Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
“You do.”
“But do I? Not to them.”
Toon sighs. “You’re looking at this all wrong. They do trust you. They just don’t say it. This club? It’s not about words. It’s about actions. About knowing your brother will take a bullet for you without hesitation.”
“I would.”
“I know. And they know too. You’ll see.”
I nod, grinding the cigarette under my boot.
Inside, the blonde stirs. I don’t want to go back in and pretend to sleep. I want to ride. I want the wind. I don’t want pretend. I want real.
Toon looks at me, reading my thoughts like a damn book. “Wanna roll out?”
I grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”
Without waking the women, we gear up and roll out just before dawn. The sky bleeds pale pink over the Carolina treetops, and the road ahead is wide open.
I twist the throttle, the engine screaming beneath me. I don’t know where I’m going. But I know I can’t stay still. Somewhere between Charlotte and nowhere, I let my thoughts run wild with the road under me. What would it take to really be seen? To not just wear the patch, but to be it? I ride harder. And I realize—I need something bigger. Something wild.
What that something is, I have no clue. We ride for miles, the sun crawling up over the horizon like it’s reluctant to start another day. There’s something cleansing about it—about being on the road before the world wakes up. The way the wind whips across my skin, the rumble of the Harley-Davidson beneath me, it’s the only time I feel like I’m not being judged. Out here, no one gives a shit about who your father is or how many years it took you to earn your patch. The road doesn’t care about bloodlines or club politics. It only cares if you survive the next mile.
We stop at a gas station in some nowhere town. Toon fills his tank while I lean against the pump, sipping a flat coffee from a machine that probably predates cellphones. A woman in a stained apron eyes us from inside the store, like she’s deciding whether to call the cops or offer us a breakfast menu.
“You ever think about transferring?” Toon asks casually.
I blink. “What?”
“To Haywood’s Landing. Or South Carolina.”
I laugh, short and bitter. “You serious?”
“Dead. You’d get a fresh start. Guys there don’t give a damn who your dad is. You’d be judged on who you are, not what shadow you were born under.”
It’s tempting. Too tempting.
But I shake my head. “No. If I leave now, it’ll feel like I ran.”
Toon shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll look like you finally stepped out of line to walk your own.”
We don’t say much else after that. Not for a while.
The next night, back at the Catawba compound, the parking lot is alive. Bikes lined up in neat rows. Music spilling from the clubhouse. Somebody’s grilling, and the smell of charcoal cooking burgers and oil fills the air. It should feel like home.
It doesn’t.
Axel’s standing near the garage, arms folded, laughing at something Rex just said. I catch his eye. He nods. Nothing more. No “hey, good to see you.” No “how was the ride?”
Just a nod.
This is how it’s been between us since the hotel room where he shattered my trust. Is it me causing the distance? Or does he still have this doubt inside him about me? I don’t know.
More importantly, I don’t care.
Once my damn idol, now he’s nothing more than a shadow of my past. I don’t want to be like Axel “Double” Crews anymore. I want to be me in all my mistakes.
Andrew “Little Foot” Jenkins.
I don’t want to be Shooter’s son. I don’t want to be Andrea’s twin. I want to be myself and accepted for it. And anyone who can’t accept it, well just like Axel they can get a nod and I’ll keep on moving.
Toon claps my shoulder. “I’ll catch you inside.”
I watch him go. Then I light another smoke and lean against my bike, staring up at the sky. What the hell am I doing? This was supposed to be everything. The patch. The respect. The legacy. Instead, I feel more like a ghost than ever.
The night rolls on inside the clubhouse like a freight train—music thumping, beer flowing, voices loud with that gritty edge that only comes from men who’ve seen too much and lived to talk about it. I lean against the bar, half-listening to Rex joke with a couple of the older guys. It should be familiar, comforting even, but it’s not. I nurse my beer and let the noise wash over me.
Axel’s in the back corner, his arm slung around Yesnia, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He looks relaxed. Happy. Like a man who is sure of where he belongs. I envy the hell out of him for that.