Chapter 1: Heat and Grease
The sun sat heavy in the sky, high and punishing, casting wavering heatlines off the cracked pavement of the street. It was the hot hour of noon, and Mars Murphy was elbow-deep in the guts of a dented sedan, the hood propped open like the gaping mouth of some tired beast. The car had been dropped off two days ago after a mild accident. Now that the insurance claim had finally cleared, he could do something more than glance at it.
Mars had his dark blue overalls half on, the sleeves tied around his hips. Grease streaked across his arms, sweat glistened on his neck, and his grey t-shirt—already stained from who-knows-how-many jobs—was now smeared further as he wiped his hands across his chest. It was habit more than carelessness. Grease was just another skin.
He glanced up from under the hood, eyes narrowing against the glare, and let his gaze drift down the road. A new bar had popped up recently, tucked into town like it was waiting to see if it was welcome. He hadn’t been inside, but he’d seen a few of the gang wander in now and then. No one said much, just grunted and shrugged when asked about it. Mars had caught wind that it was opened by some Japanese guy, and as usual, the story spread faster than spilled whiskey. A fresh start, they said the man called it.
Mars had scoffed when he heard that.
A fresh start. In this town?
Who the hell comes to a place like this for a new beginning, when half the people in it were clawing for a way out?
The engine roared to life beneath his fingers, smooth and even. He gave a satisfied nod. Job done. He shut it off, wiped the last of the sweat and oil off his brow, and decided to let Charlie handle the bumper replacement. Charlie was the shop owner and the closest thing Mars had to a landlord. Letting him crash in the mobile home behind the garage for dirt-cheap rent was his idea of charity, not that Mars ever asked for it.
Mars scribbled a quick note on the clipboard hanging off the wall, checking off what he’d fixed. He tossed the pen onto the workbench and ducked through the back of the garage.
The air didn’t cool any as he stepped into the mobile home. It was small and ugly, the kind of place that looked like it could roll off its blocks in a bad storm, but it was his. The only thing in his life that was. He pulled a bottle of water from the tiny fridge, the plastic crinkling in his grip. He chugged half of it in one go, let out a breath, and peeled the overalls and t-shirt off like they offended him.
The shower stall was barely wider than his shoulders, but it did the job. The cold water hit his skin and dragged the grime of the day off him in streaks of black and brown. He leaned a hand against the wall, eyes closed, letting the spray beat against the back of his neck.
He hadn’t decided yet.
But maybe tonight, he’d stop in and see what that new bar was all about.
Maybe meet the guy foolish enough to think this town was worth starting over in.
Mars stepped out of the narrow shower with a low sigh, steam clinging to the cracked mirror above the sink. He toweled off quickly and threw on a pair of faded jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and his patchy jean jacket. The fabric was worn soft from years of wear, but it held meaning. Sewn into the shoulder was the sigil of the biker gang that had saved his life.
The Iron Teeth.
He’d tried to steal a Harley when he was seventeen. Didn’t even make it off the lot before three of the old guys cornered him. But instead of breaking his nose or calling the cops, they handed him a wrench and a sandwich and said, “If you’re gonna steal it, you better learn to fix it first.”
He thought they were crazy. They thought he had guts. Maybe they were both right.
The Iron Teeth weren’t criminals like the movies liked to paint bikers. They were just old vets and motorcycle junkies, men with scars, stories, and no patience for bullshit. Most of them had been through worse than Mars could imagine. And somehow, they’d decided he was worth giving a shot. So they let him in. Taught him how to ride. How to fight smarter. How to carry himself like he belonged to something.
Funny thing was, they kept the peace better than the badge. The local cops were thin on staff and thinner on backbone, holed up in one dusty station at the edge of town. So when things went sideways, people didn’t call 911.
They called the Iron Teeth.
Mars slid on his leather boots, still damp around the laces from a storm earlier in the week, and grabbed his sunglasses off the counter, then stepped back out into the beating sun.
He swung his leg over his Harley and rolled off in the opposite direction of that new bar.
No destination and no reason.
Just the engine’s growl, the sun on his back, and the wind drying his thick, messy blonde hair as he rode. Because sometimes, riding was the only thing that ever made sense.
