22. Surface Rupture #2
I’d heard enough contractors throw around motorcycle club lingo over the years to know his worn leather vest is called a kutte.
It crackles as he moves, the back emblazoned with Black Tide.
My eyes catch the other patches: a small diamond-shaped 1% patch, the name “Titan” stitched above the pocket, and a rectangular “President” patch directly below his name.
A woman at the bar stops mid-laugh, her hand frozen on her glass.
The bartender’s rag pauses against the counter.
Someone’s chair scrapes faintly as they turn, and the low murmur of conversation dims like a dial being turned down.
Scanning the room, the man’s gaze piercing, he spots Finn, and his entire expression softens.
A wide grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Little brother,” a deep, gravelly voice says, cutting through the hushed air.
Finn stands, knocking his chair back a few inches with a scrape. The two men meet halfway across the room and pull each other into a rough embrace. The big biker claps Finn on the shoulder, the sound a solid thwack.
“Sorry I’m late. Had to make a stop.”
“To pick up half a county of bikers on your way?” Finn asks with a playful note in his voice.
His brother glances toward the windows, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Only five in total.”
“Only five?”
A wry smile touching his lips. “I’ve heard smaller armies.”
His brother laughs, a sound deep enough to carry across the room, rich and unrestrained.
The door swings open again, and more men step inside.
Their identical club kuttes shift and creak with each movement, announcing their presence before they say a word.
Unlike their apparent leader, they don’t approach Finn directly.
Instead, they exchange greetings with a few nods before claiming a nearby table, their movements efficient.
My gaze catches their names and titles stitched onto their kuttes: Warden—Vice President, Forge—Treasurer, Helios—Road Captain, and Ares—Sergeant-at-Arms; not sure what any of it means.
Finn’s brother sits across from him, his bulk filling the space.
From across the room, Reid watches the interaction with keen interest, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Must be the brother.” Reid says, his voice low.
Jensen nods in agreement. “Must be.”
The contrast between the two men is stark even in the pub’s subdued lighting.
“I didn’t see that coming,” I say, surprise in my tone.
Finn looks every bit the professional doctor, clean-cut, and a little nerdy with his shirt neatly pressed.
His brother is the kind of man who makes a room feel smaller just by existing in it, not threatening exactly, just a fact of physics that everyone around him quietly adjusts to.
Yet the resemblance is there once you know to look for it. They have the same greenish eyes when they smile, and the same curve of the mouth. Across the room, Finn says something that makes his brother throw back his head and laugh, a booming sound that cuts through the pub’s murmur.
Jensen chuckles. “I feel like there’s a story there.”
“There are definitely several stories there,” I murmur, more to myself than to Jensen.
“I think they’re out of Ironwood Flats,” Reid says.
The rest of the evening, my thoughts are consumed by something other than Brooke.
I observe the brothers’ interactions, drawn to the intensity of their bond.
They inhabit different worlds, yet they sit across from each other with an ease that suggests a thousand prior encounters, a shared history as intricate as the tattoos on Titan’s arms.
While Finn speaks, his brother is constantly scanning the room. His behavior gives me the distinct impression that the larger brother has spent most of his life watching for whatever might come through the door before the other even notices it’s there.
The evening at The Fiddler’s Rest far exceeds my expectations. Between Reid’s endless stories, Jensen’s terrible jokes, and the welcome distraction of discussing anything but my personal life, I almost forget the mess I’ve made.
As we finally settle the tab and step outside, the parking lot is empty. The glow from the pub’s sign—a neon shamrock buzzing—casts long shadows across the damp pavement.
Jensen claps me on the shoulder, the sudden pressure causing a jolt. “Try not to brood the rest of the night.”
“I don’t brood.”
Reid snorts. “You brood.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve spent the last month walking around like you’re bracing for something to fall on you,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.
A sigh passes my lips. “You two are exhausting.”
“And yet you love us,” Jensen says, a playful glint in his eyes.
We exchange our goodbyes before I walk to my truck.
I climb in and start the engine and stare through the windshield knowing my next decision is reckless.
Home is fifteen minutes east, but I pull out of the parking lot and head in the other direction.
For several miles, I argue with myself, the internal debate a relentless drumbeat in my skull.
I turn the radio on, then off. At the first red light I pick up my phone, and open Brooke’s contact.
Are you home?
My thumb hovers over the screen. The message sits there for thirty seconds before I finally hit send. The light turns green, and I press the gas. A minute later, my phone buzzes, and my heart jumps, so I pull over to the side of the road.
Brooke: Yeah. Just got home.
I exhale, knowing I should put the phone away. Instead, I type another message.
How was the rest of your night?
The response comes almost instantly.
Brooke: Quiet. Yours?
The guys forced me to have a beer.
Brooke: Forced you?
I found it traumatic.
A laughing emoji appears, and I find myself reading it twice before I can move on. Pulling myself out of it, I send another message.
Do you want company?
The reply doesn’t come right away, and uncertainty creeps in. Maybe she’ll say no. Maybe she’ll make the decision I seem incapable of making. Then my phone buzzes.
Brooke: Aren’t you expected at home?
Probably.
Brooke: And yet you’re still texting me.
Several seconds pass. Then—
You’re still texting me too.
I lean back against the headrest, the truth of her words settling in my gut. I know this ends badly. Yet despite it all, I type out the one question that seals it.
What’s your address?
Brooke: 214 Sapphire Lane. Apt. 304.
As soon as the address appears, I put the car in drive, the tires hissing on the wet asphalt as I pull away from the curb.
The apartment complex is a series of red-brick buildings, identical and unassuming, illuminated by the yellow glow of streetlights. I find her building, then her door. Swiping my hand through my rain soaked hair before knocking.