Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
My hands are empty now. No ring on my finger. No illusion in my pocket.
I wrap my arms around myself and take a breath that fills my lungs all the way to the bottom.
One step. Then another.
I walk toward my car, toward the rest of my newly complicated, terrifying, broken, open life.
I don’t feel strong yet.
But I’m still moving.
And for today, that’s enough.
Two
Stud
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon in late November, cold enough that the breath hangs white when the bay doors open, but the sun is bright, and the wind rattles the old tin roofing with that familiar metallic chatter. Usually, I’ve got music going loud enough to drown it out—classic rock is preferred—but right now it’s just me, the tick of cooling engines, and a wrench biting into my palm.
I’m leaned over my ’68 Camaro, elbows braced on the fender, staring at the carburetor like it personally offended me.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I mutter as if talking nice changes anything. “We both know you want to breathe. Come on, breathe for me, baby.”
I should be enjoying this. This is the part of every day I live for: grease under my nails, the smell of gasoline and oil, the satisfaction of taking something old, broken, and giving it new life. It’s the only kind of problem that makes sense—either it fits or it doesn’t, either it fires or it doesn’t—and when it finally turns over, you know where you stand.
People aren’t like that.
Never have been.
I twist the wrench, listen to the tiny creak of metal, then set it aside and straighten up with a grunt. My lower back protests like an old man. Which, I guess, I am. Fifty-eight and counting, joints talking louder than half the men in my clubhouse.
“Getting soft, Stud,” I tell myself, rolling my shoulders. “Gotta stretch in the damn mornings now.”
The nickname still sticks, even after all these years. Started as a joke the day I walked into the clubhouse in Haywood’s Landing with my first bike and a high and tight Marine buzz cut. Roundman took one look at me, laughed right in my face, and said what can I do for you, Stud. Shit stuck. This was back when I had more attitude than sense. I gave the man the same sarcasm back and a friendship was born that became brotherhood. When I retired Roundman needed a set up in Salemburg, so I packed up my wife, grown kids, and started life and a Hellions MC chapter here.
Now I’ve got more scars than hair and a reputation that makes grown men reconsider their choices, but the silly name stayed.
Stud. It’s a mask like any other. And to this day, I’ll still bow up and stand proud like a male peacock looking to mate or a stud horse ready to mount a mare.
The front door chimes faintly from the side door to the garage, a crappy little bell Honey insisted on hanging up when she took over. I glance at the clock on the wall—almost three. She’s probably in the office now, banging away on that ancient keyboard, humming along to some new song playing in her head.
I listen for her laugh. The sound of my daughter doesn’t come, though.
Instead, I catch the low rumble of a male voice, something about “She here?” and my shoulders go tight before the words even register.
Smoke.
Of course.
I close my eyes for half a second, jaw grinding. I told myself, and Honey, and anyone who would listen that I wasn’t getting in the middle of it anymore. She’s grown. Her life, her choices, her mess to clean up.
But that doesn’t mean I like the son of a bitch. Once upon a time, maybe I had some respect for him as a man, a brother, but now, he can kick fucking rocks.
Boot steps echo down the concrete as he makes his way to me in the far bay.. I grab a rag and wipe my hands, more out of habit than necessity, and make myself busy under the hood again, like I didn’t hear a damn thing.
The footsteps get closer. The air changes, shifting with that particular sort of tension a man like Smoke drags with him everywhere. Cocky and uncertain all at once, like he’s always ready to bolt or throw a punch, he isn’t sure which is needed.
“Damn place still smells the same,” his voice rumbles, closer now. “Oil, rubber, and your old ass.”
I slam the hood down harder than I need to.
He’s standing at the edge of the bay in jeans that hang too low and a leather jacket that’s seen better days. Dark hair shaggy around his face. Tattoos crawling up his neck. He’s younger than I am, of course—most people are—but the life is on him. Lines around his eyes that shouldn’t be there yet. Hands fidgeting. That nicotine twitch. He’s aged but anyone living the life of a nomad like Smoke typically do grow old a little quicker.