys…”
I huffed out a weary sigh as I sat up on my creeper seat, then wheeled around the toolbox so I could get a better look at my brother.
“You know it doesn’t work that way,” I said, lowering the intensity in my voice. “Every member of the club had to earn the right to call himself a High Roller. There are no shortcuts.”
“So let me earn it!” Asher said. His eyes shot towards me, burning intensely. “I’m not asking for a shortcut. I just want the same chance anyone else would get!”
“You’re not ready.”
“Bullshit!”
“I’ll tell you what’s bullshit,” I snapped. “Five minutes ago, you weren’t even willing to scrub a toilet for this club.”
“Come on, Ace. It’s just a fucking toilet—”
“No, it’s not just a fucking toilet,” I shook my head. “Being a High Roller isn’t just some after school hobby. It’s a fucking brotherhood; a family. I’d lay down my life for my brothers, and I know they’d do the same for me.”
“I’m your brother,” Asher said, blinking at me under his furrowed brow. “Nobody knows me better than you do. You don’t think I have what it takes?!”
“I used to know you,” I corrected him. “But a lot can change in ten years. The kid I knew back then wouldn’t have looked down his nose at scrubbing a toilet, that’s for damn sure.”
Asher scowled at me, his face ticking between anger and hurt. Then he pushed himself up from the couch and stormed across the garage towards the supply closet. Seconds later, he was slinging a bottle of bleach in one hand and a roll of paper towel in the other.
I had to roll my eyes and smile. If there was one thing that hadn’t changed in those ten years, it was my brother’s stubbornness. He was still just as hard-headed as ever.
“Put that back,” I chuckled. “I’m not gonna make you scrub the toilets. Not today, anyways.”
“Well I need to do something,” he said. “I’m bored out of my mind. It’s either scrub toilets or go back to watching that chick who’s giving $15 blowjobs in the alley next door.”
“You mean Shelia?” I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “I didn’t realize she was back at it. Last I heard, she was doing time up at Florence.”
“She a friend of yours or something?”
“A neighbor,” I shrugged. Everyone knew Shelia. She was practically a local legend. She had been peddling her special services in the alley next door for years, back when the garage was still vacant. Even though that alley was technically no-man’s land, Shelia saw it as her turf. And when we bought the adjacent garage and started setting up shop, she considered it an invasion.
I’d never forget the day Shelia stormed into Lucky Brake and pointed a dopey little pistol at Buck’s head. She had no idea that she had just walked into a lion’s den, and that we had enough firepower to light up the sky like it was the fucking Fourth of July.
Buck could have had her dead and in a body bag in five seconds flat; all he had to do was say the word. But that wasn’t how Buck liked to do business. Instead, he made Shelia a deal: we wouldn’t interfere with her business, and she wouldn’t interfere with ours.
Agreeing to Buck’s deal was probably the smartest decision ol’ Shelia ever made. For starters, she didn’t end up dead. And a few months later, when the High Rollers Casino officially opened in the basement underneath Lucky Brake, Shelia’s little back alley brothel was suddenly getting a lot more foot traffic.
Over time, the club had forged a friendship with Shelia. In a weird, dysfunctional way, she was almost like a little sister to us. We offered her protection, and in return, she was our eyes and ears on the street. We had her back, and she had ours.
Maybe that’s why my brother’s admission made me suddenly defensive
“Why were you snooping on Shelia, anyways?!” I demanded. “That’s fucking creepy.”
“I was bored,” he shrugged. “I wanted to watch TV. That was the next best thing.”
“Well don’t,” I said firmly. “Shelia is a friend of the club, and we respect her privacy. You pull that shit again, and I will personally throw your ass to the curb. Got it?”
“Fine, whatever,” Ash threw up his hands in surrender and rolled his eyes.
“Anyways,” I said, turning back to the bike. “If you’re really that desperate for something to do, you could find me the ⅜” socket.”
“The what?”
“The ⅜” socket,” I repeated. I tried to give him a hint by holding up the socket wrench, but Asher’s face remained blank.
“Never mind,” I said, giving up. I dropped the wrench into the top drawer of my tool chest and sat back to inspect the chopper.
Asher followed suit. He dropped down by my side, planting his hands on his knees. His eyes roamed the chopper frame, and his lips wrinkled into a sneer.
“I don’t know why you bother with this piece of shit,” he said finally, shaking his head. “It’s a lost cause.”
I fixed my eyes on the disemboweled bike frame. Asher wasn’t wrong; it was a piece of shit, and from this angle, it sure as hell looked like a lost cause. The metallic purple paint was faded and chipping, and the bare segments of metal frame were slowly being devoured by a rash of orange rust.
And don’t get me started on the engine. It was disassembled and scattered around the garage floor in pieces, all blackened with several decades worth of grit and grease.
There was no nice way of putting it: the bike was a mess, plain and simple. But that didn’t scare me one bit.
“There’s no such thing as a lost cause,” I said solemnly. “Just lost ambition.”
Asher wrinkled his eyebrows together and glanced up at me.
“What’s that from, a fortune cookie or something?”
“No,” I frowned. “Actually, that’s something Pops used to say to me.”
I sighed again as I glanced back at the bike frame. This chopper was one of the last pieces of my father that I had left. It had belonged to him nearly all his life; a treasured possession that he had held onto for decades.
Asher didn’t remember any of that. By the time he was born, the chopper had long stopped running and been shoved into its final resting place at the back of the garage.
Being nine years older than Asher meant I had nine more years of jokes, stories, and wisdom that my brother would never have. Nine more years of memories; some good, some bad.
I remembered when the chopper still ran, and I remembered squeezing onto the bike’s seat while my father drove us around the neighborhood. Back in those days, it was just the two of us… and those were some of the happiest days of my life.
I considered sharing one of these memories with Ash, but before I could open my mouth I was interrupted by the sound of knuckles knocking against glass.
My eyes flicked up and I spotted a blackened silhouette through the foggy glass window.
“Who the fuck is that?” I grumbled under my breath, reaching for rag to wipe the grit off of my own grease-stained knuckles.
Although the sun-faded sign posted in our front window cheerfully indicated that Lucky Brake Motorcycle Repair Shop was open for business Monday through Friday from eight to five, the truth was that we kept the shop locked up tighter than a drum. The deadbolts remained bolted, the locks remained fastened, and the aluminum blinds in the front windows remained drawn.
Nine times out of ten a locked door and shuttered windows were enough to spook any prospective customers straight out of our parking lot. Eyes narrowed and elbows pinned to my knees, I glared at the door and waited to see if today’s visitor was going to be the exception to that rule. When the silhouette didn’t budge from the window, I wheeled my creeper seat over to the toolbox and reached for the Beretta I kept locked and loaded in the top drawer.
“Whoah!” Asher’s eyes went wide when he saw the gun, and he blinked up at me in shock.
“Stay back,” I barked, taking several long strides towards the door.
There was more persistent knocking on the glass, and I raised the gun.
“Who is it?” I yelled in a loud, gruff voice.
A female voice shouted back, “Umm… I’m looking for Lucky Brake Motorcycle Repair?”
I was caught off guard by that. I lowered my gun but remained planted a few strides away from the door.
“Well you found it,” I replied through the wall. “What do you want?”
“Oh, umm… I have a bike that needs to be repaired?”
I raised an eyebrow and glanced skeptically at Asher. He met my eyes, then shrugged his shoulders and jutted out his lips, as if he was considering the plausibility of her statement. My eyes flicked back to the window.
“We’re closed,” I barked.
“But the sign says you’re open from eight until five—”
“Not today. You’ll have to come back some other time.”
“But I drove all this way, and the sign says—”
I groaned in frustration as I tucked the gun into the waist of my jeans, then strode towards the door. I flicked the locks and threw it open. I didn’t even wait to get a good look at the woman standing on the other side of the threshold before I growled, “Look, Lady, I don’t care what the sign says. We’re closed…”
I barely made it through the mouthful of words before my voice dropped out. All of a sudden my tongue felt about as heavy as a sandbag, which made it even harder to stop my jaw from dropping open as my eyes wrapped around the woman standing in front of me.
Two things were immediately obvious: one, she was the most beautiful fucking thing I had ever laid eyes on… and two, she sure as hell didn’t belong at a place like this.