"I bet $5,000 no one can fix my bike." Garrett Steel slammed the question on the table.
"I can fix it."He turned, saw Owen: eighteen, skinny, grease-covered."Who let this cockroach in here?" He grabbed Owen by the throat, slammed him into the wall. "You smell like a sewer, boy. Don't breathe near my Harley."Spit landed on Owen's cheek, deliberate."Fifteen real mechanics couldn't fix it, and you—you filthy little parasite, you think you can—"A biker kicked Owen's toolbox across the concrete. Tools scattered. Owen wiped his face, knelt, picked up his wrench."Five minutes.""Hells Angels don't lose bets—not to garbage like you."Owen tightened his grip.