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)
When he catches me watching, he nods again. That same half-assed, obligatory nod. I give one back. That’s how we communicate now—barely.
Rex eventually slaps my shoulder. “You good, kid?”
“Always.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”
I force a smirk. “Wouldn’t dare.”
He grunts. “If you need something, you ask. You’re family. Start acting like it.”
His words land heavier than they should. I nod, but it doesn’t sit right. Because if this is what being family feels like—second-guessed, sidelined, doubted—then maybe I don’t want it.
After a while, I step outside to breathe.
The night air hits like a balm to my soul, cool and clean compared to the sweat and smoke inside. I sit on my bike, light another cigarette, and stare at the gravel under my boots.
The memory of the Tail of the Dragon flashes through my head again. That ride. That failure. That voice in my head whispering you’re not ready. I thought it would go away when I got my full rocker.
It didn’t.
It still hasn’t. I flick ash to the ground and grab my phone. I scroll through messages, mostly junk. One from a girl I hooked up with in Asheville. Don’t remember much but she wants another night.
Nope.
Toon steps out of the clubhouse, a beer in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He sees me staring at the night like it owes me something.
“You get quiet, I get nervous,” he says.
I look at him. “You ever pull a move so reckless, it might just be genius?”
He grins. “Brother, that’s my whole personality.”
I don’t share with him my crazy thoughts. How I go from one extreme to the other inside my head on how to stand out. He doesn’t need to know that. I don’t share how when things get quiet inside, I get nervous for myself too. How sometimes I think being reckless is the only way to get seen.
The next morning, I wake before the sun. I swing my legs off the mattress and stare at my boots. The blonde’s still asleep, her breathing shallow and even, the curve of her hip peeking out from under the thin blanket. She looks peaceful. But I feel restless.
After partying at the clubhouse, I took her down the street to the local motel. I don’t share my bed at the compound or my house with one-night stands. The motel room’s quiet except for the low hum of the air unit. I lace up, throw on my cut, and slip outside, the door clicking shut behind me.
The early morning air is crisp, the kind that reminds you life’s still happening, even when you feel stuck in neutral. I hop on my bike and head toward a back road I know, one that winds along with pine trees lining the sides all the way down. There’s no traffic, no noise, just the growl of the engine and the steady thump of my pulse.
I ride hard and fast, letting the machine absorb my frustration. The engine drowns out every voice in my head—Axel, Shooter, even my own. The road is my confessional, my therapy, my escape. It always has been.
Half an hour later, I pull off at a clearing and kill the engine. The sun is just starting to rise, streaking the sky with orange and gold. I sit on my bike, smoke in hand, staring out at the horizon.
After breakfast, I head to the Hellions garage. Axel is there working on a rebuild. He’s relaxed, laughing, loose, and confident. The way he always is.
He glances up at me as I walk by giving me just a nod. No words. I keep going working my way to the back to prep the truck for the transport.
The afternoon comes as Toon and I finish our maintenance on the truck. With grease under my nails, sun shining down on my face, it’s the kind of work day that usually clears my head.
Not today.
I’m restless inside.
“You’re in your head again.” Toon tells me what I already know.
“Maybe I like it there.”
He laughs, “fuckin’ liar.”
“I said maybe,” I joke back.
“Change of scenery. We’ll have a good transport. Come back reset, brother.”
Who knows, maybe? We are set up for a transport and leave in the morning.
Maybe this trip changes my entire outlook.
TWO
CAMBRIA
Not a girl, barely a woman … and barely hanging on
Eighteen years old and stuck in a life that smells like stale cigarettes, cheap liquor, and motel bleach. The sun beats down on the cracked asphalt parking lot as I crouch near the vending machines outside our room, scrounging coins from under the rusted metal lip and on the concrete below. Thirty-seven cents. That brings my grand total to four dollars and sixteen cents—still not enough for another night, but maybe enough for gas station dinner if I skip lunch again.
Momma’s been inside all morning, curled under a stained blanket, rolling in and out of sleep. She gets like this when she hasn’t had her fix—bones aching, skin crawling, voice slurred and distant. Last night she promised she’d be okay.