“I’ll leave,” I finish.
He doesn’t look satisfied, but he nods once anyway. “You better. Or at least reach out. I won’t be far.”
“Seriously, I get you got kids man, but I’m good, brother.”
Smoke shakes his head. “Can’t explain it, something feels off this time.”
I laugh in his face, “Honey’s got you learning to worry. Careful, Smoke you keep havin’ feelings you might just find you wanna be back home with your woman and your kids.”
He shakes his head. “I fucked that shit up a long time ago. Even if I wanted to come home, Honey is done with my ass. We co-parent and that is that.”
It’s my turn to smirk, “keep tellin’ yourself more lies, Smoke. I’ll be alright, you go do what you gotta do and I’ll touch base when I head back East. You wanna head back you’re always welcome in Salemburg.”
We clasp forearms, the kind of grip that isn’t sentimental but means something anyway. Then he mounts up and heads back east, disappearing into the flow of traffic.
And I keep going. Alone. For whatever reason, I find peace in solitude. It’s probably what makes me most dangerous of all.
Arkansas looks like it’s trying to lull you. It gives this illusion of safety and family. Trees and hills, soft green rolling past like it’s all harmless.
It’s not. No place is. Not when men like us move through it. Playing the games we play in the name of brotherhood, business, or just boredom.
I hit Bella Vista just before midnight, the long gone, the moon lighting the way to the motel. My phone buzzes once—Country Boy’s name.
I don’t answer while I’m riding. He knows this. Very few of us will. I pull into a parking spot, kill the engine, and call him back.
“I’m here,” I say.
Country Boy’s exhale is loud in my ear. “Meet?”
“Now.”
“Be careful.”
“I always am,” I lie.
He hangs up without saying goodbye. That’s Country Boy. No softness. No wasted words. It’s why he’s President.
I walk next door to the diner Wrath picked—low building, neon sign, parking lot half full. The kind of place where no one looks twice at a biker because they’ve seen worse.
Wrath is inside. Big bastard with a hard face and eyes that don’t miss much. Saints patch on his cut, shoulders squared like he’s never known the meaning of relaxed.
He stands when he sees me.
“Miles,” he says.
“Wrath.”
We shake hands. His grip is iron, testing. Mine doesn’t give. Same shit we have done the last two meetings.
“Appreciate you coming,” he states casually.
“Country Boy doesn’t appreciate it,” I tell him.
Wrath’s mouth twitches. “Presidents rarely do.”
We slide into a booth away from the windows. Coffee comes. Food doesn’t. This isn’t that kind of stop.
Wrath leans in. “Saints need a transport moved. Not small. Not light.”
