Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Dodge
My fingers go numb, making the glass slick in my grasp.
It's the bourbon. The burn from this cheap rotgut is the only thing that keeps the past at bay.
I've spent years building walls against people who always walk away, yet here I am, seeking solace in the bottom of a glass.
The room's too damn quiet, stifled by the weight of secrets I'll never tell my brothers and the phantom of the woman who vanished before she could become my wife. Being President of the Saint’s Outaws means I'm never off duty, but tonight I just want to lose myself in the liquor.
I let out a shaky breath that sounds flat in the quiet room.
My muscles ache, wound tight despite the liquor burning in my gut.
I'm sick of playing the sentry, tired of watching for the next knife in the back.
I just want the numbness to hit, to blank out everything until the sun drags me back into the reality of my life.
The clubhouse is all cedar and neon, a dive bar built to hide the mess inside.
A mahogany bar runs along the back wall, flanked by booths where deals go down and loyalties get tested.
In the corner, an old jukebox bleeds amber light, spitting out hair metal tracks that fight the roar of the room.
People sway on the dance floor, flickering shapes in the gloom that look too much like the ghosts I'm trying to outrun.
Then, the familiar groan of leather cuts through the noise.
Glacier slides into the booth beside me.
It's a sound that usually means club business.
He stays quiet, just signaling one of our prospects, Talon, behind the bar for another round.
His eyes pin me, searching for the cracks I spend every second trying to hide.
Out here the law doesn't reach, but tonight the walls feel like they're shrinking.
Every face here reminds me of the weight I carry.
Glacier sitting there proves one thing. This drinking fest won't make my duty to the club disappear.
“What are you drowning out tonight, Dodge?” Glacier asks, his voice low and gravelly with knowing.
He nods in thanks toward Talon as a shot glass is placed in front of him.
He doesn't wait for a response, his hands wrapping around his own glass as he leans back.
The leather booth creaks under the weight of a man who understands exactly what it feels like to carry the world on his shoulders.
He knows me better than most. He knows that when I'm this deep into the amber liquid, I'm not just drinking.
I'm trying to burn away the scar left in my heart when my blood brothers and lover walked away when things got tough.
Illuminated beer signs flicker in my shot glass, pulling at me like a bad promise.
Every pull of this rancor burns my throat.
It's a fire I need to keep the cold at bay, the same cold she left me with when she walked out right before our wedding.
That scrap of paper was all she gave me.
It destroyed everything I thought we had.
It slammed a lock on my chest and turned this clubhouse into my only fortress.
The room's full of noise, the brothers laughing and the music blaring, but it all feels a world away.
The roar of the place doesn't do a damn thing to quiet the noise in my head.
“I'm drowning out my life, Glacier,” I slur, my tone heavy with a jagged edge of self-loathing.
My hand shakes as I lift the glass, the neon light dancing in the amber liquid.
I'm not just trying to kill the ghost of the woman who left me at the altar.
I'm trying to outrun the weight of keeping this chapter from folding when the ground feels ready to crack under my boots.
They look to me for a plan, for strength, for some reason to keep riding.
Tonight though, all their president can give them is a man sinking to the bottom of a bottle.
I close my eyes as the room starts spinning in a slow, sickening circle and lean my head back against the booth.
Glacier observes me with an unreadable look, though the concern's unmistakable in the tight lines carved around his eyes.
He understands the heavy burden of the patch better than anyone, yet he has no clue about the crushing silence that waits for me at home every single night.
He lets out a heavy sigh, the sound laden with the frustration of a man who's tired of watching his friend drown in an inch of liquor.
“We've got to get you out of your funk, brother,” he urges, his words cutting through my alcohol-induced haze.
He leans in closer until his shadow blocks out the fluorescent glare of the bar.
“I know you don't want to hear this, but it's been two years since Ashley took off.
It's time to start living again. You can't keep using this club as a mausoleum for a relationship that died the second she left that Dear John letter.
The brothers need their president, Dodge.
Not a man who's more in love with his past than his club.”
I slam the shot glass down onto the scarred wood of the table.
The crack punctuates my anger, cutting through the low thrum of the jukebox.
“That's a fucked up thing for you to accuse me of, Glacier,” I growl, my voice scraping against my throat like jagged shards of cut glass.
My pulse spikes as the bourbon heat meets the cold fire of my temper.
I lean forward into his space and my eyes narrow as the haze of alcohol momentarily clears, exposing a reality I don't want to face.
He doesn't flinch, refusing to back down from the storm brewing in my gaze.
As a mountain of leather and muscle who has stood by my side through every war we've fought, his words sting even more.
He keeps his stare fixed on mine with the brutal honesty only a brother can wield.
“Fucked up, yeah, maybe, but it's the damn truth, Dodge,” he argues.
“You're ghosting through your own life, and the club is feeling the chill.
This patch on our backs doesn't just represent a hobby, it's a way of life, a commitment you're currently letting slide into the bottom of a bottle.”
“I think I need to hit the road and clear my head for a bit,” I say.
The thought of escaping the clubhouse, the noise, and the constant reminders of everything I’ve lost seems like the only way I can finally breathe.
I need the rush of the wind and the open highway beneath my tires to drown out my past and the suffocating weight of the presidency.
Right here in Muscogee, the walls are closing in fast, and every face I look at just reminds me of a loyalty I’m fighting like hell to maintain.
Glacier's hardened expression makes it clear he doesn't believe a few days away will fix the rot eating at my soul.
Still, staying put is just another way of dying, and I need to keep moving.
If I don't escape this town for a while, the bitterness and bourbon will devour everything I've fought to safeguard.
For a man who has lost all faith in people, the open road offers a brief reprieve—one that never demands answers or leaves jilted letters in its wake.
“If you believe that’s what’s necessary, I’ll support you and manage things while you’re away,” Glacier responds, his skeptical expression remaining steady.
He extends his arm, his large hand gripping my shoulder firmly to let me know he supports me, even if he feels I’m pursuing a lost cause.
“Just make sure you aren’t away for too long, Dodge.
A club left without its leader for an extended period becomes a pack of wolves searching for a new alpha, and I really wouldn’t want to deal with correcting anyone who tries to claim your seat while you’re off searching for answers. ”
“I won’t be away for long, a week or two at most,” I say, the resolution taking root in my chest despite the bourbon still clouding my mind. It feels like a needed penance, an opportunity to exchange the suffocating atmosphere of the clubhouse for the exhaust-filled wind of the highway.
“Maybe I'll head over and visit my mom, check up on her and see if I can fix some things around her house since my lazy-ass brothers can't get off their asses to do a damn thing for her.” Just thinking about my blood brothers, the ones tied to me by genetics, not by leather, brings a fresh wave of irritation to my gut.
They've always been experts at vanishing whenever actual work needs to be done, leaving our mother to fend for herself in a house that's slowly falling apart.
Honestly, tackling a leaky roof or a squeaky porch step feels like a manageable issue compared to the internal rot I'm currently wrestling with.
At least with a hammer and nails, the damage is visible, and I can actually track the progress.
Out here, in the life I've built for the Saint’s Outaws, the decay is usually hidden until the entire structure collapses right on top of you.
A rare, genuine smirk tugs at the corner of Glacier's mouth as he teases, “Good idea, your mom will whip you into shape in no time.” He understands just as well as I do that the formidable woman who raised me is the only person on this green earth who cares nothing for the patch on my back or my title. To the rest of the world, I am the feared and respected president of the Saint’s Outaws, but to her, I remain the boy who tracked mud into her kitchen and still needs a stern lecture about my attitude.
Thinking about my brothers leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
They share my blood but none of my loyalty.
They have no problem using my name when it benefits them, but the moment real work appears, or when they have to deal with the fallout from my wedding, they vanish faster than smoke.
For weeks, my mom has been on my case about her household repairs that my brothers keep promising they'll handle it, but that same tired excuse has been recycling since Christmas.
I let out a dry, brittle laugh. “She probably will,” I mutter.
Glacier’s grin vanishes. His hand clamps down on my shoulder again, solid and heavy.
“Physical work’s what you need, Dodge,” he says.
“Clear out those cobwebs. Get your hands dirty with something that’s got nothing to do with club business or watching your back.
We’ll run things while you’re gone.” I nod.
Getting out of Muscogee for a while, putting some distance between me and the memories of Ashley as well as the burden of this gavel, isn't just an option anymore. It’s the only way I’m going to make it.
Swaying on my feet, I push up from the table and look down at my best friend. “I’ll head out in the morning.”
Shaking his head with a snort, he tells me, “Just be sure that wicked hangover you’re going to wake up with wears off before you hit the open highway, brother.”
“Good idea,” I mumble. My booted feet drag across the floorboards as I head down the dim hallway toward the room I keep for nights like this.
Flickering lights above cast warped shadows that seem to mock my clumsy steps.
The alcohol makes it difficult to keep my balance.
Every stride feels like a war against the weight pressing on my soul.
It's physical proof of the exhaustion I've tried to outrun for two years.
Glacier’s words hit hard. They’re a stinging reminder that I’m just a shell of who I used to be, running a club while clinging to a lie.
I need this trip. It’s my only shot at finding the man I was before I got so damn cold.
I get away from the clubhouse noise and stumble to my room.
It’s quiet in here. My hands feel heavy and I fumble with the handle.
I don’t touch the light switch. I let the moonlight guide me to the bed.
I drop onto the mattress and the springs groan.
I bury my face in my hands, but the room won’t stop spinning.
It’s full of flashing bar lights and the faded remnants of Ashley’s perfume.