Chapter Twelve
Breaker
Working in the garage isn’t doing a damn thing for me; I try to keep my hands busy, but I can’t keep that kiss off my mind. I tell myself I need a drink. Not to think. Not to feel. Just to sit, breathe, and let the noise drown out the part of me that still tastes her.
The bar’s quiet for a weekday afternoon.
Riley's wiping down tables across the room, pointedly not looking my way.
The guys are scattered — Reaper at the end of the counter, Tank beside him, looking like someone just insulted his mother, which is his usual state, and Mayhem in his usual spot, grinning at nothing.
I slide onto a stool. Molly eyes me but doesn’t say a word, just pops the cap off a beer and slides it over.
“Appreciate it,” I mutter.
Reaper smirks. “So, how’s our new hire settling in?”
“She’s fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He drags out the sound, like he doesn’t believe a damn word of it. “Looks like she’s got herself a guard dog.”
Tank doesn’t even look up.
“More like a wolf,” he rumbles. “And wolves don’t do guard duty. They eat.”
I take a long pull of beer. “Do you two ever mind your own business?”
Mayhem chuckles from down the bar, low and strange. “I’m just waiting to see who bleeds first.”
I look his way, trying to read him. Never can. The man’s got a smile like a loaded gun — you never know when it’s going to go off.
I shake my head. “You need therapy, Mayhem.”
“Already tried. They quit.”
Tank looks up. “They quit? Really? Why am I not surprised?”
Mayhem shrugs. “You know, that may have been a lie. I can’t say for sure if they quit.
I just know that when I showed up to their office for my second appointment, it was no longer a psychiatrist’s office and instead was a cellphone repair place.
And when I called the psych’s number, it had been disconnected. ”
“So either you scared your shrink off or you were really fucking with some poor guy who just wanted to sell you a Motorola?” Reaper says.
Mayhem nods. “It’s possible. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
That gets a snort from Reaper. Even Tank cracks half a grin. For a second, the tension eases.
Then my phone buzzes.
I glance down. Unknown number. Normally I’d ignore it, but something about the area code digs at memory. I swipe it open.
Heard you’re in Ironwood Falls. You still breathing, brother? — Colt
I stare at the name for a second. It’s been years since I’ve seen it. Since the Marines. Since everything went sideways overseas.
I text him back. Yeah, I’m alive. Barely. You?
The reply comes fast.
Passing through. Got a job nearby. Could use a favor. Meet me at The Logger’s Tap in an hour?
My gut tightens. Colt was one of the good ones — until the end, when good stopped being enough. The last time I saw him, he was walking away from a burning convoy and laughing like a man already half-dead.
Reaper’s watching me. “Something wrong?”
I pocket the phone. “Old Marine buddy. Says he’s in town.”
Tank frowns. “You gonna see him?”
“Yeah.” I finish the beer and stand, doing everything I can to keep my eyes away from Riley, who is doing her very best to do the same to me. I know that if I look too long at her, there’s not a damn thing anyone could do to get me away from this place. “Don’t wait up.”
The rain’s let up when I hit the road, but the air’s still heavy and damp.
My Harley roars to life under me, the vibration rumbling up through my chest like a heartbeat I can actually trust. It’s a quick ride — out past the lumber mill, down the old highway that smells like pine and wet dirt, to a dive called The Logger’s Tap.
Colt’s already there, sitting at a corner table with a beer and that same crooked grin that used to drive our sergeant insane. His hair’s shorter, his eyes harder; there’s a fresh scar on his cheek, but it’s him.
“Conrad Breaker James,” he says, standing to clasp my shoulder. And hearing my real name after all these years feels strange. Almost like it belongs to someone else. “Thought you were buried somewhere in the desert.”
“Almost was.” I sit across from him. “What’re you doing here, Colt?”
He laughs. “Same thing I’ve always done, brother. Getting into trouble.”
I study him. “That’s not an answer.”
He leans back, all casual confidence and the weariness you only earn in the dark. “Need a hand with something. Figured if anyone knew how to handle it, it’d be you.”
I arch a brow. “Handle what?”
His smile fades.
“I’m in town hunting someone.”
My hand tightens on my beer. The first thought that hits me: Riley. Her smashed car window. Her terror.
“Who?”