Blood, Wrath, and Axle Grease

A short story still in progress...



Rage.
It was this that launched a thousand ships, not the beautiful face of a married piece of ass. It’s what drives us, divides us, and brings us together with an implosion of ecstasy. Shakespeare said “Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.” I took that statement and made it my own, molding it into a lifestyle. And low and behold, I have no more rage left to give.
I woke this morning to a void. Everything that has gotten me to where I am has dissipated. And what exactly does one do when their sole motivation for life itself is gone?

“Are you writing that crap on the net again?”

I threw a glare over my shoulder at the muffled southern drawl that came from under the cab of a beautiful Chevrolet Corvette.

“It’s called blogging. And it just so happens that a lot of people like to read my philosophical insights.”

The man snorted, rolling out from under the car to flash a raised eyebrow before wiping the grease from his forehead. His normally blond hair was streaked with dirt and grime, not unlike the white wife beater that peeked out from under his red coveralls.

“You know darlin’, I think the people on the net would rather read about how Johnny stuck it to Mary in the back of the movie theatre, not your philosophies on life.”

I spun my chair to face him with a huff. “And I think you ought to be working on the bike like I said! What the hell Aaron? I told you not to mess with the suspension on the ‘Vette just yet!”

He pointed to the Ninja in the corner of the shop. “I’m not touchin’ that thing with a ten foot poll. It’s your baby, and you know I’m lousy with bikes.”

It was true. I would have minced him into little tiny pieces and thrown him in with the morning grits if he had somehow screwed the bike. It was a blessing that Aaron understood me so well. As much as we bickered, he was like a brother and the business would have never survived without him.

“Besides,” he yawned, scratching his back absently with a torque wrench, “I wanna get this baby on the road as soon as possible.”

“Yeah, I’ll just bet you do,” I said. Just as the bike was my baby, the Corvette was his. Aaron was a classic American car guru. He loved to go down to the drag and race all of the supped up foreigns. And surprisingly, he won a lot of races. Made a lot of enemies too, but that never really turned into much of a problem. The pair of us usually had bigger fish to fry than some punk with a turboed Honda.

Speaking of which… “You know the cops came by last night when I was closing up.”

“What?!” Aaron’s head snapped around. His face was full of worry and surprise.

“Yeah… they said they had reports of ‘suspicious looking dealings.’”

“Damn, Cicely, you should have called me!”

I shook my head, assuring him it hadn’t been a big deal. Besides… we both knew any problem with the cops was essentially my problem. Aaron was just my mechanic. He denied it constantly, but it was going to be me going down in flames if anyone. But first, they’d have to catch me doing something illegal.

I smirked. Illegal just about summed up my entire career. I was a driver, transporter, garbage man—whatever you wanted to call it. When the client wanted a speedy getaway, something valuable moved, or even a car stolen, I was their go to girl. I would do just about anything short of chauffeuring.

“Do you think they heard about the Sanders botch?”

“No.” I grimaced at the memory. I had made sure even Sanders himself hadn’t known about that mess. “Maybe they found the Mercedes in Clayton Lake?”

“Darlin’, after what you did to that poor car, I can’t imagine they’d get any evidence from it.”

I laughed, closing out of my half written blog-site without saving. Who needed rage? The next best thing standing was right behind me, tugging his jumpsuit halfway off to hang from his hips. Aaron gave me a sly wink, and I rolled my eyes, hopping off the chair to take a look at the Ninja.

I knelt down, running a finger along the scratched candy blue finish of the motorcycle. It needed some serious bodywork done, and maybe another paint job. It was ride-able, but it sure looked torn up. The bad thing about playing courier to the underworld is that my vehicles tended to run afoul of cement and brick walls, not to mention the occasional tree.

“Aaron, open the garage door will ya’? It’s hotter than Hades in here.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

I pulled over a box of motorcycle parts, rummaging through it for nothing in particular. The wide door of the shop started to roll up, the orange tendrils of evening sun leaking through. Phoenix was unusually hot this time of year, but a nice warm breeze swept through the garage making it feel slightly better.

“Um, Cicely? There’s…”

“Hey, have you seen the tailpipe I ordered last month? Shit!” I cursed as a stray bolt nicked my wrist.

“Cicely!”

I stopped what I was doing.

“We have company.”

A black sedan was parked out on the street, the engine rumbling softly as it idled. I scrambled up from the floor, wiping my hands on the rag hanging from the back pocket of my jeans. My fingers brushed the SIG-Sauer that was stuck haphazardly down the back of my pants. Can’t say that’s where the guys who certified me for conceal and carry intended for it to go, but a girls gotta do what a girls gotta do.
Taking a closer look at the car, I was glad I had grabbed the gun this morning. I didn’t use it often, but even Aaron agreed it was utterly stupid to go without.

“Should I?” He nodded towards the street.

I shook my head. Sometimes people came around thinking the garage was a repair shop. I usually let Aaron shoo them off, but I knew this was not one of those situations. No, this was business. And business never came this close to home if I had anything to do with it.

“It’s got California plates.”

Great. I flashed a grim smile in his direction. “Close this puppy up again. I’m going out to say hello.” I continued rattling off orders before he could object. “Roll the Ducati out back and hole yourself up in the office with the shotgun.”
He let out a low whistle. “You want the Cat out?”

Why was I not surprised he was worrying about the motorcycle and not the shotgun? “Well, the Ninja is not exactly handy, and I need something just in case.” I shrugged. “The Ducati’s faster anyway.”

“Darlin’, take care of yourself.” He pecked my cheek with a kiss any perfect gentleman would be proud of. I sighed and stepped out into the blazing Arizona sun.