I'm going to Breaker. We'll celebrate. We'll plan our future.
Everything's going to be all right.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Riley
The directions Breaker texted me lead east, out of town, past the phalanx of parade floats and the streams of kids in their face paint and plastic beads, past the bunting and the grinning adults holding cans of off-brand beer in lawn chairs. I keep driving, beyond the last of Ironwood Falls’ patched asphalt, the darkened windows of the old mill, and the sandwich shop that’s been “Coming Soon” for almost two years. My hands squeeze the steering wheel, white-knuckled, as the houses thin out and the road narrows between groves of second-growth pine. The GPS arrow crawls along the screen, pointing me onto a muddy turnoff behind three forgotten strip-mall shops and a vacant hair salon with its awning half-collapsed. At the end of the lane sits a squat, cinderblock bar with a flickering neon rose in the window and a hand-lettered sign that just says: COLD BEER.
I almost turn around then. I should. Something about the place, maybe the silence or the emptiness, tugs at some primal warning system in my brain.
But I see it before I even park: Breaker’s bike.
My chest floods with relief so intense my eyes sting. My arms and legs go weak, like I’ve been running for miles and finally reached the finish line and can collapse on the ground. All the fear and tension I’ve carried for so long just drains away in the space of a breath. He did it. He’s alive. We get to be together. The only thing left now is the future we both want, the one I can’tstop picturing in my head even when I try to be sensible and realistic and adult about things.
I’m finally free.
I sit behind the wheel for a moment, imagining a future where I’m not constantly looking over my shoulder. A future where I wake up in the clubhouse next to him every morning, where I don’t have to worry about running…
Where I’m his ol’ lady.
The thought scares me with how right it feels and with how badly I want it. Before, I ran for my freedom, for my life, and now I can’t wait to put down roots and belong to him. I imagine us together, no longer fugitives from our own pasts — maybe even putting down roots, despite how allergic I’ve always been to the idea. Not just surviving, but living. Living, like normal people do, like happy people do. Maybe even — god help me — like families do.
Smiling, I step out and head inside.
The place reeks of old cigarette smoke, Pine-Sol, and sweat. The ceiling is low, the lights even lower, and there’s a yellowed pool table in the back with a single cue stick. Four men in Carhartt jackets sit at a table in the corner, shoveling greasy food into their mouths and keeping their eyes on the muted TV behind the bar. None of them are Breaker. There aren’t even any bikers in sight — just me and a scattering of men who look like the type that I definitely don’t want to talk to. My stomach tightens. Where is he?
On the bar sit two drinks: one full, one half-drained.
The bartender is skinny, maybe early forties, with an anarchy sign tattooed on his forearm and a habit of wiping the counter with a rag that looks dirtier than the surface itself. He doesn’t quite smile at me, but his eyes flick up and down, appraising.
“You Riley?” he asks.
I freeze. My instincts prickle — thorns beneath the skin that warn me despite the love and happiness flowing through my veins. My voice sticks in my throat.
Before I can answer, he gestures at the full glass on the counter. “Breaker already bought you a drink. He went to hit the head. Told me to keep an eye out. Said you two had something to celebrate.”
Some of the tightness in my chest loosens. “He did?”
“Hell yeah.” The bartender smirks. “Said he had abigquestion to ask you, too. Man seemed happier than a pig in shit, if you wanna know the truth. Kept looking at his phone. You’re something special to him, aren’t you?”
My face flushes. I hate that it’s obvious. “Maybe.”
He shrugs. “Whatever you did, I hope you keep doing it. Guy tipped me a hundred bucks.”
He slides the glass toward me — amber, smoky, and sharp even from a foot away.
I smile and slide onto the bar stool. I lift the glass. The smell burns my nose. It’s sharp, almost chemical, but then, I’m not a whiskey girl. This isn’t what I’d usually order, but maybe Breaker chose it for a reason. Maybe this whiskey has a special meaning for him. That thought makes me smile, and I imagine him coming back, sitting beside me, and telling me what this drink means to him, letting me even more into his world. Bringing us closer. I take a sip. It burns just as it smells.
I take another sip.
Then another.
After a minute, the glass is half empty.
Something's wrong.
The back of my throat goes numb. My lips tingle. The light in the room warps, as though someone turned the dimmer all the way down, and the voices at the corner table stretch and slur, slow-motion.
