Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78329 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Treasurers don’t get thanked. They get blamed when something breaks. No one holds back when they need funds.
That’s fine.
I didn’t patch in for praise.
Boots thud from the hallway behind me. I don’t look up. I know the rhythm of every man in this club. It’s like a six sense for me. Heavy stride, slight limp—Country Boy. Country Boy when he’s in a good mood and relaxed, the limp from his busted knee is prevalent. When he’s angry the steps come in a faster pace with an even rhythm.
“You sleep any?” he asks.
“Some,” I lie.
He snorts. “That’s the game we’re playing. Got it, brother. Your face is giving you away today though. Sara has some cream for tightening and the box even said it promises a refreshing glow. Might wanna give that shit a try.”
I let out a laugh, “got joke, Pres. Nice. I’ll be sure to give your woman a call and ask for the name and a recommendation for a good face mask too.”
He pulls out a chair and sits across from me, eyes scanning down to the ledger. He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t even think about it. I keep clean books, but they’re still mine. One thing about Country Boy, we have our roles and once he gives us that responsibility he releases it. He doesn’t micromanage or try to over step.
“Run anything weird this week?” he asks.
“Nothing loud,” I state. “Couple cash-heavy nights at the bar, not stand out though, just some good nights. Smoke’s crew came through twice dropping in dues for Nomad members. No red flags. Reported those to Red so it’s accounted for with Tripp.”
Country Boy nods, satisfied enough for now. Silence stretches between us. We’ve known each other long enough not to fill it just to feel important. Some people get nervous in quiet. I get comfortable. If I can simply be with a person and not have some impulse to fill in the gaps then that I a person I respect and a relationship I appreciate.
“Smoke’s back in town,” he shares after a moment. “Talkin’ about staying put for a bit possibly.”
Now this gets my attention. I look up, pen pausing mid-line. “Thought he was riding with Catawba for a while.”
“He was,” Country Boy says. “Nomad life is him through and through. Says he’ll roll out again soon. But said he has some shit to square away at home and it’s gonna take a beat. He said shit won’t be permanent, but he’s gonna be here for a little longer than the usual.”
I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking. Smoke never stays long. Never could. He was Salemburg once—patched in, bled here—but some men aren’t built for roots. The road gets under their skin, and once it does, nothing else quite fits right again.
I get it. I know there are some here though, they won’t like this. “I’ll catch him later,” I state eyeing my brother. “Stud know?”
Country Boy watches me like he’s weighing something. “You don’t miss it?”
I shrug I was a nomad for a time. “Miss what?”
“Not being tied down,” he continues. “Taking off when the mood hits. No ledgers. No meetings. No balancing shit.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “You offering me your seat?”
Country Boy huffs a laugh. “Not a chance. Just don’t want to hold you back. Best treasurer we’ve had, but I know you get twitchy feeling stuck.”
The truth sits heavy between us. Salemburg anchors me. The club calms me. I chose this. I don’t regret it. I like my position. But some days, the walls feel closer than they used to. Like the town is somehow shrinking and I wonder if I still fit. Or maybe I’m just restless.
I close the ledger and stand. “I’ll be around.”
“Try to be,” Country Boy states.
I leave before he can read anything else on my face.
The garage smells like oil and metal and heat. It’s honest work down here—hands-on, loud, uncomplicated. I strip off my cut and hang it on a hook before rolling my sleeves up. Ink spills down my arms, familiar and comfortable. One of the prospects nods at me as I pass.
“Morning, Miles. Heading to take these tools to Tom.”
“Morning,” I reply not sure why the jackass is telling me that. Tom is a master mechanic. Not a Hellion, but he’s worked at Honey’s Hot Rods forever and the man knows cars and bikes. The gearheads in the club always put in time to help Honey out. The few jobs we take off Tom’s plate keep her from needing to hire another mechanic and gives men like me something to do so I don’t climb the walls.
I spend the next couple hours doing some state inspections, checking parts for my t-bird to order, and making myself useful in ways that don’t involve money. It keeps the balance. Reminds me, I’m not just numbers and paperwork to the club. Reminds the brothers too.