“I punched a guy at Clara Mae’s today,” I say.
Knox stops pacing and looks at me. A slow grin spreads across his face, the first genuine emotion I’ve seen from him all day. “Yeah? Who?”
“Some loudmouth defending Jack. Saying Willa asked for it.”
“Good,” Knox says, the grin fading into something harder. “I wish I’d been there.”
“He said something else,” I add, keeping my voice casual. “He said the town thinks we’re all fucking Saramaria.”
Knox blinks. He looks taken aback. Then, he laughs. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. Said we’re being territorial. Guarding our... assets.”
Knox looks toward the direction of the ranch. “Huh.”
“Huh?” I repeat. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?” Knox asks, climbing into his truck. “It’s a stupid rumor. We’re not.”
“I know that,” I say. “But it’s out there.”
“Well, let them talk,” Knox says, starting the engine. The roar fills the parking lot. “It gives them something to do besides gossiping about Jack.”
He looks at me, a gleam in his eye that I recognize. It’s the look he gets before he climbs onto a bull. The look that says he’s looking for danger.
“Get in,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“We need to blow off steam,” he says. “And I can’t ride Diablo without a chute operator. But there’s something else I’ve been wanting to check out.”
“Which is?”
“The motorbike shop over on Fourth,” he says. “I saw a custom build in the window last week. I want to see if it’s still there. I need to see something fast that isn’t a bull.”
I hesitate for a second. I have feed to unload. I have fences to check. I have a mess of paperwork waiting for Saramaria to discover.
But the truck is warm. And the prospect of sitting in the cabin alone with my thoughts is unbearable.
I open the door and climb in. “Fine. But if you buy another toy you can’t afford, I’m not helping you fix it.”
“I won’t buy it,” Knox says, throwing the truck into drive. “I just want to smell the gasoline.”
We drive across town. The motorbike shop is a large, metal warehouse on the edge of the industrial district. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of oil, rubber, and burnt clutch. It smells like speed.
Rows of bikes line the floor—sport bikes, cruisers, dirt bikes. Chrome gleams under the harsh fluorescent lights. It’s a temple to adrenaline.
Knox walks straight to the back, where a sleek black machine sits on a pedestal. It’s a custom build, low and mean, with an exposed engine and pipes that look like they could breathe fire.
“Look at that,” he says, circling the bike. He runs his hand over the gas tank, his fingers tracing the line of the seat. He’s practically vibrating.
“It’s nice,” I admit. “It looks dangerous.”
“That’s the point,” Knox says. He swings a leg over the bike, sitting on it even though the engine is cold. He grips the handlebars, leaning forward into the racing crouch. He closes his eyes for a second, imagining the road.
I watch him. This is his element. The risk, the power, the fine line between control and chaos. He needs this. The circuit limbo is killing him because it takes away his control.
“You think Lane will actually do it?” I ask, leaning against a nearby tool chest.
