I let that roll off me. People have said variations of it my whole life. Too quiet. Too restless. Too comfortable with distance.
“Is that a yes?” I ask.
Country Boy’s eyes cut toward the window for a second—toward the bikes, toward the men, toward the life he’s responsible for keeping intact.
Then he looks back at me. “It’s a yes,” he states. “Because you’re right. It’s money. And because you’ll go whether I bless it or not. And Tripp’s already looped in. I wish you’d take Dove or have Smoke go the whole way. But I also know better than to push you or argue because I do nothing but waste my time and energy.”
I smile a little. “You know me.”
“Yeah,” he says, voice going cold. “That’s the problem.”
He steps around the desk, stopping close enough that I catch the scent of leather and the faint bite of whiskey. He drops a hand on my shoulder, not gentle, not rough—just solid. The weight of a promise. “You check in,” he orders. “When you hit Tennessee. When you hit Arkansas. When you leave. If you miss a call, you miss one check-in —”
“I know,” I cut in. “You’ll come burn the state down.”
Country Boy’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but definitely amused. “Damn right.”
I nod once. “Smoke and I roll out in the morning.”
“Bring it back clean,” he tells me.
I hold his gaze. “Always.”
I walk out before he can change his mind.
***
Smoke’s already outside when I swing a leg over my bike. He’s a wall of muscle and ink and bad attitude, leaning against his ride like the asphalt owes him rent. He gives me a look that says he already knows.
“Arkansas?” he asks and I nod.
“Bella Vista.”
“Heard through the grapevine, Wrath called in.” He spits to the side. “You got a death wish, Treasurer?”
Bella Vista isn’t a problem. It’s parts of Tennessee that pose the threat. “Only on weekends.”
Smoke laughs, but it’s brief, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. He watches the road like it’s a living thing that might bite.
We roll out of Salemburg with the sun starting to rise, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of my neck. The town shrinks behind us—churches, gas stations, familiar corners that feel smaller every time I leave. And damn, if that doesn’t settle something in my soul.
The highway takes over. Miles disappear out here. There’s nothing to do but ride, think, and simply be. The thrum of my engine settles into my bones, the wind tearing at my cut, the world narrowing to lanes, speed and following the lines ahead.
Smoke rides close until we hit the interstate, then he drops back where he can watch my blind spots. Because he knows me, probably too well. When I need to escape, Smoke is a Nomad who welcomes me at his side. He knows I get wound up if I stay in one place too long.
Interstate 40 west is an easy run, but sometimes backroads help clear the mind. Smoke and I alternate between major highways and taking the scenic routes. We stop for gas outside Johnson City. Smoke keeps the small talk minimal, but he doesn’t leave me alone with my thoughts too long either. He always seems to plan our stops just when my mind goes places it shouldn’t. Maybe he chases his own away, I don’t know. What I do know is he gets me without me having to share my inner demons.
Hours and miles go by. The more space between Salemburg, NC and me, the more at ease I become. It’s crazy because there is supposed to be no place like home, but for me, home feels like jail sometimes. At the Tennessee line before crossing into Arkansas, we pull off at a rest stop that smells like diesel and swamp ass.
Smoke kills his engine and swings off, stretching like he’s trying to shake off the ride. “This is where you get stupid,” he states with a smirk.
“This is where you turn around,” I correct. “And don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy, daddy.”
He steps close, eyes narrowing. “Country Boy’s gonna have my balls if you don’t check in.”
“I’ll check in,” I state with a shrug.
“Don’t just check in,” he snaps. “Listen. If something feels wrong?—”
