Moab
The engine’s howl was the only voice that made sense tonight. Four cylinders and forty years of history, rasping through cracked baffles and bleeding out behind me, loud enough to strip the nonsense right out of my skull. I leaned harder into the curve, knees tight against the tank, felt the edges of the footpegs scoring their own gospel into the tarmac. Pine trees leaned in overhead, their branches crowding the dusk, and I split the difference down the center line, one headlight carving up the twilight like a bone saw. This was the only place I didn’t feel like prey, moving too fast for the old ghosts to hitch a ride.
The wind lifted sweat and cigarette stink off my skin. That and a touch of engine oil. I’d bled on these bars more times than I cared to remember, and the scars across my knuckles pressed white against the grips. I’d broken bones on this bike, too, and she always forgave me. Forgave the hotheaded dumbassery, thebottle in the tank bag, the habit of chasing storms at night when everyone else had the sense to lie low.
Tonight, the sky was all gunmetal and bruised cloud. Low sun through tree trunks striped the road gold and black. When I passed the old church ruins, stained glass splinters caught the light, tossing handfuls of color onto the pavement before they vanished in my wake. No congregation left, unless you counted the crows.
My colors flapped against my back, the leather cut with the Royal Bastards crest stitched in by Edda, the only person on earth who could get the thread through that tough bastard hide. She’d called it “wolf-proof,” which, given the shape my arms took some nights, was maybe a joke and maybe not. Beneath the patch, my tattooed wolf ran the length of my spine, jaws open, gold eyes forever hunting. I felt it tonight, even through the jacket—like the ink itself was burning cold against my skin. Honestly, I was ready to pull off the road and shift, running through the woods as the diabolical wolf that I am when not human.
Freedom was a mile marker, always just ahead. I twisted the throttle and let the bars shake in my hands, split-second wobble at a buck-twenty before the forks caught the rhythm and straightened me out. Nothing for it but to ride it out or go down hard. I liked those odds.
The phone on my thigh vibrated once, then again, urgent enough to cut through the roar. I ignored it. Probably Vin, or else someone who owed Vin and couldn’t pay up without making it my problem. For one goddamn hour, I just wanted the road and the wind and the nothingness at the end of it.
It buzzed again, a steady pulse, and I glanced down—two bars of service, which was two more than I wanted. I ignored the last warning sign, skidded the back tire over the painted line, and let the bike coast as I answered. “Yeah.”
“Moab. Where the fuck are you?” Vin’s voice could smoke out a possum from under the porch. He chewed syllables like they owed him money.
“Southbound. Near Milepost Thirty.”
A short silence. In the gap, I could hear voices behind him, the rattle of pool balls, someone cussing in the background. “You need to head back. Now.”
I knew better than to ask. I’d gotten this far by never making Vin repeat himself. Still, my tongue got out before my brain could stop it. “Thought Prez said I had the night off.”
“You do, now you don’t.” The phone line compressed his words into something sharp. “Riders from the Ghouls crew in our backyard. Yours to handle. You’re closest.”
I flicked the blinker—a dumb reflex, nobody out here but ghosts—and slowed enough to let the clutch whine as I downshifted. My jaw locked up so tight I tasted blood from my tongue.
“Copy,” I said, then clicked off before he could pile on. I parked the Harley dead in the middle of the empty highway and let the rumble die down. The forest pressed in. A whiff of woodsmoke from a far-off burn pile drifted on the wind. If I shut my eyes, I could almost imagine I was back in the world, before all this. Before I became the kind of man who handled the things nobody else would touch.
The freedom I’d been gunning for slipped away so easily, I wondered if it had ever been there at all.
I kicked the stand down, fished the burner phone out, and ran my thumb over the battered screen. Call log said “Vin” in all caps, like he’d forced the goddamn phone to respect his authority. Second on the list was “Edda,” and third was just a number—no name, no clue who it was. My thumb hovered, but I locked the phone and shoved it in my cut. Some things you let ride. Some things you don’t call back.
I ran my left hand over the wolf tattoo on my forearm—a habit when I was pissed off or thinking too much. The ink was old, gone blue at the edges, but it still felt alive when I needed it. Sometimes at night, when I woke up in a sweat, I could swear it moved beneath the skin.
I started the engine. The Harley caught after two hard kicks, the pipes barking in the hush, and I swung her around with a low, grinding U-turn that left a black scrawl across the yellow divider. Duty called, and I answered, like I always fucking did.
As I roared back toward the world I’d never quite managed to leave, the wolf in my chest grinned with all its teeth.
***
The bar was two years past condemned, its paint flaking off in scabs the color of old nicotine, neon sign flickering so slow it looked like a heartbeat giving up. I parked the Harley close enough to see her from the window, killed the engine, and let the silence climb up my spine. The lot was empty but for a rusted-out Ford and a Kia with four doughnut tires and more bumper stickers than actual bumper. Judging by the dry rot on the front step, I was the first new face in a week.
Inside, the air was a syrup of stale beer and sweet smoke. They still let you light up in places like this, out where the laws hadn’t caught up to the culture. The only light came from beer signs and one jaundiced fixture over the pool table, where three locals nursed the same argument they’d probably been having since the Carter administration. I took a seat at the bar, back to the wall, right hand loose above my thigh—old habits. Not like anyone here was likely to try anything, but I’d learned the hard way you don’t ever let your guard down just because everyone else looks half-dead.
The bartender was a square-built woman with silver-streaked braids and arms like rebar under her faded work shirt. She poured me a double without asking, probably clocked the cut and decided whiskey was the safe bet. She didn’t bother with small talk, just flicked her eyes over my face and went back to wiping down the counter with a rag so saturated it was leaving smears instead of cleaning them up.
I downed half the whiskey in a single pull. Burned the roof of my mouth, reminding me I was still made out of meat and bad decisions.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the door open. A man came in, trailing cold air and an attitude, walking like someone who thought he had a right to the place. He had a raw, sunburned face and a scar on his left wrist, thick as a worm and purple-black. Military, maybe, or else a habit of losing arguments with sharp objects. He made a beeline for the waitress, a thin woman who looked too tired to even notice she was being cornered. I noticed, though.
He caught her by the arm. Not hard, but not gentle, either. “Hey, sugar, you forgot my goddamn order.”
She tried to twist away, forced a smile, the sort of grimace waitstaff wear when they want tips more than teeth. “I’m getting to it, hon. We’re a little slammed.”
He jerked her a little closer, voice dropping. “Don’t bullshit me, girl. I saw you talking to those dirtbags over there.”
The bartender clocked the scene, eyes flat and unreadable. Nobody else in the bar looked up. I set my glass down, pushed the stool back, and moved. My boots made no sound on the sticky tiles. I slid between the bar and the man, gave him a cold two seconds to take the hint.
