Chapter 2
Two
Stud
The first thing I notice is the quiet.
It’s a Tuesday afternoon in late November, cold enough that the breath hangs white when the bay doors open, but the sun is bright, and the wind rattles the old tin roofing with that familiar metallic chatter.
Usually, I’ve got music going loud enough to drown it out—classic rock is preferred—but right now it’s just me, the tick of cooling engines, and a wrench biting into my palm.
I’m leaned over my ’68 Camaro, elbows braced on the fender, staring at the carburetor like it personally offended me.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I mutter as if talking nice changes anything. “We both know you want to breathe. Come on, breathe for me, baby.”
I should be enjoying this. This is the part of every day I live for: grease under my nails, the smell of gasoline and oil, the satisfaction of taking something old, broken, and giving it new life.
It’s the only kind of problem that makes sense—either it fits or it doesn’t, either it fires or it doesn’t—and when it finally turns over, you know where you stand.
People aren’t like that.
Never have been.
I twist the wrench, listen to the tiny creak of metal, then set it aside and straighten up with a grunt. My lower back protests like an old man. Which, I guess, I am. Fifty-eight and counting, joints talking louder than half the men in my clubhouse.
“Getting soft, Stud,” I tell myself, rolling my shoulders. “Gotta stretch in the damn mornings now.”
The nickname still sticks, even after all these years.
Started as a joke the day I walked into the clubhouse in Haywood’s Landing with my first bike and a high and tight Marine buzz cut.
Roundman took one look at me, laughed right in my face, and said what can I do for you, Stud.
Shit stuck. This was back when I had more attitude than sense.
I gave the man the same sarcasm back and a friendship was born that became brotherhood.
When I retired Roundman needed a set up in Salemburg, so I packed up my wife, grown kids, and started life and a Hellions MC chapter here.
Now I’ve got more scars than hair and a reputation that makes grown men reconsider their choices, but the silly name stayed.
Stud. It’s a mask like any other. And to this day, I’ll still bow up and stand proud like a male peacock looking to mate or a stud horse ready to mount a mare.
The front door chimes faintly from the side door to the garage, a crappy little bell Honey insisted on hanging up when she took over.
I glance at the clock on the wall—almost three.
She’s probably in the office now, banging away on that ancient keyboard, humming along to some new song playing in her head.
I listen for her laugh. The sound of my daughter doesn’t come, though.
Instead, I catch the low rumble of a male voice, something about “She here?” and my shoulders go tight before the words even register.
Smoke.
Of course.
I close my eyes for half a second, jaw grinding. I told myself, and Honey, and anyone who would listen that I wasn’t getting in the middle of it anymore. She’s grown. Her life, her choices, her mess to clean up.
But that doesn’t mean I like the son of a bitch. Once upon a time, maybe I had some respect for him as a man, a brother, but now, he can kick fucking rocks.
Boot steps echo down the concrete as he makes his way to me in the far bay.. I grab a rag and wipe my hands, more out of habit than necessity, and make myself busy under the hood again, like I didn’t hear a damn thing.
The footsteps get closer. The air changes, shifting with that particular sort of tension a man like Smoke drags with him everywhere. Cocky and uncertain all at once, like he’s always ready to bolt or throw a punch, he isn’t sure which is needed.
“Damn place still smells the same,” his voice rumbles, closer now. “Oil, rubber, and your old ass.”
I slam the hood down harder than I need to.
He’s standing at the edge of the bay in jeans that hang too low and a leather jacket that’s seen better days.
Dark hair shaggy around his face. Tattoos crawling up his neck.
He’s younger than I am, of course—most people are—but the life is on him.
Lines around his eyes that shouldn’t be there yet.
Hands fidgeting. That nicotine twitch. He’s aged but anyone living the life of a nomad like Smoke typically do grow old a little quicker.
“Business still alive, Stud?” he asks, smirking, like this is a friendly reunion.
“Alive enough,” I respond, tossing the rag onto the tool cart. “What the hell do you want?”
“Good to see you too, old man.” He wanders farther in, fingers trailing along the fender of the Camaro. I fight the urge to smack his hand away. “Heard you got that ’69 Chevelle in, thought I’d—”
“Try again.” I cut him off, folding my arms over my chest. “You didn’t drag your ass down here to talk about a Chevelle.”
He shrugs, gaze skittering toward the office door. “Heard Honey was here.”
Of course he did. The whole damn town knows Honey’s here most days. She runs the shop all day, then heads over to the school to pick up Bray and Key, wrangling kids and chaos like she was born for it.
My grandbabies.
My chest tightens just thinking about them. Brayden with his dark curls. Keyleigh with her serious little eyes and the way she clings to me like I’m the safest place on earth. Much like her mother did when she was little.
Smoke’s eyes flick back to me, reading every twitch on my face because he’s learned to watch me like that. To measure just how far he can push.
“I wanna talk to her,” he shares. “That a crime now?”
“I don’t know,” I reply, voice flat. “Depends on if you’re planning to stick around for more than five minutes.”
His jaw ticks. “Come on, man. Don’t start.”
“I didn’t start.” I step closer, letting him feel the full weight of my gaze. “You did. Every time you walked out on her. Every time you walked out on those kids.”
He flinches, barely, then lifts his chin. “I always come back.”
“Yeah,” I mutter softly. “That’s the problem. Maybe one day your ass can learn to stay away.”
I picture Honey on my back porch last week, arms wrapped around herself, staring out into the darkness. Her voice had been quiet, careful, like she was afraid of setting me off. I’m not used to my daughter being afraid of anything.
“I think he means it this time, Pops,” she’d said. “He’s really trying. He went to meetings, he’s been showing up for the kids—like the old Darrel is back.”
I’d grunted, noncommittal. Because I’ve heard these same lines before. And before that. And before that.
Maybe that makes me jaded. Maybe that makes me an asshole. Or maybe it just makes me old enough to know better.
“He’s Bray and Key’s dad,” she’d added, a little desperate. “They love him. Don’t you remember what it was like, not having your dad around?”
That had shut me up, because yeah, I remember. I remember all too clearly.
Now, standing here in my shop, with Smoke fidgeting in front of me, I remember something else: the look on Bray’s face when he took his backpack and sat on the front steps to wait for a dad who never showed.
“I came back that time,” Smoke mutters now, like he can hear my thoughts. “I was just late. It’s been fucking years ago, Stud, when you gonna let the past rest. They are my kids.”
“That time, you were two damn days late,” I snap.
“You didn’t call, you didn’t text, she cried herself to sleep on my couch for her kids.
My grandson wet the bed for the first time in six months because he thought you were gone again.
They keep growing up right in front of me, not fucking you.
Years I watch them love you and lose you over and over.
So forgive me, Smoke, if I’m not lining up to hand you a Daddy of the Year trophy. ”
He glances away, jaw tight. “I’m trying, Stud.”
I could believe that, maybe, if I hadn’t heard it before. If I hadn’t seen the cycle up close: the apologies, the promises, the good weeks, and then the slow slide back into old habits.
I rub my temple, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “Honey’s in the office,” I say finally. “You can talk to her there. But I swear to God, if you—”
The office door swings open, I catch it out of the garage bay door window.
Honey steps out, tucking a strand of loose brown hair behind her ear, a pen stuck in the messy bun on top of her head.
She’s in jeans and one of my old T-shirts, the shop logo faded from a thousand washes.
There’s a smear of ink on her cheek. She’s beautiful and tired and too damn good for this mess.
She spots Smoke and stops, one hand braced on the doorframe. Her eyes go big, then soften in a way that makes my teeth grind. “Hey,” she says, voice small and hopeful.
Smoke straightens, his whole posture changing. “Damn, girl,” he remarks, eyes skimming over her in a way that makes my blood pressure spike. “You look good. Real good.”
I see it—the way she ducks her head, a shy smile tugging at her mouth.
The way her shoulders square, like his approval is some kind of medicine.
Fuck that shit. I recognize this all too well.
It’s the way I looked her mother over every time she entered a room.
It’s the way her mother looked back at me as if I had the answer to every question and could do no wrong.
Missed you. The words hang unsaid in the air, heavy and familiar. I’ve heard them before. I’ve heard his replies, slick and practiced. I’ve watched him reel her back in, over and over.
Something in me snaps.
Before I even realize I’m moving, I’m crossing the distance between us. I grab a fistful of his jacket and slam him back against the cinderblock wall. Tools rattle on the pegboard. The air whooshes out of his lungs with a surprised grunt.
“Pops!” Honey’s voice is sharp behind me.