Chapter 3
TINY
After walking away from Syvannah’s door, I can’t sleep. So instead, I get ready to ride with no destination in mind. I swing a leg over my bike, start the engine, and the saddlebag wiggles.
“What the…?”
Peanut’s head pops out, eyes wide like she’s been caught sneaking into a movie theater.
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Not tonight, Houdini.” She refuses to move. Because of course she does.
Red shouts from across the lot, “Peanut’s trying to prospect!” He’s laughing while I carefully lift her out. She sticks her claws into my cut and won’t let go.
“Jesus, girl…” I whisper. “You’d follow me to the ends of the damn earth, wouldn’t you?” Peanut purrs. And I swear, she means yes. Instead of fighting her on it, I grab her carrying case and strap her in.
I take off with Peanut beside me. Only asphalt, streetlights, and the kind of silence that engines alone understand.
Los Angeles after midnight feels like a different world.
Damp pavement, slower traffic, stray dogs watching from alleys.
I ride until the ache in my chest burns out, until the thoughts stop chasing me.
When I finally kill the engine, the sky is turning gray. I park near the overlook that faces the city. The one I use when I need to think without witnesses. The one that’s sacred to me. The skyline looks like it’s on fire behind the smog, and for once, I wish it were. At least a flame makes sense.
By the time I roll back to the Clubhouse, the sun is already up, and the smell of coffee, oil, and bad decisions hangs in the air.
My brothers are already starting their day.
Red has his laptop balanced on a toolbox, Trigger is shirtless, wiping his hands on a rag, and Capone’s voice drifts from the common room, low and sharp.
“Morning, sunshine,” Trigger calls when he spots me. “You look like a man who lost a fight to insomnia.”
“More like round three,” I reply, dropping my helmet onto the workbench.
Red glances up from the bike he’s rewiring. “That means you’re volunteering for extra runs?”
Trigger smirks. “Careful. He might take you up on it. Tiny’s allergic to downtime.”
“Downtime makes people lazy,” I say, reaching for a wrench. “Laziness gets people killed.”
Peanut materializes beside my boot like she teleported into the garage, meowing and rubbing against my leg. “The hell?” I mutter, glancing around the shop. I’m sure I shut the door when I rolled in, and Peanut was not with me.
She flicks her tail, proud as a queen, then leaps into my open saddlebag and curls up on a spare pair of gloves like she owns the place.
“You’re not supposed to be in there.” I frown. Peanut’s only answer is a loud, unapologetic purr.
Trigger walks by snorting. ‘Bro, you got a cat who picks locks.”
“She doesn’t pick locks,” I argue.
Peanut immediately slips out of the bag, darts across the dirty floor, and vanishes through a gap under the tool bench.
Trigger laughs. “You sure about that?”
I shake my head and scowl because, no, I’m not.
Trigger tosses the rag at me. “Jesus, you ever lighten up? We’re not in a war zone.”
“Not yet,” Red cuts in. “But Lattimer’s boys are sniffing around the south docks again. Give it a week, and we’ll be polishing bullets instead of bikes.”
“Speak for yourself,” Trigger says. “I plan to polish both.”
The garage is filled with laughter. It’s the kind of sound that masks fear with noise, and for a moment, it almost succeeds.
“War dogs,” Red mutters, half-joking. “That’s what we are now. Hellhounds without the hell.”
I pause for half a second at the name before smirking. “Nah. We bite cleaner.”
Trigger snorts. “And grumble louder.”
The banter keeps going, brotherhood easy and alive. Every insult is a promise that we support each other, even if we don’t say it out loud.
After lunch, I head back to the garage to grab tools for a maintenance check. That’s when I see Syvannah’s bike stripped down to its skeleton. Seat off, chain partially removed, wires hanging like veins.
She bought it last summer unexpectedly, seeking a way to move past the trauma Lattimer caused her.
Not only did he fuck with her body, but he fucked with her mind, too.
Out of the three women abducted and raped by Lattimer, Nadia, Exleigh, and Syvannah, Nadia is doing well.
She runs a dance studio that helps her forget the memories.
Exleigh has her music, and Syvannah had nothing until she saw this bike.
Now she turns wrenches until her hands stop shaking. It works most days.
She’s kneeling beside the bike, grease on her cheek, determination shining in her eyes.
“You planning to ride that or resurrect it?” I ask, leaning in the doorway.
She looks up, strands of blonde hair falling across her face. “I was fixing the throttle cable. It snapped again.”
“You used the wrong clamp last time.” I crouch beside her, reaching for the part. Our fingers brush. Warm, quick, electric. Neither of us moves immediately.
Her breath catches first. “I can do it.”
“I know.” I hand her the wrench. “Just… let me help.”
She exhales slowly, avoiding my gaze. “You always have to fix things, huh?”
“Occupational hazard.”
Something flashes across her face before she quickly covers it.
Together, we work in silence, passing tools and occasionally grazing knuckles. Outside, the afternoon hums with motorcycles revving, music spilling from the clubhouse speakers, and someone laughing too loudly. But in here, it’s just the two of us.
When the cable is tight again, she tests the throttle. It purrs smoothly and steadily.
“There,” I say. “Good as new.”
She wipes her hands on a rag. “Thanks.”
I grab her wrist before she can pull away. “You don’t have to thank me every time.”
Her gaze flicks to mine. “Then what am I supposed to do?”
“Keep breathing.” The words come out rougher than I intend.
She blinks in surprise and then nods once. “Deal.”
I gently let go of her soft wrist before the air becomes any heavier.
Dagger strides in just as she rolls her bike outside. He’s grinning, the kind that usually means trouble. “You two fixing or flirting?”
“Both,” Syvannah replies immediately.
He laughs. “Respect.”
I toss him a wrench. “What brings you down here, Reverend?”
He catches it midair. “Got pulled into a community-outreach thing at the high school. Nina’s teacher asked if the club would come talk about mechanics and mentorship. Figured I’d volunteer before Capone sticks Trigger with it.”
Red overhears and whistles. “You? In a classroom? That poor teacher.”
“Don’t worry,” Dagger says. “She’s got a sharp mouth. Keeps up just fine. Eyes like lightning, though. Kinda dangerous.”
Trigger smirks from across the room. “Uh-oh. Dagger found someone who doesn’t faint at his sermons.”
“Yeah,” Dagger admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe my match.”
Syvannah grins. “That’s adorable. Should we start picking out flowers?”
He points at her. “Don’t you start.”
The laughter that follows is genuine this time, loud, easy, familiar. For a moment, the tension that’s been weighing on everyone’s shoulders eases. Brotherhood and noise fill the air, and for a few blessed seconds, it feels like the world isn’t about to fall apart.
Later, when the sun dips and the brothers head inside for drinks and music, I stay behind to lock up the garage. The heat lingers, clinging to the metal and the memory of her touch.
I light a cigarette and watch smoke curl up toward the rafters.
The quiet settles again, this time heavier. I lean against Syvannah’s repaired bike, thumb tracing the edge of the handlebars. My mind drifts to her laugh, the way her lips curve when she’s trying not to smile, the scent of her shampoo mixed with engine oil.
It’s dangerous, the way she’s becoming home.
When I finally crash in my room, sleep pulls me under quickly.
The world burns red. Engines scream. Hellhound colors twist in the fire, black leather peeling off bodies that used to be brothers. The mark blazes bright on their backs, that damned “L” glowing through the smoke.
I reach for my gun, but my hands are empty.
A gentle, pleading voice cuts through the roar. You can’t save everyone.
I turn and see the girl from San Felipe, eyes wide, skin slick with blood. She’s mouthing something I can’t hear, then she’s gone, swallowed by flame.
The fire shifts, and suddenly it’s Syvannah standing there, her hair glowing orange in the heat. Her mouth moves the same way. You can’t save everyone.
I wake up choking on air that smells like gasoline and ash.
The clock says 5:37 a.m.
By six, I’m in the attached garage, boots laced, ready to go. Dagger’s already waiting outside, polishing his blade as if it’s sacred.
“Rough night?” he asks.
“Same as always.”
He grins, sliding the knife back into its sheath. “Then let’s go make it worse.”
I laugh under my breath, the sound sharp and tired. “You first.”
We fire up the bikes. The engines roar across the compound, waking the world. Capone steps onto the porch, coffee in hand, and nods once.
I glance back at the clubhouse windows. Syvannah’s curtain moves. She’s awake. Watching. I wish she wouldn’t.
I twist the throttle and ride. The wind hits like redemption, and the city unfolds ahead, bright, brutal, alive. The day’s just starting, and I can already feel it turning toward blood.
The ride south burns the sleep right out of me. The sun’s a red smear clawing its way over the skyline, and every mile closer to the docks feels heavier. Dagger rides beside me, dark glasses on, wind tugging his hair loose.
We don’t talk much, just the roar of engines, with the world shrinking to asphalt and instinct. But the silence between brothers isn’t empty. It’s loaded. It’s trust, fear, and memories trying not to surface.
When we hit Long Beach, the scent shifts to ocean decay, diesel fumes, and salt baked into the air.
Dagger slows, eyes flicking toward the warehouses stacked like tombs. “This is where Trigger’s contact said the shipment vanished?”