The sharp, metallic scent of high-grade motor oil, heavy exhaust, and industrial degreasing solvent is the most comforting smell in the world to me. It hits my lungs the second I step through the heavy side door of the garage, instantly washing away the lingering heavy tension of the last few days.
I roll up the sleeves of my oversized black sweatshirt, tuck my dark hair into a messy bun, and snap a fresh pair of black nitrile gloves over my hands.
I’m only working three days a week right now under strict club-wide orders, mostly because my father, Locke, and every patched member in a five-mile radius act like I’m made of spun glass if I work more than four hours at a time.
But today is one of those precious three days, and I intend to make every second count.
"Look who finally decid
