The neon sign above Jett’s Garage flickered erratically, casting a sickly green glow over the grimy lot on the edge of the city. Inside, the air was thick with the tang of motor oil and the faint musk of cheap cologne, a symphony of clanking metal and revving engines echoing through the half-dismantled husks of cars. Tools lay scattered like forgotten toys, and in the center of it all stood Jett—queen of this greasy kingdom—leaning against a workbench in a tight black tank top, her arms crossed and a smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
David rolled in on his beat-up motorcycle, the engine coughing and sputtering like a chain-smoker on their last drag. He killed the ignition, swung a leg over the seat, and tugged off his helmet, shaking out a mess of dark hair. He knew he looked like trouble, and he played the part well, but that bike? It was a damn embarrassment tonight. He needed it fixed before his next gig, and Jett’s was the only shop still open at this hour.
“Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” Jett drawled, pushing off the workbench and sauntering toward him, her boots scuffing the concrete. Her eyes raked over the bike with undisguised disdain. “What’s this sad little toy supposed to be? You riding a lawnmower now, pretty boy?”
David grinned, unfazed, leaning against the handlebars. “Funny, Jett. I figured a gearhead like you would appreciate a classic. Or are you too busy drooling over bigger engines to notice?”
Her laugh was sharp, a bark of amusement as she stepped closer, hands on her hips. “Oh, I notice plenty, sweetheart. Like how this rust bucket’s got more issues than a tabloid. What’d you do, ride it through a swamp?”
“Says the woman who looks like she bathes in motor oil,” David shot back, his gaze flicking over her grease-streaked arms and the way her jeans hugged every curve. “Not that I’m complaining about the view.”
Jett’s smirk widened, but her eyes flashed with something dangerous. “Keep staring, hotshot. I charge extra for the show.” She turned, gesturing to a monstrous car in the corner of the garage—a souped-up beast with a hood popped open, wires spilling out like entrails. “Speaking of engines, I’ve been working on this beauty. Needs a rare chip to finish the upgrade, though. Real pain in my ass to find.”
David raised a brow, crossing his arms. “And what, you’re telling me this ‘cause you need a shoulder to cry on? Or you just like hearing yourself talk?”
She chuckled, low and throaty, picking up a wrench from the bench and twirling it in her fingers like a baton. “Nah, I’m telling you ‘cause I think you’ve got sticky fingers and a knack for trouble. Get me that chip, and I might just owe you.”
He pushed off the bike, closing the distance between them, and leaned against the workbench beside her, his grin cocky. “Owe me, huh? What’s in it for me, Jett? I don’t risk my neck for a pat on the head.”
Jett turned to face him, her body close enough that he could smell the faint hint of gasoline on her skin. She tilted her head, her voice dropping to a sultry purr. “How ‘bout a ride you’ll never forget? And I don’t mean on that sorry excuse for a bike.”
David laughed, a deep rumble in his chest, pretending to mull it over. “Tempting. Real tempting. But I’ve heard promises like that before. You sure you’re not just blowing smoke?”
Her eyes narrowed, but the smirk never left her lips. “Oh, please. You’re all talk and no torque, David. I’m giving you a chance to prove you’ve got more than a pretty face. Or are you scared to get your hands dirty?”
Their banter crackled like a live wire as she grabbed a rag, wiping grease off her hands and onto her already-stained jeans with deliberate slowness. “The chip’s in a corporate warehouse on the bad side of town. Heavily guarded, locked up tighter than a nun’s diary. Think you can handle it?”
He snorted, leaning in a little closer. “Sounds like a job for someone with guts. What’s the matter, Jett? Too chicken to get it yourself?”
Her hand shot out, delivering a sharp, playful slap to his arm. The sting was nothing compared to the heat in her glare, a mix of irritation and something far more electric. “Watch it, asshole. I’d rather wrench your nuts than risk my neck in that hellhole. But you? I’m betting your sneaky ass can slip in and out without tripping an alarm.”
David rubbed his arm, feigning injury, but his grin was all mischief. “Slipping into tight spaces is kinda my specialty. Thought you’d know that by now.”
Jett rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward. “Keep the crude jokes to yourself, Casanova. I’m not in the mood for your playground humor.” She reached into her back pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper—a crude drawing of the warehouse layout—and shoved it against his chest. “Here’s the specs on the chip and the map. Don’t screw this up, or I’ll rev your engine in all the wrong ways.”
He unfolded the paper, glancing at the scribbled lines, then tucked it into his jacket pocket. “Relax, Jett. I’ve got this. But damn, you need to cool your jets. All this fire’s gonna burn the garage down.”
Her laugh followed him as he swung a leg back over his bike, throwing her a mock salute. “Bring back the goods, David, or don’t bother coming back at all!” she yelled, her voice a commanding bark laced with amusement. She stood there, hands on her hips, watching him with a gaze that could strip paint as he fired up the engine.
As David peeled out of the lot, the city lights blurring into streaks of color, his mind wasn’t on the warehouse or the chip. It was on Jett—her sharp tongue, her fiery attitude, the way she wielded control like a weapon. That woman was more dangerous than any job, and damn if he didn’t love the thrill of it. A smirk played on his lips as he sped into the night, already itching to see how far he could push her when he returned. If he returned.
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