He too had long hair (though jet-black), tied up in a bun that gleamed with an oily sheen in the sunlight. It reminded me instantly of Indians and their lustrous braids, worn by both men and women.
The guy slid his sunglasses down his nose and gave me a nod.
"Another hotshot found our little 'End of the Line,' huh?" he drawled. "Lemme guess—you were just riding along when, outta nowhere, it decided to stop hauling your lazy asses through the backcountry?"
"We bought it from a local," I said, deciding to throw shade at the locals. "His name's Kurt. Heard of him?"
"Who hasn't heard of him?" The old man laughed, adjusting a wrench in his stretched-out jeans pocket that kept shifting and threatening to fall out. "That swindler buys up all the junk that shines and looks appealing, then sells it off as brand new."
"I'll beat the stupid out of him," I gritted my teeth, trying to suppress my anger.
"Oh come on, cool your jets!"
The young man approached the motorcycle (which Selena had already unhitched from the trailer) and gave it a quick once-over.
"This 'warrior' has plenty of life left. After repairs, it'll be good as new. Hell, I'd bet a pint of ale this bike sat in Kurt's place for ages."
"Why's that?" I grumbled, still riding my aggressive emotions.
"Kurt can't ride for shit," the old man chuckled, "but apparently his act as a hardcore biker works, since you fell for it."
The men burst into even louder laughter, and even Selena and Oscar turned away to avoid provoking me with their snickering.
"How long will it take you to find and fix the problem?" I asked, ignoring the tremor in my hands and the nagging urge to wipe those smirks off their faces.
"These things can't be rushed," the old man scratched the back of his head. "We're looking at three days of work."
"Three?" I was stunned. "You got some kind of waiting list or something?"
"We're always swamped with work," the old man said, offended. "We're the only mechanics around here all the way to the city."
I peered into the building—which looked more like a shipping container for valuable cargo than a proper repair shop.
"It's empty in there," I pointed out. "You don't have a single car."
"Why don’t you step inside first, smartass?" the younger guy egged me on, pushing his sunglasses up with his middle finger.