Truck Hard (Mutter Brothers)

1. Homecoming

Chapter 1

Homecoming

Liam

I feel like shit. And I look even worse.

Another restless night has left me with bloodshot eyes and a mind that refuses to focus on the paperwork spread before me. The numbers blur together, mocking my attempts at concentration.

Hannah’s back.

The thought hits me like a punch in the gut, just as it has every few minutes since I first heard the news yesterday.

Five months of protective custody, and now she’s returned to reclaim what’s left of her life in Beaver. And not just in Beaver but in her childhood home. That’s within walking distance of my house. That I can see from the front window of the auto shop.

The gossip spread through our small town faster than wildfire, carried on whispers and meaningful glances.

The rising sun casts long shadows through my office window, turning the stacks of paperwork on my desk into miniature silhouettes. Silhouettes that taunt me in my distraction. Working on the books while my mind is on her is pointless.

I’m fucked.

I lean back in my chair, the ancient leather creaking in protest. Outside my office window, the auto shop is already humming with activity despite the early hour. The familiar sounds of tools clanking and engines revving should be comforting, but today they only amplify my internal turmoil.

Warren’s voice carries through the thin walls as he explains something to a customer. Probably the Miller woman again—she’s been bringing in that ancient Buick of hers every other week, claiming new rattles and squeaks. I should be out there, helping with the morning rush, but I can’t seem to make myself move from this spot.

Besides, Warren can handle it.

It’s good to have him back after being gone for so long. I like having all my brothers home. Though there’s still tension between War and me. At some point we need to talk about that fight we had all those years ago but we’re both too damn stubborn to bring it up.

I keep using the excuse that he needs time, but that’s all it is—an excuse. I need to make an effort to set things right.

Something happened to him while he was gone, and he refuses to talk about it. I’m sure of it. There’s a haunted look in his eyes that has nothing to do with our fight. I make a mental note to ask him out for a beer. See if I can get him to talk to me about it. Maybe clear the air between us while I’m at it.

My phone sits innocently on the corner of my desk. I’ve picked it up and put it down at least a dozen times already this morning, Hannah’s contact information burning a hole in my mind. What would I even say? Hey, sorry your abusive husband nearly killed you. By the way, is Cameron my son?

I scrub a hand over my face, feeling the rough scratch of stubble. The question of Cameron’s paternity has haunted me for months. The boy has my eyes, my build—hell, even my grandmother’s pointed chin. But Hannah never said a word, not even when... I cut that thought off before it can fully form. The past is the past. She had her reasons for keeping quiet, if it’s even true.

The shop door slams, followed by the heavy tread of boots on concrete. I recognize Mac’s footsteps before he appears in my doorway, his usual easygoing expression replaced with concern.

“Hey,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “You heard from Ash? He’s not picking up his phone.”

I glance at the clock—9:15 AM. Ash should have been here over an hour ago. “No. Did you try Chase? They sometimes grab breakfast together.”

“Chase is working the farm. He hasn’t seen him, And before you ask, Christian’s been at the shop since seven, working on that custom bike for Edge. He hasn’t seen him either.”

Hearing Edge’s name—even after all these months—still causes the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end. Edge is the reason Hannah is still alive today. He saved her and Cameron with my brother’s help. What I don’t understand is why or how. That’s a story he refuses to tell me.

But it burns me. I should have known she needed saving. I should have saved her. Not the president of the local motorcycle club. The situation is completely fucked. Or rather I’m the one that’s fucked.

Mac shifts his weight, a tell-tale sign he’s worried. “We’re getting backed up out there. Could really use the extra hands.”

I reach for my phone, thumbing through my contacts to Ash’s number. The screen shows Hannah’s name instead—I must have left her contact page open from my earlier internal debate. My thumb hovers over the keyboard as a fresh wave of memories washes over me.

Hannah at sixteen, laughing as I taught her to drive stick shift in my granddad’s old truck. Hannah at twenty-two, tears streaming down her face as I told her to marry Charlie, that he could give her everything I couldn’t. Hannah five months ago, bruised and broken in Christian’s arms as he rushes her to safety.

“Earth to Liam?” Mac’s voice snaps me back to the present. “You want me to hunt him down?”

“No, he stayed at Andrea’s last night. I’ll text him.” My thumb moves automatically, muscle memory taking over as I type out a message.

Liam

Hey asshole, where the fuck are you?

The moment I hit send, my stomach drops. I never closed Hannah’s contact page. The message—meant for my chronically late brother—just went to the one person I’ve been afraid to contact for months.

“Fuck,” I mutter, staring at the delivered notification in horror. “ Fuck! ”

Mac pushes off the doorframe, concern deepening. “What’s wrong?”

I sit the phone down like it’s suddenly turned radioactive. “Nothing. Just... Fuck . I sent the message to the wrong person.” The admission feels inadequate compared to the magnitude of my mistake. “Can you handle the floor for a bit? I need to...” I wave vaguely at the paperwork, unable to finish the sentence.

“Sure thing.” Mac’s expression says he knows something’s up, but he mercifully doesn’t press. “Let me know if you hear from Ash.”

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the damning evidence of my carelessness glowing on my phone screen. I pick it up again, fingers hovering over the keys. Should I send an apology? Explain it was meant for Ash? Or would that just make things worse?

What if she thinks I’m angry with her? What if this makes her retreat further away just when she might have been ready to talk?

The questions pile up like the unfinished paperwork on my desk. Outside, another engine roars to life, and I find myself wondering if Hannah can hear the sounds of the shop from her parents’ old house on the corner. Does she look this way sometimes, remembering the stolen moments we shared in the garage after hours? Or has she locked those memories away along with all the other painful pieces of her past?

My office suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. I stand, pacing the length of the room as scenarios play out in my head. Hannah seeing the message. Hannah’s face falling. Hannah deciding I’m not worth the trouble of dealing with, especially now when she’s trying to rebuild her life.

The worst part is, I couldn’t blame her if she did. I failed her thirteen years ago when I rejected her and let her marry Charlie. I failed her again five months ago when I couldn’t protect her from his rage. And now I’ve failed her in this small, stupid way that might be the final straw.

A knock at my door makes me jump. Warren stands there, holding a stack of invoices. “You okay? Mac said you seemed off.”

“Fine.” I lie, the word tasting bitter. “Just trying to catch up on the books.”

Warren’s eyes flick to my empty chair, then back to me. He knows I’m full of shit. We’ve never been able to lie to each other effectively. But like Mac, he doesn’t push.

“These need your signature when you get a chance.” He sets the invoices on my desk and retreats, closing the door softly behind him.

I sink back into my chair, the leather squeaking in protest. My phone still sits where I left it, screen dark now but no less accusatory. No response from Hannah yet.

Maybe she hasn’t seen it.

The phone buzzes and my heart nearly stops. But it’s just Ash, finally responding to the group text Mac sent earlier.

Ash

Sorry, overslept. On my way.

I should feel relieved that at least one problem is solved. Instead, I find myself staring at Hannah’s contact information again. Her old profile picture from years ago shows her smiling, hair caught mid-laugh by the wind. It was taken before Charlie, before the bruises and the fear and the protective custody. Before I learned about Cameron.

Cameron . My son.

The thought still feels foreign, even after months of suspicion. He has to be mine—the timing fits, and the resemblance is undeniable. But why didn’t Hannah tell me? Was she unsure? Or did she think I’d reject him too, just like I rejected her all those years ago?

The sound of another car pulling into the shop bay draws my attention. Through my window, I can see Warren directing someone to an empty spot. Just another customer, just another day at Mutter Truckers Auto & Racing. Except nothing feels normal anymore, not with Hannah back in town and that unintentional message hanging between us like a loaded gun.

I pull up my phone again, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could try to explain, to apologize, to reach out... but what right do I have ?

She’s been through hell, is still going through it with the divorce proceedings and whatever trauma Charlie left her with. The last thing she needs is me complicating her life further.

But if Cameron is my son, don’t I deserve to know?

Movement catches my eye. Through the window, past the cars and the bustling mechanics, a familiar car passes the shop. Even at this distance, I’d know Hannah anywhere. The sight makes my chest ache.

She’s heading toward her parents’ old house, which I can see from the driveway of the shop. The rumors said she’d be staying there while she gets back on her feet. It’s a good house, though it probably needs a lot of work. It’s sat empty ever since her parents passed six years ago.

But it’s safe. Far enough from the shop that she won’t have to see me unless she wants to, but close enough that I could be there in minutes if she needed help.

If she’d ever ask for it.

The phone in my hand suddenly feels heavier. That message is still out there, probably sitting unread on her phone. Soon she’ll see it, and then what? Will she think I’m angry with her? Will she assume I’m hostile, just another man trying to intimidate her? The thought makes me sick.

I should go to her. Explain about the message. Ask about Cameron. Clear the air that’s been growing thick between us for thirteen years.

But as I watch her disappear from view, I remain rooted to my spot. The weight of our shared history, of my mistakes and her trauma, pins me in place like a butterfly in a display case.

Movement in the shop draws my attention back to reality. Mac is waving, trying to get my attention through the window. Probably another customer needing approval for repairs. The mundane responsibilities of running a business don’t stop just because my personal life is imploding.

I stand, straightening my shirt and trying to school my features into something resembling professional composure. But as I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes again. My heart leaps into my throat as I check the screen.

It’s just another text from Ash.

Ash

Traffic on 23. Be there in 20.

I let out a breath. The message to Hannah still shows as delivered but unread. Like a bomb waiting to go off, or a chance at redemption I’m not sure I deserve.

Outside my office, the shop continues its morning rhythm. Tools clang, engines rev, voices call back and forth across the concrete floor. Life goes on, even when it feels like everything important is hanging by a thread.

I step out of my office, phone heavy in my pocket. Whatever happens next—with Hannah, with Cameron, with that damn message—will have to wait. Right now, I have a business to run and brothers to manage.

But as I walk toward Mac and his waiting customer, I can’t help glancing toward the window. Just down the road, she’s trying to rebuild her life from the ashes Charlie left behind. And somewhere in my heart, I’m trying to find the courage to face the consequences of choices made thirteen years ago.

The morning sun continues its climb, casting shorter shadows across the shop floor. Another day in Beaver, Ohio begins. But nothing feels quite the same anymore.

My stomach churns as I stare at the message, still marked as delivered but unread. Hannah’s been through hell. She’s trying to rebuild her life, and I unintentionally sent her a message calling her an asshole.

Fuck . Why am I still sitting here?

I surge to my feet, nearly knocking over my chair. Warren and Mac jump back as I barrel past them, out of the office and into the shop. The morning sun streams through the high windows, catching on chrome and steel, momentarily blinding me. But there—through the open bay doors—a familiar figure walks up her driveway.

Hannah.

The morning light catches in her hair highlighting the golden streaks through the mass of dark strands. It’s just how I remember her. The way she looked when we’d sneak out at dawn, thinking we were being so clever. My heart clenches at the memory of those simpler times, when our biggest worry was getting caught by her dad or Grams.

Now look at us. Both our lives are in shambles.

She’s carrying something—boxes maybe. I should... I need to...

“Liam?” Mac’s voice seems to come from very far away. “These parts?”

“Later,” I mutter, already moving. My boots crunch on the gravel of the parking lot as I head toward the road. Hannah hasn’t noticed me yet, too focused on managing what looks like several moving boxes stacked precariously in her arms.

I’m halfway down the road when the boxes shift and start to slip. Without thinking, I break into a run.

“Here, let me—”

Hannah whirls at the sound of my voice, boxes tumbling. Her eyes go wide with fear—real, visceral fear—and my stomach drops. She thought I was him. For a split second, she thought I was Charlie.

“Sorry!” I freeze in place, hands raised. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

The fear fades from her eyes, replaced by something else. Recognition? Relief? Maybe something more? But then she blinks and her expression shutters closed.

“Liam.” Her voice is steady, controlled. Too controlled. “What are you doing here?”

I gesture helplessly at the scattered boxes. “I saw you were struggling. Thought you could use a hand.”

“I’m fine.” She bends to gather her things, and I have to fight the urge to help. Every instinct screams at me to step forward, but I force myself to stay put. Give her space.

“About that text.” I blurt out. “It wasn’t... I didn’t mean...”

She straightens, a box clutched to her chest like a shield. “What text?”

She hasn’t seen it yet. “Nothing. Just... I accidentally sent you something meant for Ash. I was trying to track him down, he hasn’t shown up for work, and I—”

“You have my number?” There’s an edge to her voice now.

“Yes.” I admit. What’s the point in lying? “Look, Hannah—”

“Don’t.” She takes a step back. “Please, just... I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“ This .” She gestures between us with her free hand. “Any of it. I know there are things we need to talk about, but I need time. Please .”

The please kills me.

Hannah shouldn’t have to beg for anything, least of all from me. I want to ask her about Cameron, about my suspicions, about the gnawing guilt that’s eaten at me for thirteen years. But looking at her now, seeing the careful way she holds herself, the shadows under her eyes... She’s right. This isn’t the time.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Take all the time you need. But Hannah?”

She pauses in the act of retrieving another box. “What?”

“I’m here. Whatever you need. Whenever you’re ready.”

Something flickers in her eyes—that same something from before—but she just nods and turns away. I watch her gather the rest of her boxes, every muscle screaming at me to help, to stay, to say more. But I force myself to turn around, to walk back to the shop where Mac is probably having a meltdown over those parts.

I’m almost to the end of her driveway when her voice stops me.

“Liam?”

I turn back so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. “Yeah?”

She’s standing by her car, boxes balanced precariously again. “Thank you,” she says softly. “For stopping.”

I want to tell her I’ll always stop for her. That I was stupid when we were eighteen and broke up. That I should have stopped her thirteen years ago when she married Charlie. That I should have fought harder, been braver, been better .

Instead, I just nod and watch her disappear into the house that used to feel like a second home. The house where we shared our first kiss. Where we lost our virginity to each other. Where we planned our future. Where I last saw her two nights before she married Charlie.

The same house where, if my suspicions are correct, our son was conceived.

I’m here . Whatever you need. Whenever you’re ready.

I just hope that when she is ready, she’ll still want me around. That whatever’s left between us—this spark I can still feel, this pull that’s never quite gone away—is strong enough to survive the truth.

The truth about us.

About Cameron.

About everything.

I turn back to the shop, where the real world is waiting with its unbalanced books and missing brothers and parts orders that need signing. But my mind stays with Hannah, in that house down the road, where a lifetime of secrets are waiting to either save us or destroy us completely.

Only time will tell which.

Mac’s waiting in my office, parts order in hand, expression dubious. “Everything okay, bro?”

“Yeah.” I take the paperwork from him, not really seeing it. “Everything’s fine.”

But we both know that’s a lie. Nothing’s been fine since Hannah left. And now that she’s back?

Things are about to get a whole lot more complicated.

I sink into my chair, staring at the ledger without seeing it. The numbers still don’t add up, but right now, that’s the least of my problems.

My phone buzzes.

A text from Hannah.

Hannah

I saw the message. It’s okay. I know it wasn’t meant for me.

Three dots appear, disappear, appear again. I hold my breath, waiting.

Hannah

But we do need to talk. Soon. About everything.

Everything . Does she mean...?

Before I can respond, another message comes through.

Hannah

Just not today. Please.

I type back quickly

Liam

Whenever you’re ready. I mean it.

The three dots appear one last time, but no message follows. After a minute, they disappear completely, leaving me staring at a conversation that feels both unfinished and overwhelmingly final.

Soon , she’d said. About everything .

I look down at the ledger again, at the numbers that refuse to make sense. Funny how some things can be counted, quantified, balanced to the penny. While others—the important things, the life-changing things—resist all attempts at calculation.

Like how many days it took for Charlie to ask Hannah out after we broke up.

Like how few years it took before they got engaged.

Like how quickly I talked her out of cancelling her wedding after we hooked up two days before she said I do.

Like how many chances I’ll have left to make things right.

Mac clears his throat from the doorway. “Still need that signature, bro.”

I pick up my pen, but my hand hovers over the paper, unwilling to commit. Just like thirteen years ago, when I couldn’t commit to Hannah—couldn’t promise her the life she deserved. And look how well that turned out.

“Bro?”

“Yeah,” I say, finally scrawling my name across the bottom line. “Here’s your signature.”

He takes the paper and leaves, but I barely notice. My attention is back on my phone, on those three dots that never turned into words. On all the things left unsaid between Hannah and me.

Soon , she’d said.

I just hope “soon” comes before it’s too late.

The morning light shifts, throwing shadows across my desk. Somewhere in the shop, metal clangs against metal. Life goes on, steady as a heartbeat, reliable as an engine.

But nothing feels steady anymore. Nothing feels reliable.

Because Hannah’s back.

And everything’s about to change.