It’s insane.
Except the idea of seeing him again sends a warmth through my chest so fierce I almost gasp.
Holley:
You really want me to come?
Tony:
I asked, didn’t I?
And then:
Tony:
Doors are always open. Your call.
That does it.
I put the car in drive before I can talk myself out of it.
Five hours later, I’m still gripping the steering wheel too tightly.
The long road into Salemburg feels like driving into a different world. The sky is clearer. The air heavier with pine. The town itself is small, tucked between long stretches of open road. The houses look lived in, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Bikes rumble somewhere in the distance—low, familiar thunder.
My stomach twists.
He invited me.
I didn’t warn him I was actually coming.
Which seemed romantic and bold an hour ago—until I pulled onto the street where he said the compound is.
The gate is open, guarded by two men who give me once-overs sharp enough to peel paint.
“Hey,” one says, stepping forward. “You lost, sweetheart?”
“No,” I say, voice steadier than I feel. “I’m looking for Tony.” They give me a look like I’m speaking a foreign language. I’ve read biker books so I trust my instinct. “Stud?”
They exchange a look.
“You Holley?” the other asks.
Shock flickers through me. “How did you?—?”
“He said you might come around.” The first one jerks his head inside the gate. “Garage is down the left side.”
Heat creeps up my neck.
He told them I might come?
I drive slowly into the compound. It’s not what I expected. Cleaner. Organized. Bikes lined in neat rows. A couple of men working under a lifted truck. Another washing down chrome. The clubhouse itself looks like a converted warehouse—weathered, but sturdy.
Then I see him.
Tony stands in front of the garage, wiping grease off his hands with a shop rag, back turned, head bent over something he’s been working on. His tattoos flex as he moves. His shoulders are tense, drawn tight like he’s working out a problem in his head.
I pull in beside the garage.
