Chapter Twelve
Thesunwasjuststarting to rise over the ridge, the mist still clinging low and drifting between the trees.From his porch, Nash drained the last of his coffee and let the mug hang heavy in his hand, staring out across his land—the drive cutting past his truck and the garage full of half-finished bikes, brand-new fencing lining the property, the tree-covered mountains rolling dark and endless beyond it all.
You don’t even know what you don’t know.
Cassie’s voice still hadn’t let up.Between that ridiculous goddamn riddle and hearing her on the phone with whoever the hell, it hit how far from Clifton—and from him—she really was.
So he’d done what he always did when his head got too damn noisy.He handled business.The club.The kid.His ride.That was the trick—stay busy enough, and nothing could catch you.
It had been his weekend with Junie anyway.They’d played a few dozen rounds of Mario Kart—she smoked his ass every time.They’d watched her favorite movie and tossed a baseball around in the yard until the light faded.
When she finally crashed—limbs tangled in her blankets, face softened by sleep—he’d come out here, light a smoke, crack a beer, and stare into the dark until all that remained was him and the hills.
And now it was Monday—the day of Connor’s service.
Nash scrubbed a hand over his mouth and shifted against the railing, eyes on the row of beer bottles lined along the edge.One of them—second from the end—had the cap jammed halfway down its neck.
He didn’t remember doing that.That had been…Con’s thing.
Reaching out, he brushed the rim of the glass.
“You here, brother?”he asked the quiet.
Only silence answered.Not the good kind—the kind that forced you to feel every empty inch of what was gone.
Hand falling away, he stepped back and retreated inside the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him.In the dim light of the foyer he grabbed his leather off the hook and headed for the stairs.
The house stretched two and a half stories high, wood and stone tucked into the hillside.He’d grown up here, in the old family home passed down through his line for generations.After Maverick died and his mama moved in with her sister, Nash came back and stripped it to the bones, building it up again with his own hands.Making it his.
Inside his bedroom, he grabbed a white shirt from the closet.Pulled it on.Adjusted the collar.Tugged the sleeves straight before rolling them.Black jeans.Black socks.Black boots.
His King’s ring came next—then Connor’s.He stared at his hand, the two bands glinting side by side.One he’d earned.The other he’d give anything to give back to its rightful owner.
With a hard sigh, he shrugged on his leather and rolled his shoulders, the familiar weight of it falling into place.
His hair was last.He pulled it back, twisting it into a tight knot as he left his room and crossed the hall.
He knocked once on Junie’s door.“Junebug?”
No answer.
He knocked again, harder.“Junie, you in there?”
Silence.
Cracking the door, he found her sitting cross-legged on the floor, arms folded tight.The blue dress Addison had sent with her was inside out and tossed aside, along with a pair of black dress shoes.Instead, she wore a Johnny Cash T-shirt—black with bold white letters: Man in Black—and holey jeans.The look she gave him was pure middle finger, no gesture required.
“Thought we agreed on the dress,” he said.
“No,” she replied hotly.“You and Mama agreed on the dress.I just didn’t punch you in the face about it.”
Nash exhaled slow.“It’s one day, Junebug.Dressin’ up ain’t gonna kill you.”
Junie just stared at him.
“Jesus Christ, kid—it’s one damn day.”
“Yeah, it’s one damn day that I don’t wanna look like Mamaw’s curtains.”
