“I don’t think sleep is in the cards tonight,” I said.
“Then lay down anyway,” he replied. “Stare at the ceiling. Pretend. Your body will take what it can get.”
He turned to go, then stopped. “Tomorrow,” he added, “I’ll call Liberty again. Arrange for a clean pull on that wreck. I’m thinking 8-Ball, Priest, Roadkill and Turnpike. They’ll go in, strip anything that matters, and get it out before anyone else can get to it.”
“Turnpike earned that,” I said. “He blocked that road without blinking. Saved all our asses by helping Miami get away. He has been solid ashell for a while now. It is about time we slap a patch on him.”
Blackjack nodded slowly. “He has done more than enough,” he said. “We will put it on the docket for a future Church. Assuming we still have a Church to hold after all this.”
“Fair,” I said. “I’ll tell him to keep his hopes up.”
“You do that,” Blackjack said. He clapped my shoulder once. “Get your head straight, Jersey. Tomorrow, you walk into someone else’s house with our patch on your back. Remember where you are.”
“Yes, Prez.”
***
Morning tasted like old coffee and anxiety.
The sky was just starting to bleed from navy to gray when I pulled out of the lot. The air was cold enough to bite through my cut and into my bones in a way that felt almost good. Something sharp to focus on besides the looping reel of what-ifs in my head.
The roads north were quiet at this hour. The boardwalk lights behind me were still on, a glittering false smile over sleeping casinos. As I passed the edge of our usual routes, the buildings changed. Less neon, more brick. More dead storefronts. Different graffiti. Long back roads and sleepy little towns.
Lady Liberty’s shadow lay over this. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.
I rode with one hand light on the bars, the otherresting near the grip, mind tracing old memories to keep from drowning in new ones.
Miami talking non-stop about how the sky here was “all wrong” compared to Florida while on a ride, but the women were top shelf. Miami quotingMiami Vicein the middle of a shootout once, getting Priest to snort-laugh behind cover. Miami drunk on the picnic table outside the clubhouse, telling me in all seriousness that he was going to die alone because he loved his bike more than he loved people.
Then Quinn had walked in. Tight jeans. Too much eyeliner. Laugh like a dare. He had tried to charm her with the usual lines. She had rolled her eyes so hard I thought they would fall out, then told him he was pretty enough to be a poster boy and just dumb enough to let her train him.
He never stood a chance.
I remembered the night he had shown up in my room at three in the morning, eyes wide, holding an empty ring box.
“I am going to marry her,” he had said.
“You already act like it,” I had replied.
“I am serious,” he had insisted. “I am going to do it right one day. Ask Blackjack, do the dinner, all that stupid shit.”
“You should,” I had said. “She has put up with your playlists. That alone is devotion.”
“But if I fuck it up,” he had added. “Youhave to punch me.”
“I’d gladly do that for free, anytime.”
That memory sat heavy now. As the miles rolled under me, I made a quiet promise to the empty road.
“You live through this,” I muttered into the wind, “I am making you propose. I do not care if I have to drag you to a jewelry store myself to fill that empty box.”
The highway turned into a state road. The state road cut through a cluster of older buildings, then gave way to a cluster of medical complexes, low-rise offices, strip malls. Shoreline General sat back from the main drag, low and wide, all glass and pale concrete, banners hanging out front about community and care and other shit that sounded thin against what really went on inside.
I pulled into the lot, noting instinctively where the cameras were, where the exits sat, how many cars were parked. Morning shift. Light traffic. A couple of nurses in scrubs smoking near the rear entrance. A janitor pushing a cart.
And one bike.
It was parked three rows over from the main door, near the side access that led toward the staff entrance. Matte black, lean lines, curves that said built, not bought. The rider sat atop it, helmet on, visor down, body still.
