Chapter 5 #2
I drop into a worn lawn chair, the metal creaking under my weight.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a cigarette and light it, cupping the flame against the breeze before taking a long drag.
The smoke hits deep, burning its way down, settling heavy in my lungs before I exhale slowly, watching it curl and twist into the thick air.
For a few minutes, I simply sit there, feeling the heat pressing against my skin, listening to the river moving, relentlessly and unforgiving, and breathing in the mix of water, fuel, and city grit.
I let it ground me.
Or at least try.
Then, I feel a presence, but I don’t turn right away.
I glance over just as Riggs drops into the chair next to mine, lighting his cigarette like he’s got nowhere else to be and all the time in the world.
I take another drag, letting the silence stretch between us.
It lingers long enough to feel intentional before he finally asks, “You good?”
“Yeah,” I mutter, my answer short, simple, loaded.
It’s a lie, and we both know it.
Riggs exhales a slow stream of smoke, tipping his head back slightly as he studies the sky before speaking again, “Ruby seems to have caught your attention.”
My whole body goes rigid at the sound of her name. My jaw tightens, shoulders locking as something sharp and defensive rises fast. “There’s nothin’ there,” I snap, the words coming out harsher than I mean them to.
He doesn’t react to the edge in my voice.
Just nods once, as though he expected that answer, taking another drag from his cigarette before letting the silence settle again.
“Second chances don’t come around often for men like us, brother,” he says after a beat, voice low and even.
“Don’t regret lettin’ it slip through your fingers. ”
I don’t say anything.
Don’t trust myself to.
The words sit heavy between us, pressing against everything I’m trying to keep buried.
Riggs shifts slightly in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he looks out over the river. “I ain’t gonna pretend I know your demons,” he continues, his tone steady but not soft. “Or the weight you carry. Loss like that… it don’t leave a man the same.”
My grip tightens around the cigarette.
He takes another drag on his, then adds, “But I do know this. The love of a good woman, the right woman… it can pull a man back from some dark places. Give him somethin’ to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s gone.”
“That woman’s dead,” I cut in, my voice cold and detached, sharp enough to slice through anything else he might have wanted to say. The words land hard and final.
The air between us stills for a second, the weight of what I said heavy and unmovable.
Riggs turns his head slightly, studying me for a long moment. He’s not pushing back or backing off either.
Then he takes one last drag of his cigarette and crushes it into an old beer bottle sitting beside his chair, the faint hiss of it dying out loud in the quiet.
“Stop tryin’ to bury yourself with her,” he says, his voice rough and real, carrying that no-bullshit edge only he can get away with.
“ ’Cause all you’re doin’ is rottin’ when you’re still breathin’.
And that ain’t livin’, brother, that’s just waitin’ to die. ”
That hits harder than anything else he’s said.
Right where it counts.
But I don’t react.
Don’t move.
Don’t give him anything.
Because if I do, even a little, I’m not sure I’ll be able to lock it back down.
He stands after a beat, clapping a hand on my shoulder. It’s firm, grounding, a silent reminder that he’s there whether I want him to be or not. “We’re rolling out in an hour.”
Then he’s gone.
Leaving me alone.
Again.
I stare out at the river, at the tugboat still pushing forward, dragging its weight without slowing, without stopping.
And I sit there, the cigarette burning down between my fingers, the city breathing around me, the weight in my chest settling back into something familiar.
Something empty.
I sit there, feeling everything and absolutely nothing at all.
I stay up there longer than I should, long after Riggs disappears down the ladder, and my cigarette burns down to the filter between my fingers.
The river keeps moving like it doesn’t give a damn about anything weighing me down.
Tugboats keep pushing, water keeps churning, and the world keeps turning.
And I sit there, locked in place, letting it all press in until it dulls into something manageable.
Something quiet that I can shove back where it belongs.
Eventually, I crush out the cigarette and push to my feet. My joints feel tight, my shoulders heavier than they should be, but I ignore them.
Climbing down the ladder is automatic, boots hitting each rung with practiced ease. By the time I hit the ground, everything inside me is locked down tight again, controlled, buried deep enough that nothing shows on the surface.
Just the way I prefer it.
The way it needs to be.
Inside, the clubhouse is louder now. The energy has shifted from a slow morning to pre-ride movement. Men are grabbing cuts, checking weapons, finishing drinks, voices overlapping in that familiar rhythm that comes before we hit the road.
I step into it without hesitation, blending in as though I was never gone.
But my eyes move on their own.
Scanning.
Searching.
I don’t let it show, but I know exactly who I’m looking for—blonde curls, big blue eyes.
Nothing.
She’s not here.
An ache settles beneath my ribs before I can stop it, and I immediately shove it down.
“Lookin’ for someone?” Nova’s voice cuts in as he slaps a hand against my shoulder, already geared up, helmet hanging from his fingers.
I don’t look at him. Don’t give anything away. “Nah.”
He studies me for a second longer than I like, then shrugs it off as if it’s nothing. “She’s gone, brother. Took off like she was runnin’ from somethin’,” he says, casually.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t react, ask questions, or even acknowledge it. “Not my problem,” I mutter. The words taste like shit.
Nova doesn’t push. Just gives me a nod and moves off toward his bike, waiting for his woman to return.
I stand there a second longer than I should, staring at nothing, feeling that tightness in my chest again, trying to expand into something more.
I kill it before it can.
By the time I grab my helmet and head outside with the rest of the brothers, I’m back to baseline. Cold, controlled, and totally untouchable.
Exactly where I need to be.
Once everyone is back at the clubhouse and accounted for, we head to Baton Rouge toward Hades Outlaw MC territory. The bikes are all lined up like they always are, engines already rumbling to life one by one. The sound builds fast, vibrating through the ground, my boots, and my bones.
This part always settles something in me.
I swing my leg over my bike, grip the handlebars, and bring her to life. The engine roars beneath me, and for the first time since this morning, my head goes quiet.
We roll out together with the rest of my brothers’ women on the backs of their bikes. We hit the street in a tight formation of steel and loyalty, cutting through the streets as if we own them, because out here, we do.
The wind hits me hard as we pick up speed, tearing through the humidity, ripping past the weight still clinging to my skin. The city blurs around us as we pass.
It’s freedom, pure and simple.
The open road stretches out ahead, and for a while, I let myself sink into it. The rhythm of the engine beneath me. The vibration running through my arms. The way everything else falls away except the ride and my brothers at my sides.
This is where I belong.
This is what makes sense.
But it doesn’t last.
It never does.
Because even out here, cutting through the thick, hot air, moving fast enough to outrun most thoughts, she’s there again.
Ruby.
The memory of her doesn’t fade or blur. The way she felt under my hands. The way her body moved with mine. The way she said my name. It sticks and feels like it’s etched into me, carved into my skin. It clings to me like a goddamn tattoo I didn’t ask for.
Permanent.
Unavoidable.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars, jaw clenching as I try to shove it down and drown it out with the roar of the engine and the rush of wind.
It doesn’t work.
She’s still there.
Under my skin.
In my head.
And I fucking hate it.
The ride stretches on, long enough that the tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction. The farther we get from the clubhouse, the more the world narrows down to only the asphalt, speed, and the men riding beside me.
By the time we hit the outskirts of the Big Easy’s territory, I’ve got all my problems shoved back where they belong, locked down and buried.
The other clubhouse comes into view soon after. The roar of our pipes announces us before we even pull in, loud and unapologetic. It’s the kind of sound that demands attention.
We roll into the lot as a unit, engines idling, then cut out one by one. The sudden quiet hits heavy after all that noise, settling over the space like a held breath.
I swing off my bike, eyes already scanning my surroundings.
Different place.
Different crew.
But the same energy.
The men here are built like us, live similar to us, and survive the same kind of world we breathe.
Big Easy steps out to meet us, greeting Riggs as a brother, clapping shoulders, trading words that don’t need much explanation.
Nothing but respect and history.
No bad blood.
Just men who understand each other.
I hang back a little, letting the others move forward, taking it all in without needing to be front and center.
That’s never been my place anyway.
Inside, the clubhouse is already alive with voices bouncing off the walls. The women are settling in, and the men are spreading out as though they own the space. It’s familiar, even if it’s not ours.
I lean against the bar, grab a drink without asking, and let the noise fill the space around me without really hearing any of it because my head is still too full.
Too loud in all the wrong ways.