Chapter 5 The Lock-In
FIVE
THE LOCK-IN
STEEL
The wind is still screaming, but inside the shop it’s quiet. The kind of quiet that presses on your chest until you can’t tell if it’s the storm or your own heartbeat, that’s making the walls shake.
Aria sits near the heater, knees tucked in, firelight turning her hair to molten bronze. The air hums with everything we didn’t say. The storm outside doesn’t sound so loud when she’s in the room. It’s the thick, heavy silence between us that’s worse.
She looks like she belongs here and doesn’t, all at once. Like a memory I keep trying to scrub off my skin that won’t fade.
I lean back against the workbench, arms folded, watching her watch the flames. The smell of oil and her perfume hit like an old song I can’t stop playing.
“I missed you.” Her words hang in the air, refusing to die.
I want to answer, but what the hell am I supposed to say? I missed her, too? That I still wake up expecting her hand on my chest, still drive past the courthouse every week like a goddamn fool, hoping I’ll see her car?
Instead, I say nothing. Presidents don’t say shit that soft.
The lamp flickers. I shift my weight, grab the rag off the bench just to have something to do with my hands.
She glances up. “You’re thinking too loud.”
I huff out a laugh. “You always did hate silence.”
“Only when it’s full of ghosts.”
The words hit harder than they should. “You brought your share of those, too, counselor.”
Her lips twitch. “Guess we’re even then.”
Lightning flashes outside, the storm throwing white fire through the windows. For a second, her reflection glows against the glass, soft, alive, untouchable.
I move closer before I even realize it. Just a step, then another. The air thickens with heat and static, the storm growling low against the walls.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” I say quietly.
Her eyes lift, steady on mine. “You already said that.”
“Didn’t mean it the first time.” Her breath catches. That sound is enough to wreck me.
I stop when there’s barely a foot between us. Close enough to feel her warmth through the cold, close enough to smell the faint trace of coffee and rain still clinging to her coat.
“Steel…” She starts, voice breaking.
I shake my head. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Make me remember what it felt like.”
She swallows hard. “You never forgot.”
That does it. I reach out before I can stop myself. My hand finds the edge of her jaw, thumb brushing a streak of soot from her cheek. Her skin’s warm against my palm, too soft for the life I lead.
For a second, she leans into it. Then she exhales, shaky, like she’s afraid the breath itself will shatter us.
“This doesn’t fix anything,” she whispers.
“Didn’t say it would.”
Her eyes meet mine, and all the years between us collapse. The argument, the loss, the goddamn silence, none of it matters right now.
I need movement. Something to break the pull before I say something I can’t take back. “Drink?” I ask finally, just to have somewhere else to put the tension.
She nods quietly. I grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf behind the bench, two mismatched glasses from an old toolbox drawer. The sound of the seal breaking is too loud in the silence.
I pour heavy. We drink heavier.
The night stretches. One drink turns into two. The storm outside keeps battering the walls, but it feels distant, like we’re in some bubble between past and present, ghosts and flame.
She watches me over the rim of her glass, eyes steady. “You ever talk about that night?” she asks. “His last ride?”
“Not to anyone,” I admit, the words scraping out like they don’t want to exist.
Her voice softens. “You should.”
I stare at the bottle for a long time before I answer. “He rode out alone. Said he needed air. The club was at half strength after the Valdez job. I should’ve stopped him. But you don’t stop Tama King when he’s decided something.”
Her hand tightens on her glass. “What happened?”
“Silence happened,” I say. “He didn’t say a word that whole morning. Just rode. Checked the perimeter. Looked out over the ridge like he was already half gone. The smell of burnt rubber and summer dust still sticks to that day. When he came back, he told me the last thing I ever wanted to hear.”
“What?”
I take another swallow, throat burning. “That the club will eat you alive if you let it.”
Her eyes shine in the lamplight. “That’s not the Tama I knew.”
“Yeah, well,” I murmur, “maybe you didn’t know the part that broke first.” I pause, knuckles tightening around the glass. “He said something else, right before the end.”
She leans forward, voice barely a whisper. “What did he say?”
I force a breath past the weight in my chest. “Don’t let love make you soft.”
The words hang there, echoing like a ghost. Aria’s eyes glisten, and before I can turn away, her hand reaches out, brushing my shoulder. I tense on instinct, but I don’t move. The touch sears through the chill, quiet, and steady.
“You’re allowed to break, you know,” she whispers.
“Not with this patch.”
“Not even when no one’s watching?”
I shake my head. “Especially then.”
She looks down, lips trembling, and for a second, I see the teenage girl who sat with me for hours studying law and criminal justice when we were in high school.
The woman who used to patch my knuckles after bar fights, who used to laugh too loud when I tried to act invincible.
Who would be there in my bed after a long, hard night of club business for me to get lost in, to forget about things for a little while.
We talk until the whiskey runs out. About the old days, about rides that felt like freedom before the crown started feeling like chains.
She listens, really listens, the way only she ever could.
When she finally reaches for my hand, I let her hold it.
Her fingers thread through mine, small and sure.
The simple contact nearly undoes me. Every instinct screams to pull away before I start believing this could last.
The heater hums, the lamp flickers. The storm has calmed to a whisper. She leans closer, head resting against my shoulder, breath warming the side of my neck. I can smell the faint trace of whiskey and jasmine in her hair.
Her voice comes out soft, slurred by exhaustion. “You’re still that boy who wanted to fix everything.”
“That boy’s dead,” I say quietly.
“Then why are you still fighting his wars?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because she’s right.
Eventually her words fade, replaced by slow, even breaths. She’s asleep before the next gust hits the door. I stay there, staring into the fire, her weight soft against me, her hand still tangled in mine.
I don’t kiss her tonight. But when she sighs against my chest and I don’t pull away, I know I’ve already lost the war.
“Too late,” I whisper to no one. The words taste like truth and surrender.