Too Late For Regret: The Biker Queen

Jazmyne "Raven" Duncan POV:

The doorknob turned halfway, then froze.

From the end of the hall, a drunken roar echoed up the stairwell. "Camisha! Get your ass back down here and pour another round of bourbon!"

The person outside the door let out a sharp gasp. Light footsteps scrambled hurriedly away, scurrying toward the back stairs.

I looked through the cracked jamb and caught the flutter of bleached blonde curls and a tight red halter top. Camisha Wilkerson, the bar sweetbutt who had spent three months climbing toward my place at Bennet's side, had crept upstairs hoping to hear me weeping into a pillow.

I shoved the steel wrench into the deep pocket of my cargo pants, pulled open the door, and took the service stairs straight down into the basement garage.

The underground workshop smelled of used 20W-50 motor oil, solvent, and burnt welding wire. It was the only square footage in this entire compound where the air felt clean enough to breathe.

I walked over to my private workbench at the far corner of the bay. Before I could even lay out my blueprint rolls, the click-clack of plastic high heels echoed off the concrete ramp.

Camisha strutted into the garage, flanked by three giggling sweetbutts from the bar floor. Her face was caked in makeup, her lips painted the exact shade of red I had seen on Bennet's collar ten minutes earlier.

"Look at this mess," Camisha purred, dragging out her syllables in a high-pitched drawl. "Bennet told me to come down and see what kind of scrap metal we can throw out to make room for my new chopper."

She walked over to my custom Harley-Davidson Softail, reaching out a manicured crimson nail toward the polished aluminum gas cap.

"Take your hand off that bike," I said without looking up, adjusting the micrometer in my hand to measure a valve shim. "Your fingers are filthy."

Camisha's smile tightened into an ugly sneer. She took two steps forward and purposely bumped her hip against the edge of my workbench, sending a tray of precision-machined titanium bolts clattering across the oily floor.

"Oops," she gasped, slapping a hand over her mouth while the girls behind her snickered. "My balance is totally off tonight. I guess you'll just have to get on your knees and pick them up, Jazmyne."

I set the micrometer down on the rubber mat.

Before I could move, a heavy metallic clang echoed from the dark storage room behind the dyno room.

Maxine, my master mechanic and the only soul inside these walls I trusted, stepped out into the light.

She stood six feet tall in steel-toe boots, her muscular forearms covered in dark skull tattoos, carrying a solid steel driveshaft across her broad shoulders. She let the heavy metal rod slam onto the concrete with a deafening crack.

"Pick them up," Maxine said, her voice like gravel grinding under a truck tire.

Camisha jumped back, colliding with her friends. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'm Bennet's woman! You're just a hired wrench!"

I picked up a steel torque wrench from the rack, weighed it in my palm, and looked at Maxine.

"Maxine," I said evenly. "Teach her the physical rules of my bay."

"With pleasure," Maxine grunted.

She lunged forward, grabbed a fistful of Camisha's bleached blonde hair, and yanked her forward like a ragdoll.

Camisha let out a piercing shriek as Maxine's right fist drove straight into her cheekbone with a wet, heavy smack.

The impact lifted Camisha off her feet. She crashed hard onto the concrete floor, knocking over a drum of scrap metal. Blood immediately leaked from the split skin at the corner of her mouth, and her right cheek swelled into a dark purple lump.

The three sweetbutts shrieked in terror, turning on their heels and sprinting up the ramp like terrified rabbits.

Camisha scrambled backward on her elbows, weeping hysterically, her eyes wide with shock. "You... you hit me! Bennet is going to kill you for this!"

"Go run to him," I said, looking down at her like roadkill. "Tell him the next time you touch my tools, it won't be your face that breaks. It'll be your kneecaps."

Camisha dragged herself up, lost one of her high heels in an oil puddle, and limped frantically toward the ramp, crying and cursing all the way up the stairs.

Maxine wiped a smear of blood off her knuckles with a rag and walked over. "You know Bennet is gonna come down here ready to tear the walls down."

"Let him come," I said, picking up my calipers again. "I need an excuse to make him draw lines in front of the crew anyway."

A sharp, stabbing cramp ripped through my lower abdomen without warning. My stomach flipped violently, and a bead of cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I had to lean against the steel workbench to keep my legs from folding.

Maxine's sharp eyes caught the shift immediately. She reached out, steadying my elbow. "Jazmyne? You're white as a sheet. You want me to get Doc down here with some pills?"

"I'm fine," I lied, pulling my arm back and swallowing the sour taste in my mouth. "Just haven't slept in two days. Go check the rear yard inventory. Count the spare cylinder heads."

"Jazmyne—"

"Go, Maxine."

The heavy steel fire door at the top of the ramp slammed open against the wall, shaking the metal railings.