She lets out an exasperated huff. “Do what you want, he certainly always does.” Her glare goes straight to Smoke, “but this is my place of business and you need to stay outta my way.”
“Your wish is my command, princess,” Smoke retorts and I reach out and smack him in the back of the head.
“Shut the fuck up, brother.”
Honey smirks that turns into a full on fuck you smile, “Smoke, you wish I could be your princess. Ship sailed.”
Smoke hangs his head. “Dammit, Honey. I wanna at least be friends. Once we were good together.”
She laughs in his face, “I’m not the one who fucked that up. Thanks for the sperm, though. The sex was great and the kids are gorgeous. I got everything I ever plan to have from you. Visit your kids, then head out like you always do.”
She doesn’t give either of us a chance to respond before she walks off into the front office.
Smoke looks at me, grabs the bag, and hands me a wrapped sandwich. Greasy burgers and fries eaten standing up, leaning against a workbench in comfortable silence. Smoke eats like he hasn’t seen a decent meal in days, which is probably true.
“You riding anywhere?” he asks between bites.
“Not right now. At least nothing on the calendar.”
Smoke arches a brow. “That’s new.”
“I’ve got responsibilities,” I remind him.
He snorts. “You’ve always had responsibilities. You just used to ignore them better.”
I don’t argue. He’s not wrong. “You still hate sleeping in the same bed too many nights in a row?” he asks.
“Depends on who is in the bed,” I reply with a wink.
He grins. “There he is.”
We talk routes, old runs, places he’s been since he left Salemburg. Montana. Nevada. A stretch in Texas he doesn’t elaborate on. Smoke moves like a rumor—never long enough anywhere to leave more than a flash of a memory.
“Country still questing you about staying put?” he asks knowing that I used to be worse than him about staying in place.
“Every chance he gets.”
“Yeah,” Smoke replies. “Presidents like knowing where their people are.”
“And nomads like forgetting,” I reply.
Smoke studies me for a moment, more serious now. “You could ride with me for a bit. Nothing official. Just miles for Miles.”
The offer sits there, tempting. “I can’t disappear,” I share. “As much as I don’t want to be tied down, call me fucking Dorothy because there is still no place like home.”
“Didn’t say forever,” he counters. “Just enough to breathe.”
“Maybe, we’ll see when it comes time for you to hit the pavement and find a new zip code” I state.
Smoke smiles and then gets serious. “I’m thinkin’ Honey isn’t gonna be keen on letting me crash on her couch. If I need a crash pad, you still got the key under the gnome by the steps?”
I nod taking a bite of my burger. “Always, brother.”
The afternoon passes with my head down over the engine of my Thunderbird filing points on the carburetor trying to tell myself this one is fine and I don’t need to swap the whole thing out for a new one.
By the time evening rolls around, Salemburg feels louder. I stroll over into the clubhouse after having a quick shower to wash the grease of the day down the drain. The bar fills. Music cranks up. Laughter spills into the street outside. This is the version of the club outsiders see—the brotherhood, the noise, the spectacle.
It’s real. It’s just not all of it. I step outside as dusk settles, cigarette burning between my fingers. Smoke joins me, leaning against the railing, eyes on the road like it might call his name if he stares long enough.
