We pulled ourselves together eventually, standing on legs that had gone stiff from sitting on concrete for too long. The sun had shifted significantly—we'd been in the garage for hours, lost in conversation and grief and whatever was building between us.
Before we left, I crossed to the Shovelhead, pulling Tyler with me by the hand. The bike sat there waiting, patient as always, Danny's dreamfrozen in time. Dust had gathered on the chrome—I'd neglected her these past few weeks, too caught up in everything else to do the regular maintenance Danny would have insisted on.
"After he died, I couldn't touch it." I ran my free hand over the partially assembled engine, feeling the cold metal beneath my fingers. The surface was rough in places where rust had started to creep in, smooth in others where Danny had already done the finishing work. "Couldn't even look at it most days. Finishing the build felt like accepting that he was really gone. Like I'd be erasing him somehow."
Tyler stood beside me, silent, letting me talk.
"But it wasn't just that. It was also..." I had to stop, find the right words. "Every time I came in here, I saw his failure. Or what I thought was his failure. This bike was supposed to be his fresh start, his proof that he could build something real. And he'd abandoned it, just like he'd abandoned everything else. That's what I told myself."
"But he didn't abandon it."
"No." I traced the line of the gas tank, remembering Danny's hands doing the same thing—his voice excited as he described the custom paint job he wanted, the way the chrome would catch the light, the sound the engine would make when she finally roared to life. "He didn't abandon anything. Someone took all of that from him. And finishing this bike isn't accepting his death. It's honoring what he was trying to build. What he wanted to become."
"Then we finish it." Tyler squeezed my hand. "When the dust settles from all of this. We finish the bike together."
I looked at him—really looked, taking in the dust and exhaustion and determination that marked his face. This man who'd survived manipulation and corruption and a firefight in the desert. This man who'd sat with me through the worst grief of my life and offered nothing but steady presence. Who'd shared his own ghosts in return, trusting me with the broken parts of himself.
"Cherry red," I decided.
Tyler blinked. "What?"
"The paint. Danny wanted cherry red. I always told him black was classic, but—" I shook my head. "It's his bike. His dream. He should have it the way he wanted it."
Tyler's smile was soft, understanding. "Cherry red it is."
I took one last look at the Shovelhead—at the engine Danny had partially rebuilt, at the frame he'd stripped and prepped, at all the potential waiting to be realized. Somewhere out there, the people who'd killed him were still breathing, still running their operations, still thinking they'd gotten away with murder.
They hadn't. They just didn't know it yet.
The garage door creaked as we pushed it open, stepping out into the late afternoon light. The compound was quiet around us—most of the club still recovering from the morning's chaos, the wounded being tended to in the medical bay,everyone processing what had happened and what would come next.
Ghost was sitting on the clubhouse porch, his crutches propped against the railing beside him. He'd probably been there all day, watching, waiting. When he spotted us emerging from the garage, something in his posture shifted.
"About time." His voice carried across the distance. "Sarah's awake and asking for Tyler. Says she's ready to talk."
Tyler glanced at me, a question in his eyes.
"Go." I squeezed his hand once, then let go. "I'll catch up. Need to clean up first."
He nodded, understanding what I wasn't saying—that I needed a moment alone before facing the next crisis, before putting on the enforcer mask and focusing on strategy instead of grief. He pressed a quick kiss to my jaw, too fast for anyone watching to be sure what they'd seen, and headed toward the medical bay.
I watched him go. Watched the way he walked, the set of his shoulders, the particular grace of a man who'd survived more than anyone should have to and kept moving forward anyway.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, expecting a message from Hawk about the debrief.
Unknown number. Two lines of text.
You should have let him die in that desert. Now I'll have to kill you both.
No signature. None needed.
I stared at the screen for a long moment, feeling the cold thing in my chest settle deeper. Cross hadseen us together during the firefight. Seen the way I'd thrown myself between Tyler and his bullet. Seen the way we'd moved as a unit, protecting each other, fighting as one. And now he was making his intentions clear.
The smart thing would be to tell Tyler. To tell Hawk. To bring this to the club and let them help assess the threat, plan a response, watch my back. That was what the club was for—you didn't face danger alone when you had brothers at your side.
But Tyler had just spent an hour telling me about Cross's manipulation. About how Cross had isolated him, controlled him, made him doubt his own judgment. If I showed him this text right now, after everything we'd just shared, it would put Cross right back at the center of his thoughts. It would let Cross's shadow fall across the fragile thing growing between us.
I wouldn't give him that power. Instead, I memorized the number—probably a burner, probably untraceable, but worth checking anyway—and deleted the message. I'd tell Hawk later, in private. Let the club handle the tactical response. But Tyler didn't need to know about this right now. Not while he was still raw from his own revelations. Not while we were both trying to figure out what this thing between us could become.
