7. The Ride
seven
The Ride
Jax
There are only two ways to quiet a roaring mind: forty miles of empty asphalt, or an iron wrench smashed against metal.
Right now, the asphalt is winning, but it is a damn close race.
The heavy, rhythmic thunder of my twelve-hundred-cc V-twin vibrates right up through the steel frame, numbing my palms against the rubber grips and settling deep into my pelvis.
The road is a gray ribbon of cracked, sun-baked Texas highway unrolling beneath my front tire, cutting clean through the dense pine curtain of Moonrise on a crisp Sunday morning.
The air is cool at sixty miles an hour, smelling of wet earth, pine sap, and the sharp, toxic tang of unburnt high-octane fuel trailing from the exhaust pipes ahead of me.
I lean into a long, sweeping curve to the left, my weight shifting naturally, the footpeg scraping the asphalt with a sharp skrrrrt that throws a brief shower of sparks against the gray ditch.
Five other bikes are cut into the lane around me, locked into a tight, staggered military formation that hasn't changed in over a decade, reminding me that I'm not riding alone.
We do not wear leather coats anymore. The three-piece patches are gone, buried in trunks or hanging in the backs of dark closets, but the goddamn code never left the bone.
We are legitimate businessmen now, taxpayers, husbands, fathers, but some things do not stop being true just because you started keeping a clean ledger.
Ahead of me, leading the pack with a massive, wide-shouldered frame that never slouches, is Priest Calder. He rides a blacked-out Road King that sounds like a localized thunderstorm. Priest is the most dangerous quiet person in any room you will ever walk into.
He owns two of the most popular bars in Moonrise, which means he is the unofficial clearinghouse for every dirty secret in the county. Nothing moves through this town without him knowing about it before the dust even settles.
To his left, riding a custom chopper with bars so high his knuckles catch the wind, is Colt.
Colt owns the local distillery and three distribution hubs across the state line.
He is married to Sierra, and he is the resident clown of the group, always dropping some filthy, highly inappropriate joke to cover up the fact that he can read a man's weakness from fifty yards away.
Behind them are Reed and Knox. Reed runs the biggest auto-mechanic shop in Moonrise, is married to Lily, and has a house full of four kids, triplets named Maddie, Nolan, and Ellie, and a younger boy who already knows how to hold a flathead screwdriver.
Reed is the kind of guy who shows up at your back door with a greasy sack of burgers and a box of tools nobody asked for, sets them down without a word, and cracks a beer. That is how love looks in our world.
Knox is riding right next to him, his posture stiff, military-short hair showing beneath his half-helmet. Knox owns the local gym, is married to Sloane, and his background in special operations means he speaks about five words a week, but every single one of them is heavy enough to crack a rib.
And right off my rear tire, anchoring the right side of the lane, is Rafael Dalton.
Rafe runs Dalton Security, is married to Elena, and his eyes are constantly tracking the tree line, the rear mirrors, and the spacing of our tires.
Despite that slight limp in his left leg when he gets tired, he's seamless on a bike.
The six of us move through the morning fog in a tight formation.
Out here, with the wind ripping past my helmet and the exhaust heat baking my shins, the noise in my head finally drops by a few decibels. I can forget about everything.
We clear the pine line, the bikes roaring past the sleepy storefronts of Main Street. Moonrise looks clean at eight in the morning. The neon signs for the diners are just buzzing to life, the yellow light bleeding through the morning mist.
Suddenly, a heavy chrome shadow pulls up on my left side. I glance over to see Rafe riding parallel to me, his face shielded by a dark visor. He lifts his left hand, pointing two fingers toward the gravel shoulder of the old county road we are about to hit, gesturing for me to pull the fuck over.
I frown inside my helmet. I give him a sharp nod, tapping my brake light twice to signal the rest of the group.
I downshift, the transmission clunking hard as I guide the heavy bike off the asphalt. The tires crunch through the loose gravel, kicking up a gray cloud of dust as I bring the machine to a halt under the shade of an old, rusted billboard.
I kill the ignition, and the sudden silence is jarring, filled only by the loud, metallic ping-ping-ping of the hot exhaust pipes cooling down in the damp air.
I flip up the visor of my helmet, wiping a layer of road grit from my mouth with the back of my leather glove.
Rafe pulls up right next to me, his boots hitting the dirt with a heavy thud. He cuts his engine, yanking his helmet off his head, and his hazel eyes are dead serious.
"This better be fucking worth it, Dalton," I rumble, my voice rough from the wind. "We were having a good time."
The other four bikes screech to a halt twenty yards down, their engines idling with a low, wet growl before they realize we are staying down. One by one, they U-turn in the middle of the empty road, circling back until they form a semi-circle of chrome and iron around our dust cloud.
Rafe leans his forearms against his handlebars, his scarred eyebrow twitching. "I thought you might want to know. We just passed the café near the old mill road."
"Yeah?" I grunt. "So, the fuck what?"
"Your neighbor is inside," Rafe says bluntly. "Nora. She is sitting at the corner booth."
My chest goes completely tight. My fingers lock around my handlebars until the leather of my gloves groans. I look at him sharply, my pale blue eyes narrowing into slits. "Are you fucking with me right now?"
"I don't play about surveillance, shithead," Rafe says, his voice flat. "It is her. I saw the red hair from the road."
I force my shoulders to relax. I lean back against my seat, trying to play it entirely cool, though my pulse is suddenly hammering against my ribs. "She is an adult woman, Rafe. She is allowed to eat breakfast. How the hell is that my problem?"
The problem is my gut doesn't seem to know that.
Rafe lets out a low, dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Don't try so goddamn hard to pretend you aren't sweating, Jax. You look like you want to bite a nail in half."
Before I can tell him to go fuck himself, the rest of the men kill their engines. The silence of the back road returns.
Reed pulls his helmet off, his graying temples damp with sweat. He looks between me and Rafe, a huge grin breaking across his grease-stained face. "What the fuck are we stopping for? Someone's bike leaking oil?"
"No," Rafe says, turning his head to look at the men with a wicked gleam in his eye. "Jax here is just having a mid-morning crisis because his woman is down at the café."
"My what?" I snap, my face turning hot.
Colt immediately bursts out laughing, slapping his hands against his gas tank. "What the fuck did you just say? Jax has a woman? Since when does this miserable bastard let anyone into his cave?"
"She is not my woman," I growl, bristling under the sudden weight of their eyes.
Rafe doesn't hesitate to drop the entire payload. He looks at Reed, Knox, and Priest, his voice dripping with pure mischief. "She is the architect girl from next door. The one with the land issue. And it gets better, boys. He already fucked her."
The entire road explodes into a chorus of crude, unfiltered shouting.
"You lying piece of shit!" Reed howls, throwing his head back. "Jax got laid? The monk finally broke his vow?"
Colt hooks his leg over his bike frame, leaning forward with a filthy, massive grin. "Holy shit, Jax. An architect? That means she knows all about structural integrity. Did you break her foundation or what, you big bastard? Did she give you a blueprint for your dick?"
"Shut the fuck up, Colt," I warn, my knuckles turning white as I stare him down.
Even Knox, who usually stands there like a stone statue, lets out a low, dark chuckle, shaking his head. "Fucked the neighbor. That is efficient, Rowe. Saves on gas."
Priest doesn't laugh, but a slow, rare smile creases the corners of his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest, his voice low and commanding. "Is she the redhead who recently came back into town? The looker?"
"Yeah," Rafe chimes in, enjoying my misery way too much. "That is her. High-class city girl. And Jax is completely wrapped around her little finger, even if his dumb ass won't admit it."
I feel the heat burning right up into my ears. I am furious, cursing myself silently for opening my mouth to Rafe yesterday in the workshop. I should have known the bastard would treat my personal life like a company briefing.
"We had a one-night stand in Galveston," I say, keeping my voice low, and the rumble would have made lesser men step back. "That is it. It is done. She is trying to buy my mother's land, and I am kicking her off the property. There is no fucking relationship."
"Right," Colt scoffs, spitting into the gravel. "That is why you look like you are about to murder Rafe for mentioning her name. You are totally unbothered, Jax. We believe you."
"I am going to break your jaw, Colt," I say.
Rafe clears his throat, his grin fading by a fraction of an inch as he brings the focus back. "The reason I asked you to pull over wasn't just to watch you turn purple, Rowe. There is a guy with her."
The territorial muscle in my gut twists hard, a sudden, cold injection of pure venom hitting my bloodstream. I stiffen. "What guy?"
"Looks like a posh bastard," Rafe says, his eyes narrowing as he recalls what he saw.
"Looks clean-cut, smooth, and has a fancy silver sedan parked out front.
The same rental plate I pulled from your cameras yesterday.
He doesn't belong to Moonrise, Jax. Not by a mile. He looks like money from the city."