My patience finally snaps.
“Is there a point to this conversation, Tom? ’Cuz last I checked, I’m not your therapist.”
His eyes narrow, and for a second I see the man who once beat somebody to death with a tire iron for disrespecting him.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” he says. Then he turns away from me and toward the crowd, raising his voice to a shout. “Listen up! I’ve got shit to say!”
The patio goes quiet almost instantly. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even Ozzie turns down the music. Everyone turns to look at Tom as he steps into the center of the space like he owns it.
Which, in his mind, he does.
My teeth grind together as he launches into what’s clearly a prepared speech.
“It’s good to be back home where I belong!” he says, raising his beer high, playing to the crowd. “For four long years, this club survived without me, but survivingain’tthriving!”
Some of the guys cheer, raising their own beers in response. Bush and Mudd are eating it up, hanging on every word.
But I notice Logan’s face tighten with barely concealed anger and Cash scratching at the back of his neck as if he’s disinterested in anything else Tom has to say.
“The Steel Kings used to run this whole fucking valley!” Tom booms, holding his arms out wide at his sides. “People knew our name, feared it,respectedit! We didn’t apologize for what we were—outlaws, rebels, kings of our fucking domain! We took what we wanted and dared anybody to stop us!”
More cheers, mostly from the older guys who remember those days through rose-colored glasses. They forget the Wild West style conflicts, the prison sentences, the brothers we lost to violence and overdoses.
But I’m not listening anymore. I’m watching Solana slip away from the table, moving through the crowd toward the saloon’s back entrance.
Nobody else notices—they’re all too busy tuning into Tom’s performance. But I saw her face when she was on the phone.
Something’s happened. Something bad.
“We’re gonna return to our former glory!” Tom declares to louder and louder cheers. “We’re gonna remind everybody from here to Houston why the Steel Kings are fucking legends! Why our name used to make grown-ass men piss themselves!”
I wait another thirty seconds, then slowly step back. Nobody’s watching me anyway—Tom’s got them mesmerized with his bullshit about the so-called good ol’ days.
I slip through the crowd, following Solana’s path, as Tom’s speech goes on.
“Anybody who stands against us will learn what happens when you cross a motherfucking Steel King!”
The saloon’s door closes behind me, muting the cheers, hoots, and hollers that meet his declaration. The enthusiastic applause and whistles and chants of “fuck yeah!”
I’m already at my truck without looking back. Without any interest in returning anytime soon.
Right now, Solana needs me more than Tom needs an audience.
I spot her three blocks from the saloon, walking with her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s trying to hold the fractured pieces together. Her eyes are fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, looking smaller than she already is.
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows, and she’s lost in hers.
I pull over and roll down the window, arm slung over the wheel. “Need a ride?”
She startles, brown eyes widening with surprise. For a second she simply stares at me as if she can’t process how I’ve appeared. Then she gives the smallest, subtlest nod and quickly climbs into the truck without a word.
I don’t pull away from the curb right away, unsure how to handle this now that she’s agreed.
“Wanna talk about it?”
She hesitates before giving another small nod.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking where to go from here.
