Chapter 8 : The Offer
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — February 25, 2008, 2:15 PM]
The Chevy's alternator was shot. I had the old one out and was fitting the replacement when Clay's shadow fell across my work.
"Got a minute?"
I wiped my hands, set down the wrench. "Sure."
He gestured toward the back of the lot, away from the other mechanics. We walked until we were out of earshot, standing between a rusted dumpster and a stack of old tires.
"You've been here, what, two weeks?" Clay pulled out a cigar, didn't light it. Just rolled it between his fingers.
"About that."
"In that time, you've fixed more cars than Lowell, handled two Nords, saved a girl's life, and impressed my wife." The cigar pointed at me. "That's a resume."
"Just doing the job."
"The job is turning wrenches." His eyes hardened. "What you've been doing is something else."
I said nothing. Waited.
"I've got an errand. Nothing complicated. Envelope needs to go from here to a lawyer in Stockton. Rosen." He pulled a manila packet from inside his kutte. "You take it, you deliver it, you come back. Don't open it, don't talk about it, don't ask questions."
The envelope was thick. Legal documents, maybe. Or something else entirely.
"What about the shop?"
"Lowell can handle it for an afternoon." Clay's mouth curved. "Consider this a different kind of work."
A test. Obviously. The first step past civilian status.
I took the envelope.
"Rosen's office is on Pacific Avenue. Second floor, above a bail bonds place. He's expecting you."
"Anything else?"
"Yeah." Clay leaned closer. "Don't get pulled over. Cops around here know our bikes."
"Understood."
He walked away without looking back.
I tucked the envelope into my jacket and headed for my bike.
---
The ride to Stockton took ninety minutes.
Highway 99 stretched flat and straight, heat shimmering off the asphalt. I kept to the speed limit, watched my mirrors, stayed invisible. Just another biker on the road.
The envelope pressed against my chest like a heartbeat.
Don't open it. Don't ask questions.
The old me would have been curious. Would have found a rest stop, steamed it open, satisfied the itch.
But Cole Ashford understood what that envelope represented. Trust. The first real currency in this world.
I left it sealed.
Stockton materialized from the haze—industrial, run-down, a city that had seen better decades. Pacific Avenue was easy to find. The bail bonds place had a neon sign missing half its letters. Rosen's office was upstairs, exactly where Clay said.
The lawyer was mid-fifties, gray suit, nervous energy. He checked my face against something on his desk—a photo, maybe—before accepting the envelope.
"You're the new guy."
"Cole."
"Yeah." He turned the envelope over, checking the seal. Satisfied, he tucked it into a desk drawer. "Tell Clay we're on schedule."
"That's it?"
"That's it." He was already dismissing me, attention on his computer. "Close the door on your way out."
The whole exchange took less than three minutes.
---
I stopped for gas at a Shell station outside Lodi.
The hot dogs had been rotating since morning, skins splitting, grease pooling. I bought two anyway, ate them standing beside my bike. The meat was questionable. The mustard was electric yellow. The whole thing was perfect.
Simple pleasures.
The sun hung low, painting the sky orange. My shadow stretched long across the parking lot.
Four hours for a fifteen-minute errand. But Clay wasn't paying for efficiency. He was paying for reliability. For silence. For someone who followed orders without asking why.
And now he knows I'm that someone.
I finished the second hot dog, threw the wrapper in the trash, and pointed the bike toward Charming.
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — 5:45 PM]
Clay was waiting when I pulled in.
He stood near the clubhouse entrance, arms crossed, watching me park. I walked over, handed him the nothing he'd asked for.
"Rosen says you're on schedule."
Clay nodded once. "Any problems?"
"None."
"Stop anywhere?"
"Gas. Lodi."
"Talk to anyone?"
"Just the attendant."
He studied me for a long moment. Whatever he was looking for, he found it.
"Good." The word carried weight. "We'll talk more later."
He walked into the clubhouse. The door swung shut behind him.
Half-Sack appeared from the garage, eyes wide. "Dude. Did Clay just send you on a run? A solo run?"
"Just a delivery."
"That's not—" He caught himself, lowered his voice. "Prospects don't even get solo runs. And you're not even a hang-around yet."
"Guess not."
His expression flickered—admiration, jealousy, something between. "You're moving fast, man. Faster than anyone I've seen."
"I just do what's asked."
"Yeah." He didn't sound convinced. "That's what they all say."
He walked back to the garage, shoulders tight.
Made him jealous. Didn't mean to.
I filed it away. Half-Sack was an ally, but allies could become problems if they felt passed over. I'd need to manage that.
---
Gemma found me as I was clocking out.
She appeared from the office doorway, cigarette in hand, expression unreadable. The sunset painted her face in harsh angles.
"Clay told me about Stockton."
"It went fine."
"I'm sure it did." She blocked my path, not aggressively. Just present. "You're moving fast, Cole."
"People keep telling me that."
"Maybe you should listen." She took a drag, exhaled toward the sky. "Men who move fast in this world either rise or die. Which are you?"
The same question she'd asked before. Or close enough.
I held her gaze. "Guess we'll find out."
Something flickered in her eyes—amusement, maybe. Or recognition.
"There's a thing this weekend. Saturday night. Not just a party." She dropped the cigarette, ground it under her heel. "Important people. Clay wants you there."
"I'll be there."
"Good." She turned to go, paused. "And Cole? Wear something decent. First impressions matter."
She disappeared into the office.
I walked to my bike, processing.
Saturday. Important people. An audition for something bigger than mechanic work.
Moving fast. Maybe too fast.
But the timeline was fixed. I had nine months until Donna died. Seven until the show's events started cascading.
Fast wasn't optional.
Fast was survival.
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