The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 286

Chapter 142-1

The sharp, metallic scent of high-grade motor oil, heavy exhaust, and industrial degreasing solvent is the most comforting smett in the world to me. It hits my lungs the second I step through the heavy side door of the garage, instantly washing away the lingering heavy tension of the last few days.

I roll up the sleeves of my oversized black sweatshirt, tuck my dark hair into a messy bun, and snap a fresh pair of black nitrile gloves over my hands.

I’m only working three days a week right now under strict club-wide orders, mostly because my father, Locke, and every patched member in a five-mile radius act like I’m made of spun glass if I work more than four hours at a time.

But today is one of those precious three days, and I intend to make every second count.

“Look who finally decided to grace us with her presence,” a voice calls out from beneath the undercarriage of a stripped-down Harley Davidson Chopper.

Diesel slides out from under the lift on his low-profile creeper, pushing his grease-stained welding goggles up onto his head.

He’s pushing fifty, but he’s built like a damn iron safe, with arms completely covered in old, faded prison-style ink. He’s been working in the garage since I was in diapers.

“It’s exactly nine o’clock, Diesel,” I say, stepping over to my designated bay where a gorgeous 1978 Shovelhead sits on the lift, its engine casing split wide open. “You were just too busy wrestling with that transmission to notice.”

“Pfft,” Diesel scoffs, standing up and wiping his thick hands on a rag that’s seen better decades. “I wasn’t wrestling, I was negotiating. There’s a subtle art to classic machinery that a young hothead like you doesn’t appreciate yet.”

“She appreciates it just fine, old man,” Tucker grunts, stepping out from the parts room carrying a heavy iron flywheel. “Better than most, actually.”

The morning light catches the massive scar running down his forearm from an exploded chain back in ’18. He sets the flywheel down on the metal workbench with a loud thud, his ice-blue eyes softening just a fraction as he looks over at me.

“Morning, princess,” Tucker says softly, his version of a booming greeting. “How are you holding up with all the fucking drama lately?”

“I’m good, Tuck,” I smile, picking up a set of metric sockets. “I’m holding up just fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Actually, princess… I’d say that you’re doing better than ‘just fine”.”

I blink at him. “Huh?”

“I’m with Tucker,” Brick says cheerfully. “I’d say that you look like a girl who just got ruined in the best way

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(Chapter 142+

possible. Either that, or you won the damn lottery and forgot to tell the rest of us.”

1 flush bright red. “Brick…”

Clam

“No, really,” Diesel says, tuming to Tucker and Brick with an exaggerated look of wonder. “Did you see her walk in here today, guys? Floating on a cloud. Glowing like a neon sign outside a strip club. It’s sickening, I tell ya. Whatever Locke’s doing, it oughta be illegal.”

“Hey!” I protest, my face surely the color of a tomato by now. “Locke isn’t -”

“It’s disgusting,” Brick agrees deadpan, though a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “Disrespectful to the solemn craft of motorcycle repair.

“I am not glowing!” I insist. “I’m happy. There’s a distinct difference, you know. The club isn’t on high alert today, the weather is decent, and I get to rebuild a Shovelhead. Why shouldn’t smile?”

“Because you’re supposed to be a tough MC girl, not a heroine in a smutty romance,” “Tucker says, stepping into my bay to inspect my work. “So let’s see if your head being in the love clouds has affected your work, huh?”

He leans over the open engine casing, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looks at the delicate shims and rocker arms I’ve already laid out in pristine, perfectly aligned rows. He reaches out a thick, grease-blackened finger, hovering over my setup, trying to find a single mistake.

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