North Carolina hit different after being back in DC.
The air was thicker, slower.Pine and damp earth instead of exhaust and concrete.Even the sky felt wider, like it had room to breathe.I rode in under a late afternoon sun, the highway unwinding into back roads I could’ve navigated blindfolded.The mountains came into view easing the tension in my body.
Home.
And still, my chest felt unsettled.Because home wasn’t fully home without her.
Home had felt like her apartment.Her couch.Her laugh in the kitchen when I said something smart just to see if she would smile.It had felt like waking up to quiet that wasn’t lonely, the kind of quiet that meant someone was there even if they weren’t talking.
I rolled up to the clubhouse with the familiar crunch of gravel under my tires, killed the engine, and sat for a beat with my hands on the grips.The building looked the same as ever, brick and steel and stubbornness.Men posted outside, heads turning as I pulled in.
A nod here.A lift of a chin there.
I was back.
My phone buzzed in my jacket pocket before I even swung my leg off the bike.
I already knew.
I didn’t look at the screen right away, didn’t want to seem hungry for it, but my body betrayed me.My mouth went dry.My heartbeat hitched.
Nita.
I answered on the second ring.“Yeah.”
Her voice came through like a hand settling on my chest.“You make it?”
“Just pulled in.”
“Be careful,” she said, like she could see the building behind me and knew exactly the kind of trouble it could breed.
“I always am.”
There was a pause, the softest sound of her breathing.“That’s not what I mean.”
I stepped away from the guys lingering out front, pushing through the door, letting the dim interior swallow me.The clubhouse smelled like beer, sweat, leather, and history.Same old ghosts, same old rules.
“I know what you mean,” I murmured.“I’m good.”
“You better be,” she said.
I smiled without meaning to.
And that was the thing that kept knocking me sideways, how relaxed I felt hearing her.How something inside me unclenched just because she existed on the other end of a line.
I ended the call, pocketed my phone, and went straight to Dippy.
He was in the back room where he always was when he wasn’t riding, laptop open, fingers flying, a cigarette burning down in an ashtray like it was an afterthought.The glow from the screen made him look younger than he was, but his eyes were the same as they’d always been—sharp, restless, always searching for the angle.
He didn’t look up when I walked in.“You’re late.”
“I’m not on your schedule.”
He smirked.“Everybody’s on my schedule, old man.They just don’t know it.”
I shut the door behind me.“I need something.”That got his attention.
He glanced up, eyes narrowing.“That’s not ominous at all.”
