Page 42 of Freedom’s Inferno

Frustration flickered across his face, tight and controlled. “Unbelievable.” He crouched, inspecting the damage. “Fucking unbelievable.”

“You can’t seriously be thinking‒”

He swung one leg over the seat, ignoring me.

“‒about getting back on that thing,” I finished, my voice rising.

He turned his head, gaze cutting to mine. “If you think I’m leaving my bike on the side of the road, you’re fucking insane.” His tone wasn’t cruel, but it was absolute. Unyielding.

“Charlie.”

He flinched at the name, and I almost felt sorry for it. Almost.

“Get in the car, Lana.”

I wanted to tell him to go to Hell. To leave his stupid, symbolic hunk of metal in the ditch where it belonged, but the look on his face stopped me. He wasn’t being stubborn. He needed to keep going. Needed control over something after being forced off the road. So I did the only thing I could. I turned and walked back to the Lexus.

My hands trembled as I slid into the driver’s seat. I started the engine, and Charlie’s bike rumbled to life in front of me.

He sat rigid on the bike, held together with sheer will.

I shook my head.

Stubborn fucking man.

We pulled back onto the road, the two of us moving in silence. He waited so I could move ahead of him again, the trees closing in around us, golden leaves whispering secrets as they fell.

I flinched with every sound, glancing at my mirrors, half-expecting that truck to reappear.

Charlie followed close this time. Too close. Like he didn’t trust the space between us. By the time we reached the turn for his driveway, the sky had deepened to bruised violet, the kind of color that warns of a coming storm.

My pulse hadn’t slowed once since the crash, and my fingers ached from gripping the wheel too tightly.

Charlie lived off a long, winding dirt road, tucked away from the rest of the neighborhood. His home wasn’t what I expected. A modern log cabin, if that was a thing. Steel-framed windows and dark timber walls, the lines sharp and clean but softened by the texture of weathered wood. It looked both rugged and deliberate, like every imperfection had been chosen on purpose. The kind of place that didn’t beg for attention but demanded solitude.

I cut the engine and sat there, listening to my heartbeat.

The low rumble of Charlie’s bike faded as he rolled up beside me. He swung his leg over stiffly and pulled off his helmet, his hair damp with sweat, jaw set in that familiar iron line. He looked exhausted, yet somehow infuriatingly composed.

“Home sweet home,” he said, voice tired.

I followed him up the steps, the boards creaking beneath my shoes. The air smelled of pine, and when he opened the door, warmth hit me like a caress. Inside, was all dark wood and dim light, a fireplace stacked but unlit, a few worn books on a low table. Everything was clean but not polished, practical but personal.

It suited him. Every square inch of it.

Charlie shrugged off his backpack, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. He peeled the leather jacket from his body, hissing through his teeth, and hung it on the coat rack.

In just his plain white T-shirt, I had a better view of the road rash on his shoulder, and I winced. I was already moving toward him to examine it, when he shot me a look that cut me down like a stock of wheat.

“I’m going to grab a few things,” he said, moving around me and heading for the stairs.

He disappeared from view, and I loosed a breath, allowing my eyes to roam.

The living space was masculine in a way that didn’t have to announce itself. Dark wood floors, a low-slung couch the color of burnt coffee, and a stone fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been lit in months. A stack of old motorcycle magazines sat on the coffee table, pages curled at the corners. The walls were sparse, but not empty.

Above the fireplace, on the mantel, sat a framed photograph, Charlie and Richard, younger, smiling, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. Yale. The ivy-wrapped dorms in the background, their suits a size too big and their grins too sure of themselves. Dickie looked exactly as I remembered, brilliant and untouchable, a man who believed the world bent for him.

Charlie was harder to read. Even then, his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Something twisted in my chest. Grief, guilt, pity, some unholy blend of the three.