Chapter 5
Five
Tommy Boy
Jenni laughs at me as we step into the jewelry store.
“Never thought I’d see the day Tommy Boy Oleander walked into a place with velvet counters and twinkly lights.”
“Don’t start,” I mutter, shoving my hands in my pockets. The place smells like lemon polish and money, both things that make me itch. “I need your help. Don’t make me regret dragging you out of the house. I already had to tell Crunch what I was planning so he wouldn’t stalk us.”
She smirks, all too proud of herself. “Relax. I’m not gonna let you screw this up. Besides, Jami’s my baby sister. I’m not letting you buy her some gaudy rock that looks like it belongs on a reality TV star.”
I shoot her a look. “I wasn’t planning on it. I want something that fits her.”
Jenni softens, the teasing slipping into something almost protective. “Then you already know what you’re looking for. You just need me to nod at it so you don’t second-guess yourself.”
Maybe she’s right. I’ve spent weeks thinking about this. Hell, maybe years if I’m honest. From the moment I carried Jami out of Ezra’s hellhole, bleeding and whispering that she finally had her power back, I knew. It was clearer than anything ever before. I knew she was mine.
The last three years just proved me right.
The woman behind the counter is all smiles and red lipstick. “Looking for engagement rings today?”
“Yeah.” The word tastes good. Feels permanent. “Something classic. Nothing too flashy.”
“Simple,” Jenni cuts in, leaning on the counter. “Jami’s not the kind of girl who wants to wave her hand around in a room to show off.”
I grin. “She’d probably punch me if I tried to stick her with something heavy enough to drag her hand down.”
The saleslady laughs politely and brings out a tray. Diamonds glitter under the glass. They all look the same to me at first—too bright, too perfect, like they don’t belong in our world. But then I see one.
It’s a solitaire, round cut, on a thin platinum band. Nothing over the top, nothing that screams for attention. Just steady and shining, like her.
“That one,” I say, pointing before I can even think about it.
Jenni picks it up, studies it, then glances at me. Her smile is soft. “That’s her. No doubt.”
Relief floods me. I slide my card across the counter before I can change my mind.
Driving home, the box sits in my pocket like it’s burning through the denim.
Jenni chatters about work, about Crunch, about some neighbor who’s been mowing more of their yard every week instead of sticking to their side.
I half-listen, nodding when I need to, but my brain is already five steps ahead.
I know where I’m doing it.
Virginia.
There’s a little cabin up in the Blue Ridge, tucked away from everything. Just us, the mountains, and the sound of the wind through the trees. I want her to say yes where the world is wide open, where there’s nothing between us and the horizon.
I can already picture it: her hair loose, the sunset bleeding across the ridgeline, her eyes wide when I drop to one knee.
Hell, I’ve never been nervous about much in my life, but this? This makes my palms sweat.
By the time I get home, the sun’s low. The compound was quiet—most of the brothers are out, Red’s probably with his wife, Crunch and Jenni off somewhere.
I stopped by to check in with Tripp for an upcoming transport before I came home.
Business done, now was time for my relaxation with her.
I walk into the house, kick off my boots, and there she is.
Jami.
She’s sitting on the couch with her feet tucked under her, hair messy from the day, a paperback in her lap. She looks up, and the whole damn world slows down. Three years and it still hits me like a punch.
“Hey,” she says, smiling. “You’re late.”
“Had to run an errand.” I slide the ring box deeper into my pocket before she can notice. “Come for a ride with me.”
Her brows lift. “Now? It’s almost dark.”
“Best time.” I hold out my hand. “C’mon, Tiny. Just you and me.”
She hesitates for a second, then closes her book and slips her hand into mine. “Alright.”
Ten minutes later, we’re on my bike.
She climbs on behind me, arms sliding around my waist like they’ve always belonged there. Her chin presses lightly against my shoulder as the engine rumbles to life.
I roll us out of the driveway, onto the back roads, the night air cool against my face. The world blurs—trees, fields, the fading glow of the horizon—and all I feel is her.
Her weight against my back.
Her grip, firm and steady.
Her trust.
I’ve been on a bike my whole damn life. Miles of asphalt, every kind of weather, every kind of road. But nothing has ever felt more like home than this—Jami’s heartbeat pressed into mine, the wind wrapping around us, the steady thrum of the engine under our bodies.
I relax in a way I can’t anywhere else. Not in the clubhouse, not in our house, not even in bed. Out here, with her holding on, everything makes sense.
We stop at a lookout point, the kind only locals know. The beach stretches out in front of us at the point parking, the last streaks of pink and orange fading into blue. She swings off the bike and pulls off her helmet, shaking her hair loose.
“God,” she says, breathing deep. “This never gets old.”
I watch her in the fading light, my chest tight around the secret in my pocket. She doesn’t see herself the way I do. She still looks in the mirror and sees the girl who stumbled out of rehab, the girl who bled on my shirt, the girl who thought she was broken.
But me? I see a survivor. I see a woman who fights her demons every damn day and comes out the other side stronger. I see my future.
Soon. Soon I’ll make her see it too.
When we head back, she leans harder into me, her cheek against my back, her arms snug like she never wants to let go. And I swear, if home is a place, it’s not the house we sleep in or the compound we grew up around. It’s this.
Her and me.
Two wheels.
The road stretching forever.
And soon… a ring on her finger.
I am the happiest I have ever been in my entire life. Everything feels right from love, business, and the club.
Club business is supposed to feel clean if you do it right.
In, out. Check the manifest, confirm the seal, eyes up, back straight. You don’t ask what’s in the crate and you don’t leave fingerprints on anything but your own throttle. The sun burns down the same on saints and sinners, and the road doesn’t give a damn which you are.
We leave before noon. Five bikes, one box truck, Tripp lead, me on his six.
Red brought the paperwork we’re not supposed to have and the burner we won’t ever use again.
Crunch runs tail in a pickup—prospects do the dirty work and the follow car both, and he’s not complaining.
He’s got that quiet on him he gets when he’s focused—no chatter, no jokes, just the line of his jaw doing all the talking.
The run’s easy, if any run can be called that.
Long straight slab, then two hours of two-lane through pines that look like they’ve been worshipping the sky since the war.
The convoy settles into a rumble that gets into your bones, the kind that makes you forget the rest of the world has laundry and emails.
Air tastes like gasoline and dust, all a reminder of the freedom of the wide open road.
We cut off onto a frontage road and duck along the back of an industrial park where the only thing watching is a buzzard on a pole and God if He’s bored.
The drop is a loading dock with half the metal letters missing so the sign reads ST GE we count. I count quick. It’s all there. I give a nod to my President.
“Done,” Tripp states giving all of us the nod to round up for an exit. Red slams the door, slaps on the fresh seal with the number they gave us, and the thing is over. Easy. Clean.
And then the mustache ruins it. He’s grinning like he told a joke at his own funeral nobody laughed at.
He leans on the loading dock rail, pushing his hat back with a knuckle.
“You’re Tommy Boy, yeah?” he asks me, casual like a fishing question.
“You the one shacked up with that little Rivera girl?”
I don’t answer. You don’t answer questions you weren’t asked to answer.