“He was,” Country Boy says. “Nomad life is him through and through. Says he’ll roll out again soon. But said he has some shit to square away at home and it’s gonna take a beat. He said shit won’t be permanent, but he’s gonna be here for a little longer than the usual.”
I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking. Smoke never stays long. Never could. He was Salemburg once—patched in, bled here—but some men aren’t built for roots. The road gets under their skin, and once it does, nothing else quite fits right again.
I get it. I know there are some here though, they won’t like this. “I’ll catch him later,” I state eyeing my brother. “Stud know?”
Country Boy watches me like he’s weighing something. “You don’t miss it?”
I shrug I was a nomad for a time. “Miss what?”
“Not being tied down,” he continues. “Taking off when the mood hits. No ledgers. No meetings. No balancing shit.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “You offering me your seat?”
Country Boy huffs a laugh. “Not a chance. Just don’t want to hold you back. Best treasurer we’ve had, but I know you get twitchy feeling stuck.”
The truth sits heavy between us. Salemburg anchors me. The club calms me. I chose this. I don’t regret it. I like my position. But some days, the walls feel closer than they used to. Like the town is somehow shrinking and I wonder if I still fit. Or maybe I’m just restless.
I close the ledger and stand. “I’ll be around.”
“Try to be,” Country Boy states.
I leave before he can read anything else on my face.
The garage smells like oil and metal and heat. It’s honest work down here—hands-on, loud, uncomplicated. I strip off my cut and hang it on a hook before rolling my sleeves up. Ink spills down my arms, familiar and comfortable. One of the prospects nods at me as I pass.
“Morning, Miles. Heading to take these tools to Tom.”
“Morning,” I reply not sure why the jackass is telling me that. Tom is a master mechanic. Not a Hellion, but he’s worked at Honey’s Hot Rods forever and the man knows cars and bikes. The gearheads in the club always put in time to help Honey out. The few jobs we take off Tom’s plate keep her from needing to hire another mechanic and gives men like me something to do so I don’t climb the walls.
I spend the next couple hours doing some state inspections, checking parts for my t-bird to order, and making myself useful in ways that don’t involve money. It keeps the balance. Reminds me, I’m not just numbers and paperwork to the club. Reminds the brothers too.
By noon, Smoke shows up. He rides in like he owns the damn place—bike rumbling loud, boots hitting the concrete hard enough to echo. He’s grinning already, beard thicker than the last time I saw him, eyes bright with that road-worn freedom I both envy and distrust.
“Miles,” he states, spreading his arms like he expects a hug because that’s Smoke, never rattled.
I don’t give him one. I clap a hand on his shoulder instead. “You look homeless.”
He laughs. “Nomad, brother. There’s a difference.”
“Debatable.”
Smoke glances around the garage, at the bikes, the men, the familiar chaos. “Missed this,” he admits.
“That tracks.” I reply with the truth. “You just can’t ever seem to manage to stay.”
I grab the bag of food he’s got from the diner up the road and take a peak. “Thanks for thinking of me, brother,” I tease as I watch his face go hard. Turning I see, the spitfire that gets his attention always heading our way.
“Honey, I grabbed some lunch.”
“Already ate,” she states pausing beside me hands on her hips. “Kids are at school, Smoke. Come back at four.” She turns to me, “Miles, thanks for the assist today. You’re good, head out with your brother and have a good time.”
I grab my chest in mock hurt. “Honey are you dismissing me?”
She nods, “think I made that clear. Time to go, buddy.”
Tiffany “Honey” Brocato is a five feet tall stick of dynamite. She is built tough, stands up on her own, and if her fuse gets lit, there is sure to be an explosion. And no one lights her up more than Darrel “Smoke” Warren. Those two have a history tangled in love, passion, and pain all in equal parts. The love is real, the fire is scorching, and the burn is the kind that never simmers only hurts.
“Not finished with my shit. If I keep Smoke outta your way can we stay?”
