Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 126098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 630(@200wpm)___ 504(@250wpm)___ 420(@300wpm)
Just a few days later, Abby’s cell phone rang. She smiled at the screen before hitting the button. “Tex,” she drawled, mimicking his on again off again accent.
“Vegas,” he replied. “I’ve got a guy up in Spearfish who wants to come down and take a look at the panhead.”
Abby wrote down the date and time and assured Tex that she didn’t need anyone to help her get the bike to the garage.
****
Abby left work on time for once on Friday and suited up into a pair of jeans, boots, and her leather jacket. She tucked a check into her front pocket and snagged the keys to the Harley off the kitchen counter. She ran her thumb over the smooth metal of the keychain and for a moment considered keeping it, but thought better of it when she realized she already had boxes of photos. She used her remote to open the garage door and straddled the panhead one final time.
The drive to the garage was a bit longer given the hour, but she was still on time as she turned into the gravel lot of Burnout. It seemed the men were already waiting for her. Sullivan, whom Tex called ‘Shooter’ and Tex were talking to a man just outside the large bay doors. All three of them turned to watch her as she pulled up to them. She killed the engine and swung her leg over the bike.
Given the warm weather she hadn’t worn gloves and so she simply extended her hand to the only man she hadn’t met yet. “Hi. I’m Abby Raines.”
He grunted as he took her hand. He looked her over first, then the Harley. “Nice ride,” he finally declared.
“Yes, Sir,” she merely agreed, not wanting to steamroll him.
“Your father’s, they said.”
Abby nodded. “Yep. My old man won it in ‘85 in a poker game with Dean Martin’s chauffeur.”
The grizzled man raised an eyebrow. “Dean Martin?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Martin ride this bike?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Martin didn’t much care for motorcycles beyond the occasional movie role or publicity shoot. His only love was a ‘62 Chrysler Ghia. Which my father did not win a poker game, but he said it was just as well because it constantly popped out of fourth whenever he drove it.”
All three men stared at her.
Abby blushed, forgetting herself momentarily. “Vegas is a small town, Mr. Hale.”
Hale chewed on this. “Where apparently anyone can drive Dean Martin’s car,” he replied dubiously.
“Just the mechanics, Sir. My grandfather was a mechanic. So was my father.” She gestured to the Harley. “My father rebuilt it from the ground up. Every part is original, no reproductions.”
Hale grunted again and swept past her to inspect the classic motorcycle. Abby remained silent while he took his time perusing. When he was finished, he gave a low whistle. “Asking price is a little low,” he countered.
Abby smiled. “Not in the mood to haggle.”
Hale turned his attention to the bike again and Abby watched his shrewd eyes going over the chrome finish. She felt another pang of nostalgia as Hale ran his hand over the seat. She’d spent hours polishing the leather on Sunday afternoons, even when she was younger. His fingers brushed over a scratch that she’d accidentally put on it sneaking it out at 17. She’d frantically buffed it out upon return and had it quickly painted before her father had noticed. Or so she’d hoped. The next time her father took off the all-weather cover to tune it up and take it out for the “first” ride of the spring season, she sworn he’d paused over the spot she’d painstakingly fixed. If her father had noticed anything out of the ordinary, he hadn’t commented on it, though.
Hale didn’t notice it now, because there wasn’t really anything to see. Only Abby’s father appeared to have had a sixth sense about that bike. He stood up and took out his checkbook. Abby felt a heady mix of relief and anxiety and something a tiny bit like disappointment as he signed his name with a flourish and handed it to her. She was surprised to notice she was reluctant to take it from him, and even more reluctant to hand over the keys. The idea of selling the most precious thing her father ever owned was one thing. The reality of it was proving to be far more difficult.
After giving Abby a smile and handshake, Hale nodded to someone across the lot and she followed his gaze as a disinterested, younger version of the motorcycle enthusiast fired up a Chevy truck, gave the group a wave, and rolled out of the lot. Hale straddled the bike and bounced in the seat a little, feeling out the frame. Abby’s jaw twitched.
He fired up the engine, revved it a few times and saluted the group before pulling out of the lot to follow the truck. Abby fisted the check in her hand for a brief moment before taking a deep breath and folding it up meticulously.