If It’s Working, Let It Be

The sexiest thing about a man, according to Avery, was his car. But not just any car you could buy off a lot. Not the kind a sixteen-year-old kid would drive around with music blaring. It had to be a car that showed he knew something. Because if a man understood cars, Avery believed, he understood women too.

“If a guy doesn’t know how to approach a car,” her father used to say, wiping grease from his hands, “how the hell is he supposed to approach a woman?”

Avery had been a kid then, perched on the hood of whatever vehicle her father was working on, her two dark ponytails swinging as she watched him circle around the car like it was something sacred. He’d drop those nuggets of wisdom as if they were jokes, like he wasn’t paying attention. But Avery remembered every word.

Eventually, she started helping him with repairs. At first, it was just passing him tools. Then he taught her how to change a tire. She wasn’t strong enough to lift much at thirteen, and he never let her do anything dangerous, but in theory, she could take apart and rebuild an engine.

Six years ago, she got to test that theory — unfortunately, on her own car. The engine had been working fine until she decided to “improve” it. After some tinkering, it died entirely. Her father laughed every time she pedaled to work on her bike while she spent three weeks fixing the damage. He refused to lend her his car or help her with the repairs. All he said was, “If something’s working, don’t fix it.”

She hated two-wheeled transportation after that — and she learned her lesson. If it’s working, let it be. That had become her motto.

So, when eight bikers rolled into her garage like they owned the place, all she felt was pure, undiluted contempt.

Timpoint had been just fine before the biker gangs showed up. It was the kind of forgotten town people skip over when trying to name all fifty states. Quiet, dusty, peaceful. And now — full of noise, chrome, and trouble. Avery hated change. She hated loud engines. She hated bikes.

Why ride a two-wheeled beast when you could cruise in the soft, powerful purr of a 1969 Chevrolet Camaro? Still the best car ever made, if you asked her. Her father’s Camaro sat like a relic in her garage, under a protective tarp, like a shrine.

A tall brunette killed his engine and pulled off his helmet. As he walked toward her, Avery didn’t move from the porch. She was elevated just enough to meet him eye-to-eye. Her work clothes were stained with oil, her hands rough, her black hair pulled into a high ponytail.

“I just need a wrench,” the biker said. “Mind lending one?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at her. Dark eyes. Stubble. Harsh features that could either scare a girl senseless or make her melt. But Avery wasn’t the kind of woman to swoon or spook. She was the kind who’d make you regret trying.

“I told you already,” she said, voice raised over the remaining engine noise, “I don’t fix bikes.”

They’d been going back and forth for a few minutes now. The other bikers were starting to kill their engines one by one.

“What’s your name?” the guy asked, a little smoother this time, stepping forward.

She hesitated. “Avery.”

He said it slowly, syllable by syllable, then let his voice drop into something rougher. “Avery. I just need a damn wrench. I’ll fix the damn bike myself.”

She was about ready to snap. The whole town was tense after two weeks of these intruders hanging around, scaring off customers, drinking in bars, sleeping with locals. Sheriff Douglas had tried—twice—to intervene, but the bikers were smart. No fights, no DUIs, no arrests. Just quiet, obnoxious chaos.

So, the sheriff watched and waited, hoping they’d move on.

“No one touches my tools,” Avery said, planting her feet wide. “I don’t fix bikes, but I’ll make an exception—for you. Just to get you and your friends out of town faster.”

One of the bikers chuckled.

“No one touches my bike,” the man echoed, spreading his legs in mock imitation. His hands stayed in his pockets, but he was daring her to challenge him.

“Then I guess we’ve got a problem,” Avery said, lifting a brow.

She expected him to explode. Instead, he grinned and stepped close enough that she could feel the heat coming off him.

“Don’t make me go all outlaw just to get what I need.”

“Riding a motorcycle is already a crime against good taste.”

The crowd of bikers groaned and jeered. Avery knew she was tempting fate. They could trash her garage, take her tools, or worse. But they didn’t move. They just watched. The man in front of her looked like he might break. His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed. And then—he breathed. Slowly. Deeply. Calming himself.

“You know,” he said, grinning again, “we’re in a great mood today. Just bought a big farm nearby. You probably know it — not a lot of places like that around here. We’re not just passing through anymore. We’re staying. So, it’d be smart to have some bikers who owe you a favor, someone to help if, say, someone gives you trouble.”

Of course, she knew the farm. She passed it all the time. She didn’t like the idea of these people being her new neighbors one bit.

She didn’t answer. Just turned on her heel and disappeared inside. The bikers howled with laughter. A minute later, she reappeared with a heavy, two-foot crowbar in hand.

“This,” she said, swinging it lazily in her palm, “is what I use when someone gives me trouble.”

The guys laughed, but the one in front didn’t move. He stepped even closer, his voice a near whisper, breath hot on her neck.

“I know that trick works on the locals. But we’ve made enemies out there, and they’re not as polite as we are. If someone decides to burn down your shop, the sheriff won’t save you. We might. If we feel like it.”

She wasn’t afraid. She had a fire system, connections at the police station, and the respect of the whole town. But his breath, his voice, the heat in the space between them—it unsettled her. She just wanted this to be over.

With a scoff, she disappeared inside and came back with the right wrench.

“Fine. Show me what to do. I’ll do it myself.”

The biker’s smug grin faded.

“And we’re back to the beginning.”

“If you care so much about your bike,” she snapped, “you should’ve maintained it. You’re on my property now, asking me for help. Respect that.”

He pointed to the carburetor without saying a word. “Adjust the idle mixture screw. Get the air-fuel ratio right so it doesn’t sputter at startup.”

Avery knew engines, but not this machine. She slid the wrench into place, and that’s when he came up behind her, placing his hand over hers—not on the tool, just guiding. His body pressed close. Too close. She could feel just how much he enjoyed this moment.

She could’ve let go of the wrench, but Avery didn’t give up that easily.

“Assholes!” she hissed when the engines finally roared back to life and the group started to roll out.

The leader’s jacket had “Connor” and “President” stitched into the back, along with the name of the club: Fallen Wolves. The last to leave was the smug one she’d just helped. His jacket read “Jayden.”

Avery clutched the wrench tighter, aching to throw it at his head. But it wasn’t worth damaging her father’s tools.