Crash (Brazen Bulls MC #1)(14)

Their clubhouse, Willa assumed.

The yard was plain, not even a boxwood hedge for adornment, but the small patch of grass was tended and green.

Next to the clubhouse was a large gravel parking lot behind ten-foot chain-link fence topped with taut strings of barbed wire. Not exactly a welcome mat.

But the station itself was bright and open. The building was well-kept and seemed, by the standards of an automotive repair shop, tidy. Business appeared brisk; the bays were full, and there were vehicles on the lot and at the pumps. Men in green uniforms moved about, and there were men—most of them elderly—hanging out before the front door on the molded white plastic chairs that came five bucks apiece at Wal-Mart. Far more bright life and activity seemed concentrated in the corner lot of the station than anywhere else on or around the block.

In a burst of poetic sentiment, Willa had the thought that the station was the heart of little community, frail though it seemed.

She pulled her black Ford pickup onto the lot and parked it on the side, in the only available space. As she worked her stiff leg out of the cab and stood on the pavement, she heard the unmistakable ding-ding of a driveway bell—they were a full-service station. She smiled at that. Full service was on its way to becoming quaint these days.

Limping toward the door of the station, she caught plenty of interest from the men on the lot. A few she recognized from the night before, even though they were wearing Sinclair uniforms and not their kuttes.

The station was only that—gas and service. Beyond a couple of vending machines bookending a short row of battered vinyl chairs against the back wall, and a round rack of air freshener danglers on the counter, there were no other customer products or comforts. Behind the counter stood the only person in the room—a shockingly good-looking man, in his mid-twenties or so, with a full, trim beard and slicked-back blond hair. The sleeves of his uniform shirt were rolled high on his arms, showing enormous biceps. Wow. A primitive-looking bull tattoo charged over his right forearm—also enormous.

White gauze wrapped his left forearm—and then Willa had a flash of memory. He’d been at the scene last night, she thought. She hadn’t noticed him much, but she remembered a Bull getting patched up at the ambulance nearest Chase’s truck.

A white oval patch on the right side of his Sinclair uniform shirt showed the name Apollo in red script. He stopped writing on a clipboard as she came up to the counter, and he smiled blinding white teeth at her. “Help ya?”

“Hi, yeah. You brought my bike in last night? The silver 883?”

His grin faded out. “Shit—sorry—you were in the wreck last night. You okay?”

“Yeah.” She tipped her head, noting his arm. “You?”

He held it up and gave her a friendly shrug. “Yeah, I’m good. Line of duty.”

“I just wanted to check on my bike. And I left some things in the saddlebags. I was hoping I could get them.” She had intended to ask for Rad, but the question wouldn’t come out.

Apollo set the clipboard down and came around the counter. “The bikes from last night, and a couple of the cars, are in back, on the wreck lot. We’re still clearing out the work that was in the bays already before we can take a look. I can take you back to check your bags, though. Just need to see some ID, make sure you and the bike match.” He went back behind the counter and riffled through an inbox of paperwork.

She didn’t remember telling Rad or any other Bull her registration information—but she’d told the deputy who’d taken her statement. They must have gotten it from him. That made her taking a ride from Rad a little bit less stupid; he’d have had her address anyway.

Besides, it hadn’t been stupid. Reckless, maybe. But he wasn’t a bad guy.

“Willa Randall, on Vincent?”

Nodding, she opened her wallet and showed her license.

“Okay, cool. Let me call in one of the guys to watch the counter, and I’ll take you ‘round back.”

“I got her, brother.” Rad was standing in the doorway to the bays, wiping his hands on a faded red shop towel. He wore a uniform just like Apollo’s, but much grimier. The oval patch on his shirt read Radical in the same red script.

When Willa’s eyes met his—wry and brown—he winked. “Hey, darlin’. How you doin’ today? Better?”

His hair had a remarkably edgy style—undercut, with about six or eight inches of length on top. She thought of it as a young style, but it worked on his world-weary head. Last night it had been loose, and he’d shaken it from his eyes or raked it back again and again; today, at work, he had it pulled tightly back in a stubby ponytail.

In the dark scruff that covered the bottom half of his scalp, Willa was fairly sure she could detect a tattoo. Not surprising; most of the skin she’d seen so far was covered with ink, from his hands to the base of his throat.

Remembering to answer him, she blinked and said, “Yeah. A little sore, but better.”

He shoved the towel into a back pocket and then stepped all the way into the front room. “Well, let’s take you back, then.” With a sweep of his hand, he indicated that she should go out the front door ahead of him, then he led her around the building.

“Still holdin’ that leg straight, I see.”

“I’ve got it wrapped up, and I’m taking care of it. You can relax—I’m sure it’s just tissue damage. With rest, I’ll be fine.”