Riot comes in a minute later, leaning against the wall, eyes sharp. “What the fuck was that? That chick’s out there pouting like you hurt her or some shit.”
I dry my hands and glare at him. “Seriously? You think I’d put my hands on a woman, Ri?”
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me patiently, waiting me out.
I scrub a hand down my face. “She couldn’t keep her hands to herself, so I put space between us. I didn’t hurt her. Maybe bruised her pride.” I drop my hand and meet his eyes. “I wasn’t interested.”
I meet his gaze, jaw tight. “Maybe I’m tired of all the meaningless pussy.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah, okay, buddy. Whatever you say. It’s your turn.”
I walk back out to the table and clock the situation immediately. Another brother is already in the woman’s space, murmuring something low, smooth, doing damage control. Thank fucking God. Diesel’s happily taking one for the team, smiling easy, steering her away like this is just another night.
I grab my beer, take a long swig, then set the empty bottle down and pick up the cue. I lean over the table, line it up, and send the solid clean into the far corner pocket. Satisfying. Controlled.
I straighten and scan the room. Blade, Switch, and Rev are posted in the back corner with Mason, Dagger, Tank, and Piston. All officers. All business. Their heads are close, voices low, body language tight. Whatever they’re talking about isn’t casual.
Mason catches my eye briefly. Just a look. Enough to tell me it matters. He’s the Iron Reapers MC president. Fair. Steady. A military man himself. He saw exactly what I needed when I asked to join, even if he didn’t know why I needed it so damn bad.
No one but Riot knows my past. I haven’t opened up to anyone else. That’s why some of the brothers questioned my timing, my motives. It doesn’t piss me off. I get it.
If I were them, I would’ve questioned it too. Especially since Riot uncovered that two of our own had been dirty, feeding intel straight to those evil Russian fuckers and putting our women in the crosshairs. That kind of threat doesn’t fade. It waits. I roll the cue between my palms, eyes drifting back to the officers. Whatever’s coming next, it’s not small. And I’ve got a bad feeling my life’s already started shifting, whether I like it or not.
When the game wraps up, I settle my tab and don’t linger. A few goodbyes. A couple nods. That’s enough for tonight.
I swing a leg over my bike and head out, the road empty enough that I don’t have to think about anyone else. Just throttle, balance, forward motion. The kind of quiet that lets my head finally shut the hell up.
Home is a few miles out. A three-bedroom house on a dead-end street. Nothing fancy. When I bought it, it was barely standing. Rotten siding. Crooked floors. Wiring that looked like someone gave up halfway through. But it had good bones.
I needed something that would keep me busy. Keep my hands working and my thoughts from going places they don’t belong. Turns out tearing things apart and putting them back together does that for me.
Working with my hands keeps me steady and gives the noise somewhere to go. When I’m not with the club or on a job, I’m here. Replacing boards. Fixing what someone else broke. Bringing the place back to life one project at a time. It’s slow and frustrating. But it’s honest and it reminds me that some things don’t need to be rushed to be worth saving.
The first thing I worked on when I bought the place was the floors. The carpet was shot, stained, holding onto shit I didn’t want hanging around. I ripped it all out and replaced it with hardwood. Riot and Ghost helped, and we knocked it out in one weekend. No complaints. Just work. By Sunday night, the place finally felt solid under my boots.
After that, I went straight for the kitchen. A big kitchen was something I’d wanted for a long time, even before I could admit why. Growing up, my mom lived in the kitchen. She cooked. She baked. She hummed while she worked like the world made sense when there was something in the oven. That room was warm. Loud. Alive.
She died from cancer when I was thirteen. It wrecked me.
My dad tried. I’ll give him that. He showed up the best way he knew how, but he was drowning too, and neither of us knewhow to grab hold of the other. Without my mom holding things together, the house fell quiet. Empty. And I went looking for anything that would make it stop hurting. Drugs. Alcohol. Whatever numbed the edge fastest. I didn’t have the words for grief back then. I just knew I didn’t want to feel it.
Once inside, I grab a shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until the noise in my head finally eases off. By the time I shut it off, my muscles feel loose and heavy in a good way.
I pull on a pair of basketball shorts and nothing else, pad into the kitchen barefoot. It’s late, but I’m hungry in that specific way that only hits when everything finally slows down.
I make two peanut butter and honey sandwiches, thick layers, no care for balance. Pour myself a tall glass of milk. Simple. Familiar. The kind of food that doesn’t ask questions.
I take it all to the couch, drop down, and turn the game on. The room fills with the sound of the crowd, the steady rhythm of something I don’t have to think about.
I’m pissed at myself for how I reacted to that woman tonight. Riot wasn’t wrong. I always fuck some chick. It’s easy. It’s expected. It keeps things simple and quiet in my head. So why didn’t I want it this time? I stare at the TV without really seeing the game, jaw tight, replaying it. The way my body reacted. The way my head shut it down. The way something in me recoiled instead of leaning in. That doesn’t happen, not to me.
I don’t get tangled. I don’t hesitate. I don’t walk away from an open door. Sex has always been a pressure release, nothing more. In, out, gone before it can mean anything. Clean. Tonight wasn’t clean. The thought digs under my skin. If I didn’t wanther, what the hell does that say about me? About what I actually want? About what I’ve been using women to avoid?
I don’t like the answers circling the edges of my head. Because wanting nothing is easy. Wanting something specific is dangerous. Wanting one woman, one feeling, one moment that didn’t come with rules or distance or an exit plan? That’s how you lose control. I scrub a hand over my face and take another bite of my sandwich, forcing myself to focus on something solid. Chew. Swallow. Breathe. I don’t do complications.
THREE
SAVANNAH
