Chapter 23 Silver
SILVER
The Texas sun hangs low on the horizon as I roll my bike out of the garage. The chrome’s freshly polished and gleaming, ready to go out for a ride.
Solana watches from the driveway, barely containing her excitement judging by how she rocks back and forth on the heels of her feet.
Over the past few weeks, we’ve been through a lot. If it wasn’t the Kel situation then it was the Pena cartel or Tom tearing the club apart from the inside. Spencer’s severed head on my doorstep didn’t help matters.
Neither does the fact that we’ve both been dealing with the heavy burden our forbidden relationship puts on us.
While our time together has been amazing, it’s not easy keeping secrets from everybody we know.
I figured we needed to blow off some steam. We needed an evening like this.
“Here, put this on.” I hand over my spare helmet and leather jacket that’s a couple sizes too big for her frame but will keep her protected.
The jacket swallows her up, making her shoulders broader and hanging past her hands. I crack a grin as she fumbles with the helmet straps, then step over to help.
“Safety first,” she quips under her breath.
I almost grin wider. We both know the gear serves a dual purpose. With the helmet’s tinted visor down and the oversized jacket, nobody’ll recognize Big Eddie’s niece on the back of my bike.
They’ll think we’re any other couple out for an evening ride, anonymous and free.
She climbs on behind me, her arms wrapping snugly around my waist. She’s nervous but excited. That much I can tell just by the energy she exudes and how she presses against me from behind.
Though she’s grown up in the MC culture thanks to her dad, uncle, and older brother, this’ll be her first time on the back of a bike.
My Super Glide Sport rumbles the instant I start it up. The familiar vibration quakes through me, the first sign of a great ride to come. It always makes me feel more alive.
More myself.
If possible, Solana’s heart is racing even faster against my back. I let her grow used to the rumble and vibration from the Super Glide, then I’m pulling us onto the street.
I go slower than usual, coasting to get her familiar and comfortable. Nothing’s more important in moments like these than keeping her safe and showing her a good time.
Once we hit the open highway heading west out of Pulsboro, I press the throttle and let the bike do what it was made for.
The speedometer climbs past sixty, seventy, eighty.
Solana’s arms tighten around me, not out of fear but out of exhilaration. She’s laughing from behind me, the sound partially drowned out by her helmet and the rushing wind and rumble from the engine.
You’d think she were on a roller coaster the way she laughs so freely and giddily.
My girl’s an adrenaline junkie.
I realize this as we race down the open highway and she lets one arm go from my middle. She raises it up in the air like she’s trying to touch the wind.
The Texas landscape blurs past us in streaks of brown and gold, mesquite trees, and endless sky, the sun fading in the distance.
We’re riding toward it, watching as it gradually sinks lower and lower along the horizon.
Out on the open road, it’s just the two of us and my bike. It becomes an instant bonding experience we both recognize, jetting across the long, seemingly never-ending stretch.
There’re no murdered college assholes who hurt Solana or severed heads on our doorstep. No mysterious cars watching our every move or motorcycle club feuds to deal with.
It’s me and the one woman in Pulsboro I’m probably not supposed to be with, enjoying what Texas has to offer.
Solana’s a natural perched on the back of my bike. Her thighs bracket me, her breasts soft and tight against my spine. She knows to lean with me for every curve in the road, trusting me to keep us upright and safe.
Once upon a time, I used to give Rachel rides like these. Back when we were young and still getting to know each other.
But it was nothing like this. Rachel hated how heavy the helmet was, and she didn’t like the loud rumble my bike made.
As the years went on, those rides got fewer and fewer. They became less frequent as we gradually fell out of love.
Sometimes I craved nothing more than snatching her up and putting her on the back of my bike to relive the good times. Then I realized there was nothing I could do to ever bring them back.
We were broken beyond repair.
With Solana, it’s like breathing fresh air for the first time in longer than I can remember. It’s like finally sharing this moment on the open road with a woman in a way I always craved.
Her excitement’s a visceral feeling that pulses between us. Her enjoyment matches mine.
Even her laugh makes me crack a grin, despite my focus being on the road.
After an hour of riding, I spot the old diner I’ve been aiming for, a classic roadside joint that hasn’t changed since the nineties.
The neon sign flickers between working and dead, only three other cars in the cracked parking lot.
Perfect for staying under the radar while we catch our breath and grab a bite to eat.
We slide into a cracked vinyl booth in the corner where I can watch the door, old habits dying hard even during our escape.
But it’s not lost on me at any moment my enemies could come for us. I intend on being ready should the worst-case scenario occur.
Solana’s still a little breathless, unable to keep from quirking in a slight smile. It’s infectious and makes my mood ten times lighter than usual.
“How does your hair still look perfect?” she asks, reaching across the table to run fingers through my silver strands. “Mine looks like I’ve been through a tornado but yours is just obnoxiously windswept.”
I catch her hand and bring it to my lips, kissing her knuckles while the large-busted waitress pretends not to notice. “It’s a learned skill that comes with being a biker for thirty years. Took some convincing, but the hair knows how to behave by now.”
We order pie because we’re both craving dessert and there are no rules when on the open road. Pie for dinner is perfectly acceptable.
She gets apple with vanilla ice cream. I get cherry with whipped cream. We end up eating from both plates like an old married couple who are more than a little familiar with each other.
She steals bites of cherry filling while telling me about rehearsals for the play, her entire face lighting up.
I could listen to her talk about it for hours. Just based on how happy it makes her.
“Opening night’s next month,” she says around a mouthful of apple pie.
“I’ll have to think of a way to come see it. An excuse for a divorced biker like me to turn up to a town community play.”
“Maybe Tabby would be interested in seeing it!”
I’d like to think I could bring my little girl to see the play. But there’s no denying how awkward it could be for everybody involved. I’d feel guilty about lying, and I don’t want to put Solana in another situation where she has to either.
Then there’s Tabby—how would she feel if she ever found out her dad brought her to his girlfriend’s play without telling her? His girlfriend who’s half his age?
Still, I make a mental note to be there no matter what chaos erupts between now and then.
The ride home is slower, more peaceful, as full darkness settles over Texas. Solana relaxes completely against me, her grip loose and comfortable, occasionally squeezing just to let me know she’s still with me.
Back at my house, we stumble inside, exhausted from the long trip. We collapse into bed still fully clothed, her locs spilling across the pillow as she curls into me.
It feels so immediately right you’d think she’s been doing it for years instead of days.
My arms wrap around her, pulling her even closer, as I realize this is a level of peace I’ve never experienced before.
It’s what I must protect at all costs.
The Steel Saloon is unusually dead for a Thursday afternoon. I make my way through the main floor, scanning faces for the one that isn’t here.
Tom’s absence is becoming increasingly more obvious. Almost like it first felt when he was sentenced to life behind bars.
“You seen Cutty?” I ask Bush, who’s nursing a beer at his usual spot near the pool tables.
He shakes his head. “Not for a couple days.”
The back office sits empty, Tom’s desk cluttered with papers and an overflowing ashtray but no sign of the man himself.
I check the Chop Shop where we custom tailor the bikes, the garage doors wide open.
As usual, Cash and Korine are inside working on a project they’ve taken on for one of our regulars. Ozzie’s with them as he swaps out the spark plugs on his Softtail Deluxe.
“Nobody’s seem him,” Ozzie grunts when I ask. “Probably drank himself blind as usual and has the hangover of a lifetime.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Cash adds.
Korine frowns, her coveralls streaked with motor oil as usual. “Then why is he president again?”
Frustration builds as I turn and head back into the saloon. Mick’s at the counter wiping down glasses. The old bartender looks up as I approach, his weathered face reading me like an open book the way he always has.
“What’s got you so edgy lately?” he asks, setting down the glass. “You’ve been wound tighter than a spring ever since Tom got back.”
I drop onto a barstool and scrub my hands over my face, suddenly exhausted by the weight of everything I’m carrying. “It’s complicated between us, Mick. You know that better than anybody.”
“I’ve been around this club since before you and Tom even prospected,” he reminds me, pouring me a shot of whiskey and sliding it across the counter.
“I watched you boys come up together, thick as thieves for more years than I can count. Whatever’s going on between you two now, it can’t be worth throwing all that history away. ”
“Something’s off about him. Has been since he got back from prison, but I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is. He’s different in ways that go beyond being in prison for a few years.”