2. Diesel
DIESEL
I've been watching her for two weeks.
Not in a creepy way. At least, that's what I tell myself.
But when you've spent nineteen years learning to notice things — patterns, movements, anything out of place — it's hard to turn that part of your brain off.
Especially when the thing that's out of place is a woman with scared eyes and a kid who deserves better than whatever put that fear there.
She moved in fourteen days ago. I wasn't home when the U-Haul pulled up — club business had me out of town for three days. By the time I got back, she was already settled. Curtains up, car in the driveway, kid's bike leaning against the porch.
But I noticed things.
I noticed the way she checks the street before she gets out of her car. Every time. Head on a swivel, looking for something — or someone. I noticed the way she keeps her curtains drawn during the day but cracks them at night, like she needs to see what's coming.
And yeah, I noticed her watching me through the kitchen window. Hard not to, when I can feel her eyes on my back every time I'm out here working on the bike.
I like it more than I should. Find myself working on the bike longer than I need to, just to give her something to look at. Taking my shirt off when the sun's not even that hot.
Forty-two years old and I'm showing off for the pretty neighbor. Pathetic.
Today was different, though. Today I actually talked to her.
Gracie. And she babbles when she's nervous in a way that shouldn't be as endearing as it is. She's young — late twenties, I'd guess. I'm forty-two. Fifteen years between us, give or take. That should matter.
Doesn't seem to stop me from thinking about the way she looked at me on that porch. The flush on her cheeks when her kid outed her. The way her eyes dropped to my chest before she caught herself.
Doesn't stop me from wondering what other sounds I could get her to make besides that flustered little laugh.
I'm in the clubhouse now, nursing a beer at the bar while the brothers shoot pool and talk shit behind me.
It's a Thursday night, which means it's quieter than usual.
King's in his office handling club business.
Rogue's holding court at one of the tables, telling some story that's making the prospects laugh.
Lock's in the corner, silent as always, watching everything and everyone.
Home. This place has been home for five years now, ever since I got out and needed somewhere to land. The Army gave me structure, purpose, brotherhood. The Sons of Ruin gave me the same things, minus the bullshit bureaucracy.
"You're quiet tonight." Rogue drops onto the stool next to me, beer in hand. "Quieter than usual, I mean. Which is saying something."
"I'm always quiet."
"Yeah, but this is brooding quiet. This is 'something's on Diesel's mind' quiet." He takes a pull from his bottle. "Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"What's her name?"
I don't react. Don't give him anything. "Who says there's a her?"
"Brother, I've known you for five years. You don't brood over club business. You don't brood over money. The only thing that puts that look on a man's face is a woman." He grins. "So. What's her name?"
I take a long drink of my beer. Consider telling him to mind his own business. But Rogue's like a dog with a bone — he won't let it go until he gets something.
"Gracie," I say. "New neighbor."
"Yeah?" He raises an eyebrow. "She hot?"
I give him a look.
"What? It's a valid question." He holds up his hands. "Fine, fine. She's clearly hot, or you wouldn't be sitting here looking like someone kicked your puppy. What's the problem?"
"There's no problem."
"Diesel."
I set my beer down. "She's got baggage. The kind that makes a woman jumpy."
Rogue's grin fades. He's a smartass, but he's not stupid. "Ex?"
"That'd be my guess."
He nods slowly, processing. "And you're what — keeping an eye on things?"
"Something like that."
The truth is, I've been doing more than keeping an eye on things. The black BMW that's been parked down the street three times this week? I clocked it the first day. Got the plates memorized.
"You going to do something about it?" Rogue asks.
"Haven't decided yet."
"But you're thinking about it."
I pick up my beer again. "I'm always thinking."
He laughs and claps me on the shoulder. "Yeah, that's your problem. You think too much." He stands, grabbing his bottle. "Let me know if you need backup. I'm always down for a little... neighborly assistance."
He wanders off to rejoin his table, and I'm left alone with my beer and my thoughts.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the one I'm looking for.
Womack. Former Army buddy, now pushing paper at the DMV in Phoenix.
We served together for two years, and I pulled him out of a bad situation once.
The kind of situation that means he picks up when I call, no matter what time it is.
I step outside to make the call. He answers on the third ring.
"Diesel. Been a while."
"Need a favor."
"Of course you do." He sounds amused. "What do you got?"
I rattle off the plate number from memory. "Black BMW. Been parked on my street a few times. Want to know who it belongs to."
"Give me a sec." I hear typing on the other end. A pause. Then: "Car's registered to a leasing company out of Scottsdale. But the account holder is a Ryan Mercer. Address in Phoenix."
Ryan Mercer. I file the name away.
"That help?" Womack asks.
"Yeah. I owe you one."
"You saved my ass in Kandahar. We're nowhere close to even." He pauses. "This guy causing problems?"
"Not yet."
"But you think he will."
"Yeah."
"Well, you know where to find me if you need anything else."
I thank him and hang up. Ryan Mercer. Phoenix.
I don't know what he is to Gracie yet. Husband, ex-husband, boyfriend, stalker — could be any of those. But I know men like him. The ones who think they own something just because they had it once.
Men like that don't stop on their own.
I get home around ten.
The street's quiet. Gracie's house is dark except for one light in what I'm guessing is her bedroom — soft glow through the curtains, there and then gone.
I park the bike in my driveway and sit there for a minute, helmet in my hands. The desert air is cool, carrying that particular stillness that only happens at night. I can hear crickets somewhere in the scrub. A dog barking a few streets over.
And then I see it.
The BMW.
Black, parked three houses down, tucked between streetlights where the shadows are deepest. Same car. Same plates. I didn't notice it when I pulled in — too focused on getting home — but now that I'm looking, it's obvious.
Someone's watching her house.
I stay on my bike, not moving, letting my eyes adjust to the dark. I can't see inside the car from here, but I can tell it's occupied. The slight shift of weight when someone moves. The faint glow of a phone screen, there and then gone.
Amateur. A professional would know better than to check his phone in a dark car. The light gives him away every time.
I could go over there. Knock on the window. Have a conversation about why it's a bad idea to sit outside a woman's house at night. But that would tip my hand, let him know someone's paying attention. Right now, he thinks he's invisible. That's an advantage I'm not ready to give up.
Instead, I wait. Watch. Note the time, the position, how long he sits there.
Because when Ryan Mercer finally makes a move, I'm going to be ready.
I head inside, but I don't go to bed. I sit in my living room with the lights off, watching through the window. Forty minutes later, the BMW pulls away, headlights cutting through the dark as it turns the corner and disappears.
I stay up another hour, just to be sure.
The next morning, I'm working on the bike again.
It doesn't need work. Not really. But it gives me something to do with my hands, and it gives me an excuse to be outside. To watch. To notice.
Gracie's car is in her driveway, which means she's home. The kid — Amelia — is at school by now.
I'm elbow-deep in the engine when I hear her front door open.
I don't look up, but I track her movement in my peripheral vision — down the porch steps, across the yard, heading toward her car. She's dressed for work, maybe. Nice shirt, jeans that fit her well. Hair pulled back in a ponytail.
She pauses by her car and looks over at me.
I give it a beat, then glance up. Casual. Like I just noticed her standing there.
"Morning," I say.
"Morning." She's got her keys in her hand, fidgeting with them. "I wanted to say thanks again. For yesterday. The groceries."
"No problem."
"And sorry about Amelia. The whole... window thing." Her cheeks go pink. "She has no filter."
"Kids usually don't."
"Still. It was embarrassing."
I set down my wrench and straighten up, wiping my hands on a rag. "Nothing to be embarrassed about."
"Easy for you to say. You weren't the one being outed as a window creeper by your seven-year-old."
The corner of my mouth twitches. "Fair point."
She smiles, and something shifts in her face. The tension eases, just a little. She's pretty when she's not scared. Really pretty. Full mouth, dark eyes, the kind of curves that make those jeans look like a personal challenge.
Don't go there.
Too late. Already there.
"You heading to work?" I ask.
"Yeah. New job. First day was supposed to be Monday, but they called and asked if I could come in today for orientation." She shrugs. "Couldn't say no."
"What do you do?"
"Office manager for a physical therapy clinic. Nothing exciting, but it pays the bills."
"Nothing wrong with that."
She nods, and there's a pause. The kind of pause where neither of us quite knows what to say next, but neither of us wants to walk away either.
"So," she says. "Diesel. How'd you get the name?"
I consider the question. The real answer involves a convoy, a broken-down truck, and a field repair that saved three lives. But that's not a story for a Thursday morning in a driveway.
"Used to work on engines a lot," I say. "It stuck."
"Ah." She tilts her head. "Military?"
I pause. "What makes you say that?"
"I don't know. The way you carry yourself, maybe." She shrugs again. "My brother was in the Marines. He's got the same... thing. I can't explain it."
"Army," I say. "Few years back."
"Thank you for your service."
I nod. It's what people say. They mean well. I've learned to accept it without explaining that service isn't always something you want to be thanked for.
"I should go," she says, but she doesn't move. "I'm going to be late."
"Yeah. You should go."
She laughs — soft, a little surprised. "You're not very good at small talk, are you?"
"No."
"I kind of like that." She catches herself, cheeks going pink again. "I mean — not like — I just meant—"
"I know what you meant."
She presses her lips together, fighting a smile. "Okay. I'm leaving now. For real."
"Drive safe."
She gets in her car and backs out of the driveway. I watch her go — watch the way she glances at me one more time in the rearview mirror before she turns the corner.
Fifteen years, I remind myself. She's got a kid. She's got an ex-problem. You're too old for this.
But I'm already thinking about the way her ass looked in those jeans. Already replaying the way she said I kind of like that with her cheeks going pink.
And that night, when the black BMW shows up again, I take pictures.
Time, date, license plate, location. Evidence. Because when Ryan Mercer finally makes his move, I'm going to be ready.
And he's not going to like what he finds.