Chapter 5 #2
“Come on Stud. I get it. I got your message loud and clear. I won’t press for more again. I know my place.”
“Ship has sailed, baby. I’m not your guy. Find someone else to make you come.”
She jolts at my honesty. But it’s a fact. I’m done.
She nods once, a jerky little move, then opens the door. “Safe trip,” she murmurs, and slips out.
The latch clicks softly behind her and I hear her make her way down the hall and then out my front door.
I let out a long breath and rub the back of my neck, rolling the tension out.
Women like Gina deserve someone who’ll give them the world.
Women should want someone who will put care into more than their bodies.
Orgasms, I can deliver. Love, not happening.
Emotions, never again. The man to build something real with … not here.
That man will never be me. I burned that version of myself alive the day my wife took her last breath.
I pick up my phone from the nightstand and check the weather one more time.
Not because I think Honey lied—I just like to know what kind of ride I’m in for.
For a moment I think about taking my truck.
But the thought of a cold mountain ride on my bike appeals like never before.
I want to feel something again. Brisk air against my face will be the slap back to reality that reminds me I’m alive.
Clear all day. High 54. Low 37. No snow. Light wind. Cold front moving in tomorrow night.
Good riding weather. Cold enough to keep me alert.
Nothing dangerous. No snow, no ice, and once I get to the cabin, I’ll have Honey have some groceries delivered and find some solace in the solitude.
When was the last time I spent time alone?
It has been too long since I’ve faced the man in the mirror.
I thumb the app closed, feeling something in my chest loosen.
A ride. A real one. Not a club run full of men and noise and obligations. Not a job. Not a rescue mission. Just me and the road.
I snag my duffel from where I dumped it by the dresser last night, unzip it, and do a quick inventory.
Thermals. Flannels. Spare jeans. Sox. Gloves. Toothbrush. Razor. Tool kit. Phone charger. A pack of jerky because protein is necessary just in case.
Good enough.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder and head outside.
The morning air bites immediately, crisp and sharp. The sun’s barely climbed over the pines on the edge of my property, turning the frost on the grass into tiny diamonds. I breathe in, lungs expanding, the cold burning pleasantly on the inhale.
My Harley-Davidson sits under the carport, chrome gleaming, black paint shining like a mirror even in the dim light. She’s a heavy old girl—built for long distances, not flashy rides around town—and she’s a piece of my past that carries the memories to comfort my present.
“Morning, sweetheart,” I murmur, hand sweeping over the handlebars.
Tammy loved to ride with me. She loved this bike.
I have another one, she’s red. I typically ride it more since it’s newer.
But this one, this one I took my woman out in all the damn time.
When I climb on her, I can feel the ghost of my wife wrapped tight against me.
The memories comfort me even if they sometimes feel a lifetime away.
I hook the duffel onto the sissy bar, tightening the straps with practiced motions. Everything feels mechanical, familiar, grounding. Muscle memory from decades spent on her across counties, states, across deserts and mountains and rainstorms.
Riding is the only time my head quiets.
No responsibilities buzzing. No regrets knocking. No expectations waiting.
Just the throttle, the wind, and the horizon.
I turn the ignition. The bike rumbles awake instantly, the whole frame vibrating under me like a living thing. The sound rolls across the yard, deep and satisfying. My pulse matches its rhythm almost automatically.
I slide on my gloves, pop on my helmet, and settle onto the seat. The engine thrums through me, steadying something that’s been off-balance for months.
Hell, for years.
Honey’s right. I’m worn thin. Snapping without meaning to. Too quick to anger. Too slow to let things roll off me the way I used to.
And Smoke…
I grit my teeth, jaw flexing.
He’s lucky my daughter was there. He’s lucky those kids exist. He’s lucky my hands found the wall instead of his throat.
I force the thought away.
He’s Honey’s business.
He’s not what this trip is about.
This ride is about breathing.
I ease the bike down my concrete drive, engine growling as the sun finally seems to find her place for the day.
At the end of my driveway, the road stretches out—two lanes, cracked asphalt, familiar curves I’ve driven a thousand times.
I turn toward the highway. Headed west leaving everything that has me wound up tight behind.
Toward the mountains.
The wind cuts cold across my face as I pick up speed, but it feels good. Clean. Sharp. Like a slap that wakes up every part of me.
Salemburg shrinks behind me quickly—one stoplight, two churches, the diner with the best damn biscuits in the county. People wave from their porches as I ride past, because they know me, and I know them, and that’s the problem.
Everyone knows me here. Knows my story. Knows who I was when my wife was alive and who I became after. Knows my kids, my grandkids, my world. Small town shit.
It can feel hard to breathe with that many eyes on me.
The highway opens up, and I press the bike harder. The engine roars, wind whipping my jacket back, the road humming under my wheels. The fields on either side blur into golden-brown streaks, dotted with cows and old barns leaning with age.
Feels damn good.
Honey probably put me somewhere quiet, somewhere restful. She probably booked me a cabin some bullshit place with a fire pit and cozy blankets. She will expect me to rest.
She doesn’t know I’m not staying put. I can’t. There is a stirring inside me that is longing for something. I just don’t know what yet.
I’ll check in. Drop off the duffel. Take a hot shower if the water pressure’s decent.
Then I’ll ride.
Up every winding road. Down every valley. Across the ridge and back again. Until my head stops buzzing and my pulse slows and I stop feeling like I’m about to snap at the next bastard who looks at me wrong.
The farther I ride, the more the tension bleeds off.
By the time I hit the old state road that climbs toward the mountains, I’m almost smiling.
Almost.
The trees thicken as I climb, pines rising tall and dark against the sky. The air cools sharply. The sun disappears behind ridges. I lean into each curve, the bike gliding with me like we’re one creature.
The world narrows to road and wind.
Miles slide under me like water.
Hours pass without me noticing.
Somewhere past the third overlook, the first real flicker of peace hits.
It settles low in my chest, a heavy exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding for… hell, maybe ten years. Maybe longer.
I check the map on my phone placed in the handlebar mount. Honey sent me the address last night with a cheerful message and a heart emoji she uses when she’s trying not to nag. Some cabin near the creek. Some quiet rental tucked away where no one will bother me.
Fine by me.
I turn off the main road onto a narrow gravel lane that winds deeper into the woods. Sunlight filters weakly through the bare branches, casting long shadows. A stream gurgles somewhere nearby.
The cabin finally comes into view around a bend—a little place with a blue roof, a wreath on the door, and warm light spilling out the front windows.
Cozy. Quiet. Peaceful.
Not my usual style.
But something about it hits… right.
I ease my bike to a stop in the driveway, kill the engine, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears. Only the creek and the wind and the distant rustle of leaves remain.
I swing off the bike, stretch my back, and take it in.
The place is small. Clean. Charming in a way I should probably find annoying. But there’s something about it—about the way it sits tucked between the trees, about the glow from the windows, about the faint smell of woodsmoke whispering on the air.
I don’t know who runs it—just the listing Honey sent me.
Holley’s Hideaway.
Some over-the-top name for a place this humble. Maybe they named it for their daughter like I did my business. Either way, it doesn’t matter what they call it.
I’m here.
I’m away from town.
Away from responsibility.
Away from the noise in my head.
And tomorrow?
I ride again.
Tonight?
I’ll step inside this little cabin, drop my duffel on the floor, crack open that bourbon, and sit my ass down on whatever couch she’s got inside.
A second of peace is better than nothing.
And for the first time in a long damn while…
I’m looking forward to something.
Even if I don’t know what it is.