Chapter 5 - Diesel
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling while rain drums against the window, and all I can think about is the taste of June's lips and the fact that I'm a complete piece of shit.
I kissed her. Kissed my best friend's widow less than thirty minutes after we both confessed feelings we've been hiding for years. Didn't ease into it, didn't give her time to process, just grabbed her and took what I've wanted for two decades like I had any right to it.
Fuck!
I roll onto my side, punch the pillow into a different shape like that'll help me sleep.
It doesn't. Nothing will. My mind's replaying the kiss on an endless loop: the way she felt against me, soft, warm and perfect.
The little sound she made when our lips met.
The way her fingers curled into my shirt like she wanted to pull me closer and push me away at the same time.
We both stopped it. Both knew it was wrong. Not wrong in the sense that we don't want each other, but wrong in the timing. Too fast. Too raw. Too disrespectful to a man who died seven years ago but still sits between us like a living thing.
Tommy.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see the whole universe.
*I'm sorry, brother. I'm so goddamn sorry.*
But I'm not. Not really. And that's what makes me a piece of shit.
Because even knowing I shouldn't have kissed her, even knowing it hurt her, even knowing Tommy would probably punch me in the face if he were still alive, I don't regret it.
Can't regret it. I've spent twenty years wanting to know what June's lips felt like against mine, and now I know, and the only thing I regret is stopping.
She said she loved me.
*I love you too.*
Not past tense. Not *I'm starting to develop feelings* or *I think I might.* Present tense. Active. Real.
Destiny handed me that kiss on a plate, wrapped it up with a bow, gave me permission I've been waiting two decades for. And I took it because the alternative, dying in this war without ever knowing what we could be, felt worse than any guilt.
But maybe I was selfish. Maybe I pushed too hard, too fast. Maybe I should've given her time to process the confessions before I made it physical. Maybe she needed space to grieve what this means, what we're admitting, what line we just crossed.
The look on her face when we pulled apart: shock, want, guilt, fear all mixed together, that's burned into my brain.
*This is too fast. Too raw.*
*It feels disrespectful.*
She's not wrong. Just hours ago, we were having dinner at Lou's like we've done ninety-something times before, pretending we were just friends honoring a memory. Now we're confessing love and kissing in candlelight and fundamentally changing everything we've built.
Of course it's too fast.
I roll onto my back again, scrub both hands over my face. Down the hall, June's in my guest room probably not sleeping either. Probably crying. Probably hating herself for what she said, what she felt, what she let happen.
I want to go to her. Want to knock on that door and tell her we don't have to rush this, we can take it slow, we can figure it out together. But giving her space feels more respectful than anything else I could do right now.
So, I lie here in the dark and listen to rain and try not to think about how her lips felt or how her body fit against mine or how badly I want to walk down that hall and finish what we started.
The war's still happening. Demon's still out there. I could still die before any of this gets resolved. But at least she knows now. At least if I die tomorrow, I won't die with the truth buried.
That must count for something.
Eventually, exhaustion drags me under. Not sleep exactly, more like my brain giving up the fight. I drift in and out, half-awake, dreams mixing with memories mixing with the sound of rain until I can't tell what's real anymore.
Hours later…
I wake to weak gray light filtering through the curtains and silence. The rain's stopped. The storm's passed. And my first thought is June.
I check my phone, 6:47 AM. Earlier than I usually wake, but sleep's not happening again anyway. I pull on jeans and a clean T-shirt, run my hand through my hair, and head down the hall toward the guest room.
The door's open.
I push it wider, already knowing what I'm going to find. The bed's made, badly, like she did it in a hurry, and June's nowhere. Her damp sweater from last night is folded on the dresser. The towels are unused. The room looks exactly like someone tried to erase all evidence they were ever there.
I walk to the living room, kitchen, bathroom. Nothing. She's gone.
Then I see it, a small card propped against the coffee maker. The kind she uses at the flower shop for arrangement notes. My name's written on the front in her beautiful handwriting.
I pick it up with hands that aren't quite steady and open it.
*Jackson,*
*I'm sorry for leaving without saying goodbye. I couldn't face you this morning, not after everything we said, everything we did. I need time to think, to process, to figure out what this means and what I want.*
*Please don't think I regret telling you the truth. I don't. But I also don't know how to move forward from here, and I can't figure that out with you looking at me the way you were looking at me last night.*
*I'll call you when I'm ready to talk. Please give me that time.*
*- June*
I read it twice. Three times. Try to find something between the lines that isn't there.
*I couldn't face you this morning.*
*I need time.*
*I'll call you when I'm ready.*
It's not a rejection. Not exactly. But it's not an invitation either. It's June doing what she always does when things get overwhelming: pulling back, creating space, protecting herself.
I set the card down and move to the window. Her car's gone from the lot. She really did leave, probably as soon as she woke up and realized she'd have to face me in daylight.
The urge to call her, to drive to her house, to demand we talk this through right now, it's almost overwhelming. But she asked for time. Asked for space. The least I can do is give it to her.
Even if it kills me.
I make coffee on autopilot, drink it standing at the counter while staring at her card. Try to figure out my next move. Whether to wait or push. Whether to give her a day or a week or however long she needs.
My phone buzzes. For half a second, I think it's her, but the screen shows Judge's name.
**JUDGE:** Church. 0900. We got intel on Demon. Don't be late.
I check the time. 7:15. An hour and forty-five minutes to get my head straight and show up functional.
I text back: **On my way.**
Then I shower, dress, try to push thoughts of June into a box I can deal with later. The club needs me focused. The war needs me present. Whatever's happening between me and June, that has to wait.
But her card goes in my pocket anyway. I can't leave it here.
The clubhouse is already full when I arrive at 8:50. Brothers everywhere. Some at the bar, others around the common room, all looking tense and alert. The kind of energy that means something big is about to happen.
Canvas is sitting on a couch with Eden tucked against his side, his injured leg propped up.
Brick and Rosie are at the bar. Judge and Nora are near the hallway, Grace between them signing something that makes Judge smile.
Phoenix stands near his office door talking low with Saint, both of them looking grim.
Ranger's at the table with Delilah, and when he catches my eye, he nods once. I nod back and head for the coffee Phoenix keeps in the corner. Strong enough to strip paint, exactly how I need it.
"Diesel." Phoenix's voice carries across the room. "You good?"
"Yeah." I turn to face him. "What's the intel?"
"Wait for church. Want everyone to hear it once." He studies my face for a beat longer than comfortable, and I wonder what he's seeing. "You look like shit."
"Didn't sleep much."
"Storm keep you up?"
"Something like that."
Phoenix doesn't push, just claps me on the shoulder and moves toward the chapel. "Five minutes. Get some coffee in you."
I do, though it doesn't help. My mind keeps circling back to June's note, to the kiss, to the way she looked at me in candlelight before everything went sideways.
*I'll call you when I'm ready.*
How long is that? A day? A week? A month? And what do I do in the meantime? Just sit here and wait for her to decide if loving me is worth the guilt?
"You look like you got hit by a truck." Canvas appears beside me, limping slightly. "What happened?"
"Nothing."
"That's convincing." He pours himself coffee, leans against the counter. "We've all been where you are, brother. Whatever it is, it gets easier."
"Does it?"
Canvas grins. "No. But you learn to live with it."
Not exactly reassuring, but I appreciate the effort.
The chapel door opens and Phoenix waves everyone in. I follow the brothers, take my usual seat near the middle of the long table. Phoenix sits at the head, Judge to his right. Saint's across from me looking like he hasn't slept in days. The rest of the patched members fill in around us.
Phoenix bangs his fist on the table once. "Church is open. What's said here stays here."
Everyone nods.
"Saint, you're up."
Saint leans forward, elbows on the table. "Got a call last night from an old friend. Someone still deep in the Vipers, someone who owes me."
"How deep?" Brick asks.
"Deep enough to know where Demon's hiding." Saint's voice is flat, emotionless. "And willing to give up the location."
The room goes dead silent.
"Demon's losing it," Judge adds. "Killing his own men, getting paranoid, making moves that don't make tactical sense. He's desperate, and his own people are noticing it."
"Which makes him more dangerous," Phoenix says. "Desperate men do stupid things. But it also means he's vulnerable. If we move fast, we can end this before he regroups."
"What's the location?" Ranger asks.
Saint pulls out his phone, brings up a map, slides it across the table. "Abandoned industrial site outside Redfield. About ninety minutes from here. Three buildings, all connected. My contact says Demon's got maybe fifteen to twenty guys with him."
"How reliable is this intel?" I ask.
Saint meets my eyes. "Reliable enough that I'm willing to bet my life on it."
"How many you willing to bet?" Phoenix asks Saint directly. "Because if we ride out there and it's a trap, we're all dead."
"It's not a trap." Saint's voice is certain. "She wants this war to end as much as we do. More, maybe."
"Alright. We move tonight. Midnight. Full force. Everyone except Canvas."
Canvas starts to protest but Phoenix cuts him off.
"You're still limping, brother. That leg isn't healed enough for a firefight.
You'd be a liability, and we can't afford liabilities on this one.
" Phoenix's tone softens slightly. "But you've got the most important mission.
You stay here with the women and kids. If this goes south, if Demon somehow knew we were coming and this is his play to hit the clubhouse while we're gone, you're our last line of defense. "
Canvas's jaw works, clearly wanting to argue, but he nods. "Understood."
"Good." Phoenix stands, looks around the table at each of us. "This is it, brothers. This is what we've been building toward. We end Demon tonight, we end the war. The Vipers scatter, the threat's gone, and we can finally breathe again."
He pauses, lets that sink in.
"But I'm not going to lie to you… This is the most dangerous thing we've ever done. We're riding into hostile territory to take out a desperate man with nothing left to lose. Some of us might not come back."
The room's silent except for someone's breathing.
"So, here's what's happening," Phoenix continues.
"We've got until midnight. That's seventeen hours.
I want everyone to get their affairs in order.
Spend time with your family. Rest. Eat. Do whatever you need to do to be ready.
Because when we ride out at midnight, we ride knowing we might not ride back. Anything else needs saying?"
Silence.
"Then church is closed. Seventeen hours, brothers. Make them count."
We file out slowly, the weight of what's coming settling on all of us. Canvas heads straight for Eden, pulls her close. Brick finds Rosie at the bar. Judge moves to Nora and Grace. Wraith already standing, probably planning to spend every minute until midnight with Quinn and Mariah.
I stand there watching brothers find their families, their old ladies, their reasons for coming back alive.
And all I can think about is June.
She asked for time. Asked for space. Told me she'd call when she was ready to talk.
But I don't have time. Don't have space. I have seventeen hours before I ride out to maybe die, and I'll be damned if I waste them respecting boundaries that might not matter by tomorrow.
I need to see her. Need to talk to her. Need to make sure that if I don't come back, she knows exactly how I feel and exactly what she means to me.
Even if she's not ready. Even if it's too soon. Even if she hates me for pushing.
I pull out my phone, stare at her contact for a long moment, then shove it back in my pocket. This conversation needs to happen in person. Face to face. No hiding behind texts or calls or the space she thinks she needs.
I head for the door, keys already in my hand.
Phoenix catches my arm as I pass. "Where you going?"
"Something I need to handle."
He studies my face, sees whatever desperation I'm not hiding well enough. "The dinners?"
I don't ask how he knows. Phoenix knows everything. "Yeah."
"You got seventeen hours, Diesel. Don't waste them." He releases my arm. "And don't ride out at midnight with regrets. Whatever needs saying, say it."
"Plan to."
I'm halfway to my bike when Saint calls out. "Diesel."
I turn. He's standing in the doorway, backlit by the clubhouse lights.
"Tell her the truth," he says. "All of it. Don't hold back because you think it'll hurt less if you die. It won't. It'll just mean she never knew."
Coming from Saint, whose brother is the man we're riding out to kill, who understands complicated family dynamics and buried truths better than anyone, the advice lands hard.
"Yeah," I say. "I will."
I fire up my bike and head for June's house, breaking every speed limit between the clubhouse and town.
Seventeen hours until I might die.
I'm not wasting a single one.