Chapter Four
THE LUNCH RUSH had thinned, leavin’ the place in that sweet in-between hum I liked best, music low, glasses clinkin’, fryer hissin’ soft from the kitchen.
High Voltage wasn’t fancy, but it sure as hell wasn’t a dive either.
I’d made sure of that. The floors were old oak, polished smooth from years of boots and barstools.
The walls were lined with framed photos, bikes, burnouts, charity rides, a few sunsets over the marsh that Rune swore he’d taken himself.
Edison bulbs hung low over the booths, throwin’ off a steady amber glow that made the chrome shine and the whiskey look richer than it was.
And me being me, I swore there were a couple ghosts hangin’ around, old tenants, maybe, laughin’ at us keepin’ the world runnin’ one burger and beer at a time.
It smelled like grilled steak, sea salt, and beer foam. Comfort, not chaos.
Behind the bar, Gatsby wiped down the counter, tattoos flexin’ as he worked. “Order truck’s late again,” he said, watchin’ the ice machine rumble to life.
“Yeah,” I said, signin’ a form on the clipboard. “Mick texted. Traffic comin’ into Charleston’s a mess.”
Ruby slid past with a tray balanced on one palm, bracelets jinglin’ soft. Red hair pulled back tight, brown eyes piercing and observant, she moved like she owned every inch of the floor.
“Could be worse,” she said, hip-bumpin’ the door open to the kitchen. “Could be runnin’ a biker bar on the edge of hell.”
“This isn’t a biker bar,” I called after her. “It’s a respectable establishment with good food and better liquor.”
Her laugh came back through the doorway, soft and easy. “Keep tellin’ yourself that, boss.”
Rune lounged on a stool near the speakers, a beer in one hand and a pool cue in the other, like he couldn’t decide which vice to stick with. “Place could use some music that don’t sound like my granddad’s truck radio,” he said.
“Your granddad had taste,” Gatsby shot back. “Skynyrd’s classic.”
“Classic just means old,” Rune muttered. “Play something current.”
“Like what?” Soldier asked from behind the bar fridge, replacin’ bottles with quiet efficiency. “That altered voice crap you listen to? I’d rather eat glass.”
Rune grinned. “One way to find out.”
“Keep drinking that light beer like a good princess.”
Their bickerin’ earned a few laughs from the regulars. I leaned an elbow on the counter, watchin’ them carry on. “Y’all fight about music every shift. Same damn songs, same damn winner.”
Gatsby pointed the bar rag at Rune. “Me.”
Ruby reappeared just in time to shake her head. “Men. Give ’em a beer and a speaker, they think it’s a battlefield.”
The noise rolled easy through the room, banter, laughter, dishes clinkin’. That’s what I liked most about this place. It breathed. It felt alive.
Soldier carried another crate toward the back, head down, sleeves rolled.
He’d come down from the Pennsylvania chapter a few months ago, said he’d stay long enough to help with club business, and he hadn’t left.
Didn’t talk much, didn’t drink much, and stayed low.
There were rumors, sure, but in this world, every man had ghosts.
“Soldier,” I said as he passed. “You hangin’ around tonight?”
He nodded once, eyes flickin’ up just long enough to meet mine. “Until ten or so.”
I watched him go, then turned back to the room. The hum of the bar hit that perfect rhythm, the kind that could almost fool a man into thinkin’ life was simple.
But even with the place hummin’, my mind kept driftin’ to Lark.
Hadn’t seen her since that night at Miriam’s, but she hadn’t left my head. That face, too soft for what she’d lived through, too strong for anyone to break again. I’d asked Sable about her this morning. She said Lark was doing better, and didn’t seem to have any lastin’ effects from the smoke.
It should’ve been enough.
Wasn’t.
Didn’t make sense why she stuck with me when no one else ever did. I’d rescued plenty before—men, women, kids—but none of them haunted me like she did. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at me through the smoke, like she couldn’t decide whether I was a savior or a sin.
“Boss?” Ruby’s voice cut through the haze. “You good? You’ve been starin’ at nothin’ for a full minute.”
“Just thinkin’,” I said, settin’ the clipboard down.
She arched a brow. “About supply runs or somethin’ with longer hair?”
“Maybe both,” I said dryly.
Roxanne slid in close, perfume sweet and familiar in a way that didn’t stir much anymore. “You look like a man who needs a distraction,” she murmured. “I’m off at eight.”
“I’m good,” I said, easin’ back. “Last thing I need is one of your distractions.”
She smiled like she’d expected it. “Friday’s for bad decisions.”
Gatsby snorted. “Chain is a bad decision.”
“Oh, I know,” Roxanne muttered, movin’ off.
I shook my head and picked up my clipboard again. One-night months ago Roxanne showed up at the clubhouse. She made an offer, and I was drunk enough to take it. A mistake and one I wasn’t tempted to make again.
Still, when the voices faded and the music settled back into the hum of the afternoon, the quiet hit strange.
Outside, Charleston shimmered under a clean blue sky, the sun glancin’ off parked bikes and salt-wet asphalt. I caught my reflection in the window—same man, same cut, same life—but somethin’ in my chest shifted. Uneasy.
Didn’t know why. Didn’t know if I want the answer.
All I knew was the road had gone quiet without her voice in it.
And quiet never stayed quiet for long.
***
THE REST OF the afternoon slid by easy, music stayin’ steady, the smell of fried shrimp and whiskey clingin’ to the air while laughter spilled off every wall. The kind of noise that let a man forget, just for a minute, how cruel the world could be when it wanted.
Dinner crowd came and went. Regulars mostly.
Dockhands still smellin’ like salt and sweat, mechanics with grease under their nails, a handful of tourists brave or stupid enough to wander into a biker bar and order like they belonged.
Ruby kept the floor movin’ like clockwork, hair loosening as the night wore on, voice hard enough to quiet the rowdy ones before they crossed a line.
Gatsby worked the bar smooth as glass, slingin’ drinks with one hand and dealin’ stories with the other.
Rune lingered longer than usual, talkin’ bikes with Soldier, both of ’em leanin’ on the counter like it was church.
Soldier didn’t say much, just listened, that quiet intensity never lettin’ go.
I caught myself watchin’ him more than once, wonderin’ what ghosts chased a man that far south and why he stayed once the work was done.
By the time the last table cleared, the clock had crept past midnight.
Ruby wiped her hands on a towel, hair slippin’ loose over her shoulder. “You lockin’ up, boss?”
“Yeah,” I said, eyes on the receipts. “Go on home. You’ve earned it.”
She smiled, tired but genuine. “Don’t stay too late. Ghosts’ll start talkin’ back.”
“Wouldn’t be the worst company.”
Gatsby flipped the last barstool onto the counter. “You ever think about settlin’ down, Chain?”
I looked up slow. “That a joke?”
He shrugged, pullin’ on his jacket. “No. Just somethin’ I’ve been thinkin’ about. Guess I haven’t found the right one yet.”
“Forever’s a long time.”
“Yeah,” he said, like that truth already weighed on him, and then he headed out into the dark.
Silence settled in the second the door clicked shut, the neon hummin’ against the glass and paintin’ the room in soft red and gold. Outside, the street sat empty except for my bike, chrome catchin’ moonlight like it was waitin’ on me.
I walked the place out of habit, checkin’ locks, shuttin’ down taps, killin’ the music. When the quiet finally fell, it wasn’t peaceful. It vibrated, like the room itself hadn’t quite let go of the day.
I leaned against the bar, hands braced on the edge, breath slow and even, and for the first time all night there was nothin’ left to keep my thoughts occupied.
That’s when she slipped in.
Not gently. Not distant. Clear and sharp as memory gets. Lark, crouched behind that broken bench, soot streaked across her cheeks, eyes bright and wild, terrified and furious all at once like fear hadn’t decided yet whether it was gonna win.
I stared down at the bar top, jaw tightening, the question pressin’ harder the longer I sat with it.
Why her? I’d pulled people out of worse than that.
Fires, wrecks, messes that never made the news.
I didn’t carry them with me afterward. Didn’t replay their faces when the room went quiet.
So why the hell couldn’t I stop thinkin’ about her?
I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumb hoverin’ over Miriam’s name while I thought about askin’ how Lark was doin’, about drivin’ out there myself just to see with my own eyes that she was fine. The urge hit fast and hard, then just as quickly I shoved the phone back where it came from.
She didn’t need me hoverin’. Didn’t need another man showin’ up uninvited, draggin’ her back into smoke and fire she was probably tryin’ to outrun.
That still didn’t explain the pull, though, or the way my chest felt off-center, like somethin’ inside me had shifted and never bothered to settle back where it belonged.
Thunder rolled out over the water, a storm pushin’ in from the coast, the kind that promised long rain and a longer night. I locked up, flicked off the lights, and stepped outside, the air thick with salt and electricity, heavy enough to taste.
My bike waited under the sign, chrome dulled by the haze. I swung a leg over and sat there longer than I meant to, the seat still warm from the day’s sun, before finally bringin’ her to life. The engine roared, vibration rollin’ through my chest, groundin’ and familiar, somethin’ I could trust.
Still, when I looked out toward the highway, my thoughts drifted the same way they had for days, pulled down the same invisible line that led straight back to her. It didn’t make sense, and it didn’t need to.
I twisted the throttle and muttered, “Get her outta your damn head, Riggs,” but the words didn’t carry much weight once the rain started fallin’, heavy drops splatterin’ against the pavement as I pulled onto the road.
Somewhere deep down, I already knew this wasn’t over. That sooner or later, fate was gonna shove her back into my path whether I wanted it to or not.
And when it did, I wouldn’t hesitate.
I’d jump back into the fire without thinkin’ twice.