The garage door rattled open before sunrise.
Ricki liked it that way — quiet, cold, empty. The concrete still held the chill of the night, and the air smelled like oil and metal. She tossed her keys onto the tool chest and rolled her shoulders, stretching beneath the cropped tank that already had a streak of grease across the hem.
“Early again?” Bobbie’s voice echoed from behind a half-lifted hood. Her long blonde ponytail swung as she leaned up, wrench in hand.
“Engines don’t fix themselves,” Ricki shot back with a smirk.
Bobbie slid out from under the car, wiping her hands on a rag. “You just like the sound.”
Ricki didn’t deny it. The roar. The vibration. The way a machine comes alive when you touch the right parts in the right order. Power wasn’t loud to her — it was precise.
Across the shop, Frankie kicked the compressor on, the sharp hiss cutting through the quiet. Short dark hair tucked under a backwards cap, she grinned as the first engine of the day turned over.
“Music,” Frankie said.
The three of them moved like they’d rehearsed it — no wasted motion, no hesitation. Ricki climbed into the driver’s seat of the rebuilt muscle car and twisted the ignition. The engine coughed once, then thundered to life.
The sound filled the shop.
Ricki stepped out slowly, leaning against the door as the motor idled smooth and steady. Sweat traced down her collarbone. Grease marked her thigh. She didn’t look polished.
She looked earned.
Bobbie walked over, arms crossed, eyes scanning the vibrating machine. “Told you she’d run.”
Ricki tilted her head. “I didn’t doubt it.”
Frankie shut off the compressor and joined them, the three standing shoulder to shoulder as the engine purred.
Outside, the sun was finally cutting through the open door, lighting the dust in the air like sparks.
Ricki glanced back at the car, then at the street beyond.
“Let’s see what she can really do.”
Because the garage wasn’t where she proved herself.
It was just where she prepared.
