Chapter 2 #3
She studies my face, like she’s checking for lies. Satisfied, she nods, some of the tension leaking out of her shoulders.
“And you,” she adds, poking me in the chest. “Need a vacation.”
I blink. “What?”
“A vacation.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Time away. Somewhere that isn’t here, where your blood pressure might come down below ‘walking heart attack.’”
I snort. “I don’t vacation.”
“Exactly.” She plants her hands on her hips.
“You run this shop six days a week. You spend your seventh day at the clubhouse dealing with club business. You say yes every time someone needs their truck looked at or the generator fixed or the fence mended. You’ve taken maybe two weekends off in ten years.
And in between all that, you’re trying to keep me and the kids afloat emotionally.
” She lifts her chin. “You’re worn thin, Pops.
You’re snapping at everyone. Mom would’ve smacked the back of your head by now and shoved you out the door. ”
The mention of her mother hits like a bullet. I feel it, sharp and familiar. Twelve years and it still knocks the wind out of me sometimes.
Honey’s face softens. “She would’ve,” she says gently. “You know she would.”
She’s not wrong. If my wife was still here, she’d have taken one look at me lately and told me to get my ass on the bike and ride until I could breathe again. She always knew when the walls were closing in on me, when the noise in my head got too loud.
Without her, I’ve just been… filling the space. Work, club, women. Anything to keep from stopping long enough to feel how empty the house is.
“I got responsibilities,” I protest weakly. “This shop doesn’t run itself. The club—”
“Can live without you for a week,” she cuts in.
“I already talked to Country Boy. He said he’d cover whatever comes up on the club side.
And I can handle the shop. I do the books, I know all the jobs scheduled, I can call in a couple of the guys to cover the heavy lifting.
You taught me how to do half this shit anyway. ”
I scowl. “You’ve been plotting behind my back?”
“Absolutely.” She doesn’t even try to deny it. “Because you weren’t listening when I tried to talk to you about it in pieces. So I went around you.”
A reluctant laugh bubbles up. “You’re your mother’s daughter.”
She grins briefly. “Damn right I am.”
Then she sobers. “Go home. Pack a bag for a week. I’ll have everything booked by the time you get back. You can hit the road tomorrow morning.”
“Booked where?” I demand. “You sending me to some yoga retreat or some shit?”
“Relax,” she says dryly. “I’m not putting you in a yurt. Just… somewhere quiet. Put some miles under you. Clear your head.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. I can feel the resistance in me, automatic and knee-jerk. Control freak, that’s what she calls me when she’s pissed. She’s not wrong.
The idea of leaving makes my chest go tight. The idea of staying does too.
I look around the shop. At the cars in various stages of repair. At the oil stains on the concrete that I could mop with my eyes closed. At the workbench where I’ve sat so many nights, alone, with a beer and an engine block as company.
The walls feel closer than they used to.
Outside, beyond the big bay door, I can see the narrow strip of gravel that leads to the road.
Beyond that, Salemburg stretches out in its familiar, small-town lines—one stoplight, a couple of churches, the diner, the gas station, the same houses I’ve driven past a thousand times.
I know every crack in the pavement, every pothole that’ll rattle your teeth.
I also know something else: I’m tired.
Not just physically. Bone-deep.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do need to get gone for a bit. Clear my head before I make a mistake I can’t take back.
“Where exactly are you sending me?” I ask cautiously.
She smiles, a little secretive. “Let me worry about that. You just take your grumpy ass home and put some clean clothes in a bag. And maybe throw in that ratty old thermal shirt so you don’t freeze.”
“I got plenty of clothes,” I grumble. “And I’m not grumpy.”
She arches an eyebrow. I sigh.
“Fine,” I amend. “I’m a little grumpy.”
“A little,” she echoes, amused. Then she steps forward and rises on her toes to kiss my cheek. “Go, Pops. Before you change your mind.”
Her lips are warm. Her shampoo smells like vanilla. For a second, she’s five again, clutching my hand, asking if monsters are real.
I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “What about you? You gonna be okay with…” I jerk my chin toward the side door, where Smoke disappeared. “That situation?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve survived worse. You go de-stress. I’ll handle my mess.”
I don’t like it. Every instinct in me screams to stay, to watch, to make sure she doesn’t get hurt again. But I also know that hovering hasn’t helped. It’s just made her dig her heels in harder.
“You call me,” I say, pointing a finger at her, “if he steps even a toe out of line.”
She salutes. “Yes, sir.”
“I mean it, Honey. I don’t care if I’m halfway across the country, you call, and I’ll be on the road before you hang up.”
“I know.” Her eyes soften. “I always know that.”
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other. There’s worry in her gaze. There’s worry in mine. But there’s trust too. We’ve earned that the hard way.
Finally, I nod. “All right. One week. You got me for seven full days out of your hair.”
“Best early Christmas gift ever,” she teases.
“Watch it, girl,” I growl, but there’s no heat in it.
She laughs and heads toward the side door, wiping her hands on her jeans. “I’m gonna go talk to Smoke before he wears a hole in the porch,” she calls over her shoulder. “Seriously. Go home. Pack. I’ll swing by after dinner with the details.”
I watch her go, feeling that familiar mix of pride and fear twist in my gut.
Vacation … when was the last time I took one of these?