Chapter 14 Tony
Fourteen
Tony
The first thing I smell when I open the garage door is old oil and rubber.
Home.
Not the cabin. Not the quiet mornings with the fire still glowing and Holley curled against me like she forgot how to sleep anywhere else.
No—this is Salemburg. My Salemburg.
Concrete floor, tools scattered like a language only I speak, bike parts, car parts laid out on the workbench in the exact pattern I left them in before the weekend.
The old radio hums static before finding a classic rock station.
The overhead lights flicker once before buzzing to life in that comforting way that says the world here hasn’t changed.
I wish I could say the same for me.
Two weeks.
Fourteen damn days.
And not a single word from her.
I drop my bag by the wall, shoulders tight, jaw clenching at the thought. It shouldn’t bother me this much. I told her not to think too hard about us. Told her this wasn’t a commitment. Told her to breathe easy.
Hell, I was the one who made that boundary.
So why the hell am I pacing my own garage like a caged dog because she didn’t reach out?
I throw the switch on the small space heater in the corner—it’ll take an hour to warm the place—and shrug off my jacket. Underneath is a black shirt I’ve worn to threads, and I catch a faint whiff of something that doesn’t belong here.
Her shampoo.
Damn it.
I’m losing it.
I shake it off, head to the lift where a Pontiac GTO waits. The one that I’ve been fighting with for a week. I squat beside it and get to work, hands moving automatically because I’ve done this for half my life.
I should be thinking about getting this job finished and moving onto the next. I have a Camaro waiting for a custom exhaust, an eighties Blazer needing tires, and a newer Mustang with a weird code flashing intermittently that none of us can seem to pin down the true problem with.
I’m thinking about Holley instead.
The way she looked half-asleep in my shirt. The way she said my name like it meant safety. The way she didn’t crumble when I told her who I was and wasn't. The way she stood in the snow when I rode away, not asking for anything, not begging for more, just letting me go.
I didn’t realize how much those little things were carved into my chest until now.
The wrench slips.
“Son of a—” I hiss, shaking out my hand.
Focus, Tony. I want to kick my own ass. I try. God knows I try.
But it’s the same every damn day since I got back. At first, I chalked it up to a shock to the system—going from two days straight of heat and connection to the constant noise of the clubhouse, the work, the runs, the bikes, the everything.
Then I figured I just needed a woman. Easy. Familiar. Someone who knows the score, wants the same no-strings arrangement I’ve always kept.
But every time I considered reaching out, something stopped me cold.
Some very specific someone.
Her voice.
Her laugh.
Her stubborn independence.
Her frost-bitten honesty.
Her quiet boldness.
And the worst damn part? She hasn’t even reached out. Not once.
Not a “How are things?”
Not a “Made it home safe?”
Not even a stupid emoji.
Nothing.
I’m the idiot who said I wasn’t the keeping kind, and now I’m the one acting like I’ve been benched for a playoff game.
I tighten a bolt too hard just to feel something other than the tug in my ribs.
About ten minutes later, footsteps crunch on the gravel that leads from the office out to the garage. They’re sharp, quick, irritated.
Honey.
My daughter walks in like she’s coming to arrest someone. Typical hot rod t-shirt, jeans, black Chuck Taylors, hair pulled back, and eyes sharp as glass. She inherited the worst parts of me and made them look good.
“Pops,” she says flatly, crossing her arms. “You’re in a mood.”
I grumble without looking up. “You always start conversations like that or just the ones where you want something?”
“I don’t want anything,” she states. “Except for you to stop growling at everyone like a wounded bear.”
“I’m not growling.”
“You’re absolutely growling.”
She’s not wrong.
She walks further in, inspecting the place like she’s looking for contraband. “You snapped at Boots yesterday.”
“He shorted the wiring again. Nearly fried his damn eyebrows off.”
“You yelled at Tom earlier?”
“He rearranged my tools.”
“And Country Boy?”
“He deserved it.”
She arches a brow. “Did he?”
“No,” I admit.
She blows out a breath, pacing once before stabbing a finger toward me. “You’re impossible.”
“Runs in the family,” I shoot back.
“You’re being a brat.”
I finally set the wrench down and glare. “I’m your father.”
“And I’m thirty-two,” she fires back. “Adult children get to call out their dad’s when they’re being brats.
It’s one of the perks. I mean if you prefer I’ll just tell you that you’re being an asshole and frankly go get laid or get your ass beat, I don’t care which but I’m sick of this man period you’re on. ”
I groan and rub my forehead, feeling every bit of exhaustion that two weeks has layered onto me. Honey watches me with that perceptive stare she’s had since she was ten—back when her mama was sick and I was trying to pretend everything was fine for her sake.
She knows when I’m lying better than anyone.
She walks over slowly, planting herself right in front of the bike lift, blocking my view.
“Alright,” she studies me. “Who is she?”
I freeze.
“I—what? Who?”
She laughs, humorless. “Pops, please. You’re miserable. You’re pacing. You’re muttering. You’ve changed three carburetors that didn’t need changing on your personal cars just for something to do.”
I scowl. “Maybe I’m overwhelmed. Or I’m bored, Tiffany.
Ever think of that?” Her eyes narrow at me calling her Tiffany.
I never use her actual name. The moment they laid her in my arms, she was Honey.
I even named my garage for her, Honey’s Hot Rods.
From the first time I saw the two lines and her mom said we were having a baby, she’s been my world.
Her brother came years later and only added to the joy that keeps me going on the days I want to say fuck it all. ”
“You don’t get overwhelmed,” she scoffs. “You bulldoze through life. You bulldoze through problems. You bulldoze through emotions—usually mine.”
“Tiff—”
“Don’t act offended.” She points at me again.
“You’re off. Way off. So either someone died and you’re hiding it, or you’re hung up on a woman.
And for the love of everything holy stop calling me Tiffany!
I’m Honey to you. The only person who calls me Tiffany is Smoke when he’s pissed and frankly I don’t want to hear shit from him either. ”
I go back to tightening bolts because that’s easier than listening to my own daughter psychoanalyze me.
She crouches down beside me, blocking my hands again. “You can’t ignore me into silence.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re acting like a teenager.”
“And you’re acting like a therapist. Or my fuckin’ mom.”
She smirks. “Only because you need one almost as much as a shower.”
I sniff my shirt. “I smell fine.” I lie and she knows I don’t ever stink. Body odor is a pet peeve we both have. Sometimes people come in the shop stinking and yes, I won’t lie, we talk shit about them when they leave because how hard is it to use deodorant or cologne.
“Debatable.”
I grunt and toss the rag aside. “There is no woman.”
“That’s a lie,” she challenges immediately. “Try again.”
“I’m busy.”
“Lie.”
“I’ve been distracted.”
“Getting warmer.”
I grit my teeth.
She narrows her eyes. “Is it the woman you talked about from vacation?”
I pause too long.
Way too long.
Honey’s face lights up like she’s won the lottery. “Oh my god, it is! Holley, right? The one who stayed with you during the storm?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Umm Pops, hate to say this but we work together, you live within three houses of me, and we talk about bills, bitches, and everything in between. You’re my dad, the only parent Bub and I have left.
The only grandparent my kids have involved in their lives.
Yeah, everything you do is my business. Why are you this irritated?
” she asks hands flying up. “You’re a menace right now.
Even the guys at the clubhouse said they’ve never seen you this twitchy. ”
“I’m not twitchy.”
“You’re twitchy like a cat staring at a feather toy moving.”
I run both hands down my face. “Tiffany.”
“No. Enough. Who is she to you?”
I shouldn’t answer.
I don’t want to answer.
I don’t even know how to answer.
“She’s…” I start.
Honey waits.
I close my eyes. “She’s someone I can’t explain.”
Her expression softens instantly. “Oh. Okay. Wow. That’s… new.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, chest tight. “Tell me about it.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then why are you—?”
“She hasn’t reached out.” I blurt before I can stop myself. “I have no idea what she’s doing or thinking.”
Honey blinks. “Wait, you got ghosted?”
My daughter looks at me and laughs.
“Not fuckin’ funny, Honey.”
She laughs harder, “yes it is. Have you heard from her at all?”
“No.”
“For two weeks?”
“Not one word.”
“And you didn’t reach out either?”
I pause, “…No.”
“Oh my god.” She presses her fingers to her temples. “Pops, I love you, but you’re unbelievable. You’re both sitting on opposite ends of the state waiting for the other person to blink.”
“She’s independent,” I say defensively. “She doesn’t need me chasing her.”
“My God! Men are so dumb! Yes, she does, fuckin’ idiot,” Honey snaps. “Or at least she needs to know you want to. Women like that, women who’ve been through hell, don’t expect people to show up. You have to show up anyway.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
“Dad?” she says, softer this time. “If you’re even thinking about a woman this much what would it kill you to have the balls to reach out?”
My jaw works. “It’s complicated.”
“It always is.”
“She’s been through a lot. We aren’t anything like that.”
“Then be gentle.”
“I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
“Then be clear.”
I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t do relationships.”
“You told her that?”
“Yes.”
“And she still let you in?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
“…Yeah.”
“Then she’s not expecting you to propose. She probably just wants to know you didn’t forget she exists.”
Forget her? I wish. I can’t even get her out of my bloodstream.
Honey stands, brushing dust off her jeans. “If you don’t text her in the next five minutes, I swear to god I’m calling her myself.”
“You don’t even have her number.”
“I can find it.” She juts out her hip, “Pops, clue in, piss off a woman, there is nothing we can’t find better than the damn FBI. Don’t challenge me.”
I glare. “You stay out of it.”
“Then text her.”
I look down at my hands. Two weeks ago, those hands held Holley’s waist in the shower. Lifted her against me. Brushed damp hair from her eyes. Two weeks ago, I rode away thinking I’d feel relief once I hit the highway.
Instead I haven’t slept right since.
Honey walks toward the door, muttering, “Two grown adults, honest to god…”
“Fine,” I say, grabbing my phone off the shelf. “I’ll text.”
She stops, turns, smirks. “Good. And try not to sound like a caveman.”
“No promises.”
She snorts and disappears back into the office.
I hold my phone, thumb hovering. This is dumb. This shouldn’t be this hard. I talk to people all day.
I flirt.
I banter.
I charm.
I negotiate.
I fight.
But a single text to her?
My heartbeat actually picks up.
I type:
Tony:
How’s the mountain air?
Simple. Neutral. Controlled.
I hit send before I can delete it.
The second it whooshes away, I’m tempted to throw my phone across the garage just to stop myself from watching it like a damn televangelist waiting for holy signs.
Five minutes pass.
Ten.
I almost tell myself she’s not going to answer.
Then—
Holley:
Tony?
Just my name.
My chest tightens. Hard.
My thumbs fly.
Tony:
Last I checked.
The typing bubbles appear instantly.
Holley:
Oh my god I meant to text but talked myself out of it and deleted your number to make sure I didn’t. I didn’t want to bother you. I didn’t want to seem—
I interrupt.
Tony:
Holley. Breathe.
Takes a moment.
Then:
Holley:
Hi.
I grin before I can stop myself. That’s better.
Tony:
Hey Trouble.
More bubbles.
Holley:
It’s been busy. And cold. And I’ve been working extra shifts because I want to fix the hot water heater in the house.
I blink.
Working extra shifts to fix her own damn hot water heater.
My pulse kicks.
Not because she’s struggling—though that hits me too hard—but because she’s handling her shit head-on. No waiting for someone to save her. No standing around freezing.
Just grit and independence.
And god help me, that’s a turn-on like nothing else.
Tony:
You working yourself into the ground?
Holley:
Maybe a little.
Tony:
Why am I not surprised.
A beat.
Then:
Holley:
I didn’t think you’d want an update.
Tony:
I wouldn’t have texted if I didn’t.
Silence. Then one more message:
Holley:
I’m glad you did.
Those words hit deeper than they should.
I sit back on the garage floor, leaning against the lift, letting the warmth of that settle into the spaces she carved open without meaning to.
“Yeah,” I mutter to myself. “Me too.”
The heater hums.
The radio plays something slow.
Work waits for me on the bench.
But all I can think is:
I didn’t realize how damn empty these two weeks were until she filled a single moment of them again.
And if Honey is right—and she usually is—maybe having the balls to reach out was the easiest fix I’ve made in a long damn time.