Chapter 10

Ilay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and doing my best to ignore the sound of lawnmowers, kids playing, and the usual sounds of suburbia. It was a typical Saturday morning and my schedule was wide open. I debated what I wanted to do for the day.

That was both a benefit and a downside to not having a job. I could lie in bed all damn day if I wanted. But then I would be bored out of my mind.

I rolled out of bed, hit the button to open the blinds, and was met by the glaring sun. After my eyes adjusted to the light, I scanned my backyard. I could see into my neighbors' backyards from my upstairs window. A few kids were in the pool at the house to the right. On the left, the older couple were working in their garden. The man was tinkering with something while the woman tended her flowerbeds.

I watched as the old man cursed at a rusty wrench. There was a certain monotony to this suburban life that had begun to gnaw at me. I glanced at the clock that hung on my wall. It was getting late, almost noon now.

I made my way to the shower and then downstairs to get caffeinated. I sipped my coffee and walked into my backyard. I didn't do my own yard work but maybe I should. It would give me something to do.

I thought about my parents and their reaction to my request to save the library. Part of me wondered why I was even staying in Dallas. There was nothing here for me. I should pack my shit and go. I could go anywhere. I had no real ties to this place.

Living under their constant scrutiny wasn't helping anything. The one time I tried to do something right and they laughed in my face. They were never going to get over my mistake.

I carried my coffee to the garage and hit the button to open one of the bays. My beauty needed a little TLC, and I was happy to spend some time making her purr. I put the coffee down, grabbed my rolling stool, and sat next to the bike. My garage was a sanctuary of tools and gadgets—a mechanic's wet dream, as some would say. I didn't do the cluttered piles of Christmas decorations, sports equipment, and whatever else junk in my garage. Mine was neat and organized. Everything had its place.

I got to work, my fingers moving deftly over the gleaming metal, the smell of oil and solvent filling my nostrils. I had always found a sense of peace in working on my bike. The quiet hum of the electric screwdriver and the rhythmic click of the ratchet wrench were calming, soothing. It was a form of meditation for me.

But today, I couldn't seem to shake my thoughts. My mind kept drifting back to Mary Ellen. I remembered her laugh, her smile as she looked up at me from behind those glasses she wore. In an alternate universe where I wasn't a screw-up and she wasn't so incredibly out of my league, perhaps we could go out to dinner. I replayed our last encounter at the library in my head. She had looked so adorable, her cheeks reddening when I talked to her.

I had thought moving back to Dallas would bring a sense of familiarity, a semblance of normality, but it was clear now that this city held nothing for me anymore. Not when every corner was filled with disappointment, judgment, and unfulfilled expectations.

I put down my tools and leaned back against the cool wall of my garage. I looked over at the sleek motorcycle standing proud and tall in the middle of the bay. Tinkering with the bike was a great distraction, but it wasn't enough anymore.

As I worked, I couldn't help but notice the nosy husbands from the neighborhood peeking curiously at my setup, their eyes wide with awe as they took in the engine hoist, lift, and impressive storage for all my tools. I noticed them noticing. I wasn't unfriendly to my neighbors, but I wasn't going to be the guy they invited over for a beer to watch whatever game was on. I wasn't going to be invited to the backyard barbecues.

I didn't care. The people I chose to live amongst weren't really my people. They were nice enough, but I wasn't trying to become a polo-shirt, khaki-wearing dude talking about the stock market and the best golf courses.

While I worked, one of them, a friendly-looking middle-aged guy with a beer in hand, approached me with a grin.

"Hey there, buddy," he greeted.

I looked up. "Hey."

"Nice bike you got there," he said, nodding toward my Arch Motorcycle KRGT-1 with admiration.

I chuckled, wiping my hands on a greasy rag. "Thanks. It's a beauty, isn't it?"

The man laughed, taking a sip of his beer. "Isn't that your name? Archer?"

I shrugged, a playful grin tugging at the corners of my lips. "Nah, my last name is Archer. But people call me Gene."

He nodded in understanding, extending his hand. "Well, I'm Mike. Nice to meet you, Gene. So, what's your real name then?"

I grinned mischievously, enjoying the game. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He laughed. "Oh, a man of mystery. Are you in the CIA?"

"Are you?"

Mike laughed, and his eyes scanned my garage as he nodded appreciatively. "This is great. You do all your own work?"

I nodded, pushing myself off the wall. "Yeah, I find it therapeutic."

Mike's eyebrows shot up at that. "Therapeutic? Don't hear that often about bike maintenance."

"Working with my hands just helps me focus and center myself," I replied, glancing at my bike. "It's better than any session with a shrink."

His laughter echoed in the garage. "I'll have to take your word for it. My wife has dominated our garage with totes filled with craft projects that will never happen. Are you married?"

"Nope." I shook my head.

"Big house for a single guy," he said.

"I like space to stretch out." I shrugged.

The guy wasn't trying to get a rise out of me or anything. He was just making bad small talk. Since his heart seemed to be in the right place, I didn't break his balls or send his ass back down the street to mind his own fucking business.

When he finished his beer, I grabbed him one from the fridge in the garage and cracked one open for myself. We chatted briefly about bikes. He had ridden in college. Then his kid was born and he gave it up, wanting to make sure he didn't die young by wiping out.

It made me like him a little more. The man had put more thought into his child's well-being than my own father had. Had my father ever sacrificed anything he loved for me? Probably not, I figured, since the man only seemed to love himself.

Mike eventually headed back to his house across the street, promising to bring over a six-pack sometime. I told him he was more than welcome.

Then I spotted another neighbor and inwardly cringed. Now that Mike had spoken with the scary biker guy and lived, they must be curious as well. I just wanted to work on my bike with a little sunshine.

Before the other neighbor could make his approach, my phone buzzed in my pocket, saving me from the conversation. I checked the caller ID and saw it was a number I didn't recognize.

I turned my back and walked deeper into the garage just in case there were any lurkers that might happen to eavesdrop on my conversation. "Hello?"

"Archer?"

"Yes," I replied, trying to place the voice.

"It's Cole."

We had spent some time together in prison, and although we hadn't talked in a while, I would always consider him a friend.

"Hey, Cole. What's up?" I looked at the caller ID once again, surprised the prison number wasn't showing up.

"Archer, man, you're not going to believe this. I got out early. They just processed my release. I'm a free man, dude!"

A genuine smile spread across my face. "That's awesome news, Cole! I'm really happy for you."

"Yeah, but here's the thing, Archer. I've got no ride, no place to crash, and no money to spend. I'm in a bind."

I understood immediately why he had called me. After spending time in prison myself, I knew firsthand how hard it could be to get back on your feet after release. And I was more than willing to help out a friend in need. The little I knew about Cole, I knew he didn't have a lot of family around, and he seemed like a good guy who had just made a dumb mistake—like me.

"I've got you covered," I said without hesitation. "Sit tight. I'm on my way to get you. You can crash at my place until you're back on your feet."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't want to impose. But I don't want to fall into old habits. You were the only guy I could think to call that was back on the straight and narrow. I don't want to find my ass back in here."

"Don't worry about it," I reassured him, tossing my rag onto the bench and heading inside to wash up. "I've got plenty of space and helping you out isn't an imposition. It's what friends are for."

There was a pause on his end. "Thanks, Archer," he said sincerely. "You're a lifesaver."

"Don't worry about it. Don't talk to anyone. I don't want you getting into trouble before you're out of the parking lot."

He chuckled. "No shit."

I walked into the house and cleaned up. My house had plenty of empty bedrooms, but only one of them was furnished. I opened the door to that one and grimaced when I smelled the musty scent.

The room hadn't been opened in weeks when I put the bed and other basic bedroom stuff in here, just in case someone ever visited. I opened one of the windows a few inches and turned on the ceiling fan to get the air circulating.

I didn't think Cole was going to mind any lingering smells. It smelled better than the prison he'd been in for a few years. This place was going to be the Taj Mahal.

I jogged back downstairs, looked around the house to make sure it was tidy. And I wasn't going to lie to myself. I wanted to make sure I didn't leave my tablet or laptop out. Prison was tough. Coming out broke was tougher. Guys with nothing had nothing to lose. I didn't want to be the guy losing by not being smart enough to protect my property. It wasn't that I couldn't afford to buy a new laptop, but it had my financial information on there.

After making sure I was ready for company, I grabbed the keys to my big Ford truck and headed back to the garage. The truck was for days I wanted to haul shit or when it was raining. My Porsche was for days I wanted to zip around in a steel cage. I rarely drove the truck and car, choosing to ride my bike most often.

Since I wasn't going to have Cole hop on the back of my bike, I hopped into my truck, fired up the engine, and pulled out onto the street, heading for the prison. I was going to have to give Cole a few house rules. My neighbors didn't know my past and I had no intention of informing them. They would not appreciate living next door to a con in their fancy neighborhood. I didn't need Cole stirring up trouble. I happened to like my house and my setup. I didn't want to be run out of the neighborhood. Cole could be a little rowdy. In prison, that worked. Out here in the world, it would only end badly.

Still, helping my friend was a good deed. Everyone deserved a second chance—including me, I hoped.