The Bet
The sun was beginning to sink behind the buildings of Iron Rail Motorcycle Garage when the roar of engines rolled through the parking lot.
One motorcycle after another pulled in.
Black leather vests. Heavy boots. Beards. Tattoos. Chrome that caught the orange light of evening.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew when a group of bikers arrived at Iron Rail.
But that afternoon, they had not come for coffee.
They had come because one motorcycle had refused to run.
Garrett Steel stood beside it with his arms folded across his massive chest.
He was the kind of man people noticed before he spoke.
His gray-streaked beard framed a face marked by years of riding, hard work, and harder fights. He had spent decades around motorcycles, and he trusted very few people to touch his machine.
The bike in front of him was a custom-built black cruiser.
It was beautiful.
It was expensive.
And it was completely useless.
For nearly three hours, mechanics had tried everything.
They had checked the battery.
The fuel system.
The ignition.
The wiring.
The computer.
Nothing worked.
The engine turned over, but it refused to stay alive.
Garrett looked around at the exhausted mechanics.
"Anybody else want to try?"
Nobody answered.
A few bikers laughed quietly.
Garrett reached into his vest and pulled out a thick roll of cash.
He slapped it onto a nearby table.
Five thousand dollars.
"I bet five thousand dollars no one can fix my bike."
The laughter stopped.
One mechanic shook his head.
"Garrett, we've already tried everything."
Garrett smiled.
"Exactly."
Then a quiet voice came from behind the crowd.
"I can fix it."
Everyone turned.
The voice belonged to an eighteen-year-old kid wearing grease-stained work clothes.
He was kneeling beside a toolbox.
His name was Owen Carter.
He looked completely out of place among the bikers.
He was thin.
Young.
His brown hair was messy, and there was grease on his cheek.
Garrett stared at him.
Then he laughed.