“Holden!” Handful spotted me and grinned. “Tell Glitch that what happened in Portland counts as a real bet.”
“I’m not getting involved in whatever degenerate gambling situation you’ve created.” I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door. “Some of us have somewhere to be.”
“Going to see Dr. Feelgood?” Handful’s grin widened. “Tell her I said hi. And that I’m available if she ever wants to upgrade.”
“Touch my woman and I’ll break every bone in your hand.” The words came out casual, almost friendly, but we both knew I meant them.
“See, that’s why you’re Road Captain.” Handful raised his beer in a mock toast. “Always thinking ahead.”
Glitch caught my eye as I headed for the door. “Hey, you finalize the route yet? I want to make sure comms are set up for the dead zones.”
“It’s done. I want to sit with it one more night — I’ll send you the full breakdown in the morning.”
He nodded, already turning back to his laptop — the thing went everywhere with him. Glitch was the one brother I never had to worry about. His preparation matched mine, just in adifferent arena. Between my routes and his tech, we’d never lost a shipment.
The evening was cool as I walked to my bike. My Softail was parked in its usual spot in the officers’ row, between Colt’s bike and an empty space. Colt had been distracted all week, which wasn’t like him. Our VP didn’t lose focus. When he went quiet like this, it usually meant he was working something through on his own. Whatever it was, he’d share it when he was ready.
I swung a leg over and let the engine rumble to life, feeling some of the tension drain out of my shoulders. This was the other thing that kept me sane—the road itself, the wind against my face, the way the noise in my head went quiet when it was just me, the engine, and the next mile of road.
Bea’s apartment was twenty minutes from the clubhouse, a second-floor unit in a quiet complex that she’d chosen for its proximity to her practice. I’d offered to help her find something closer to the club—closer to me—but she’d just smiled and said something about maintaining professional boundaries.
That was Bea. She still kept those clean lines between her work and her life, between her clients and her boyfriend. We’d only been dating for six months — six months since she’d finally said yes, after years of no, after a night in a parking lot when I’d held her without making it into anything.
The lights were on when I pulled into the parking lot. I could see her silhouette through the window, moving around the kitchen. Cooking, probably. She always cooked when she was waiting for me.
I took the stairs two at a time and knocked twice before using my key. The smell of garlic and rosemary hit me the moment I stepped inside.
“You’re earlier than I expected.” Bea appeared in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand, her chestnut hair pulled up in a messy bun. She was still in her work clothes—a soft cream blouseand fitted slacks—but she’d kicked off her heels at the door. Her hazel eyes did that thing they always did when she saw me — the guard came down, and it was just her.
“Dutch kicked me out.” I crossed to her and pulled her into my arms, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with whatever she was cooking. “Said I was being obsessive.”
“Were you?”
“Probably.”
She laughed, the sound vibrating against my chest. “At least you’re honest about it.” She pulled back enough to look up at me. “Have you eaten anything today that wasn’t coffee?”
“I had a protein bar around noon.”
“That’s not food, Holden.” She grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the kitchen. “Sit. Dinner’s almost ready.”
I let her push me into a chair at her small breakfast table, watching as she moved around the kitchen with practiced ease. Chicken was sizzling in a pan, vegetables roasting in the oven. Two wine glasses already sat on the counter.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Long.” She stirred something on the stove without looking back. “Three new clients, all referred from the trauma center. Two of them are going to need extensive work.”
“Can you talk about it?”
“Not specifics. But…” She paused, and I saw her shoulders tense slightly. “One of them reminded me of a client I had straight after grad school. Similar presentation. It’s bringing up some old feelings.”
“The bad kind of old feelings?”
“The complicated kind.” She turned then, leaning against the counter to face me. “I spent an hour after she left processing. I’ll be fine. I just need to be careful about boundaries.”
This was the thing about dating a therapist — she just said it. Whatever was going on inside, she put it on the table and dealtwith it. Twelve years in the MC and I’d never seen anyone do that. I still didn’t know what to do with it half the time, but I liked it.
“You need anything from me?” I asked.
