Chapter 1Cade
Cade
Chasing a dream is just like riding a motorcycle—thrilling, terrifying, and there’s always someone who thinks you’ve lost your damn mind.
My gloved palm twists the throttle, the engine growling beneath me before the rumble parallels the pulse in my chest. The crisp air bites into my leather coat, wafts of asphalt lingering around me as I stare through the tinted visor.
“Hard Row” by The Black Keys hums through the AirPod in my right ear. I lean into the curve, snugly gripping the handlebars to maintain balance. Amber leaves line the two-lane road, a navy wooden sign appearing between tall, weathered oak trees.
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth when I catch the name of the next town—Stardust Cove—etched in a silver script. Sure, maybe the thrill of riding a motorcycle comes with risk. Even a breath of hesitation can send you skidding. But the destination?
That’s always worth the rocky ride.
Five minutes later and I’m straddling my stationed Harley in front of the large, russet brick building. My russet brick building.
I strip my helmet, tucking my AirPod away before my fingers readjust my Suddora bandana. When I hang the headgear on the chrome bar, I swing a leg over my bike before my heavy boots tread the concrete walkway.
Once I enter through the glass doors, the piney aroma hits me as I shrug off my jacket. My eyes catch Jenna’s idled form in the middle of the room, the admiration on her face keeping me smiling. It’s all I can stand before I toss my coat on a random chair and pad the distance to her.
Jenna yelps when I snake an arm around her from behind to spin the both of us. “Ahh! Babe, you’ve officially gone crazy!” she shouts through a fit of laughter.
As fucking adorable as her giggling escapade is, I decide to have mercy on her.
When Jenna’s shoes touch the polished concrete, my hands find her waist. Her scrubs crinkle in my grip, and I peer down at her with a shit-eating grin. “This is fucking wild,” I breathe out.
Her palms travel to the sides of my face, silky skin caressing my stubbled jaw. “Chrome Pipes Brewing. The beer alone may be tasty, but the owner provides a huge bonus to the experience.”
I jerk my brows to play her game. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”
Jenna smirks as she lifts onto the toes of her white sneakers. “Because the owner is one fine piece of eye candy,” she murmurs, brushing the tip of her nose against mine.
I grin as I nudge her back, only to steal a quick kiss from her lips. Her laughter bounces off the reclaimed brick wall, and then I’m swiveling us around so I’m hugging her from behind.
We remain still, my eyes trapping the sweeping chrome exhaust pipes that have the name of my brewery embedded on the inside— Chrome Pipes Brewing.
I’m content knowing I’m staying true to who I am and paying homage to the steppingstones that led me here.
I know it sounds a little cliché and typical for a motorcycle enthusiast, but riding is a part of who I am.
There’s nothing compared to the feeling of cruising on the open road, especially when there are some wild views along the Rhode Island coastline to appreciate.
Chrome Pipes Brewing opens in about two months. Overall, I’d say my industrial interpretation was executed almost identically to what I drew up in my brain.
The brewery is a restored warehouse space with exposed roof drains and skylights. Low pendant light fixtures dangle above the Irish-pub-style bar and farmhouse-style tables. Considering all the sweat and stress it took to get here, I’m satisfied it wasn’t for nothing.
I briefly pull away to retrieve my vibrating phone from my jeans pocket. But just as I’m about to ignore the text notification, Mike Riley’s name pops up on the screen.
Mike: Interested in grabbing a few beers tonight? I figured we should celebrate.
Selling my share of ownership at the bike shop Mike Riley and I ran for three years was a difficult decision, but it was necessary.
After starting out as mechanics, Mike and I took over the business when our boss left.
As much as I enjoyed my time there, I felt like I squeezed everything I could out of it.
So naturally, I made the decision to take my share of the company and forge my own path to success.
Jenna’s head sinks back against my chest, her blonde locks spilling across my arm. “Who is it?”
“It’s Mike. He wants to go out tonight to celebrate.”
“Aw, you should go. When was the last time you spoke to him?”
I shrug, genuinely considering her question. “Probably a few weeks ago. Shit, whenever he texts me, I feel … strange.”
Jenna spins to nest my face in her hands, her periwinkle eyes boring into mine. “You know you made this decision for a reason, and you’re going out to spend time with one of your long-time friends. Understand?”
I flash her a kinked smile. “I’ll let him know I’ll be there tonight.”
I enter Last Call, the dim lighting casting over scuffed, wooden walls and floors. The scent of stale beer and cigarettes dangles in the air, blending with the bar food they sell for a measly two dollars.
Above the sea of bodies and gravelly voices, Mike hails me over to where he and Lacey are sitting at the end of the bar. He runs a tattooed hand through his shoulder-length hair as he stands from his stool, and I extend a palm for a handshake-hug.
“Hey, I missed you, man,” I say through a grin, my free arm locking around his back.
“Same, brother.”
Lacey’s palm meets my shoulder. “Cade! For fuck’s sake, finally,” she scoffs.
I pull away from Mike, flashing a smile as I curl an arm around Lacey’s shoulders. My fingers absently ghost the ends of her dark locks as I say, “Parking options were complete shit.”
We slip away from one another, each of us sinking down onto a bar stool.
“How’s the shop been?” I ask, scrubbing a hand through my short waves.
I direct my attention to my left, and Mike sips his beer before his chestnut eyes meet mine. “Business has been steady, I can’t complain. A handful of our regular customers have been asking why you sold your share.”
I lean my leather-clad forearms on the bar top. “I actually ran into Gary a couple months ago when I was out to dinner with Jenna. He was bummed, but he knows he’s in the best hands with you.”
Mike’s scruffy mouth carves into a lighthearted smile. “To give you a little bit of a fun story, a new customer came in with his grandfather’s old Honda, and I’m restoring it for him. He said he found it in his grandfather’s garage after he passed away and wants to ride it for sentimental value.”
I nod, my brows contorting with intrigue. “That’s really fucking cool. Was anything salvageable? Or do you have to replace the motor or frame?”
“Okay!” Lacy’s hazel eyes expand as she suspends her palms in front of her. “Seriously, the doubling-down of bike talk is annihilating my buzz. Cade, tell us how the business is going.”
I shine a crooked smile, inclining back to grant her my full attention.
“Just received my first supply order, so I’ll be working closely with my brewmaster before opening up.
Thankfully, the chaos has settled from four months ago when I rented the space and got the licenses and permits. It’s just ‘showtime’ now.”
“What’s the name, and where is it?” Lacey asks before drawing a sip from her glass of beer.
“Chrome Pipes Brewing in Stardust Cove.” I stab my index finger in her direction, my eyes dipping to the drink cuddled in her palm. “And don’t worry, I’ve included sours just for you.”
“Woo!” Lacey exclaims, punching her free hand up in the air.
My chest pumps through laughter when I locate the chalkboard menu on the wall behind the bar. The next two hours are fueled by a couple cheap beers and laughs, and then the three of us are ready to vacate our space. A side effect of turning thirty in less than a year, I suppose.
Damn.
“I’m so sorry about the delay.” The bartender slides a credit card and receipt in front of Mike before she continues, “The machine was giving us a little trouble.”
“It’s no problem,” he replies, signing the merchant copy.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m buying the next round when we go out again,” I insist.
Ignoring my offer, Mike rises from his seat before I do the same. “How does Jenna like the new hospital she’s working for?”
I’m shrugging my coat over my long-sleeved thermal as I speak over the clanking glasses.
“She’s loving it. It’s only a couple weeks in, but she says she fits in better there than when she was working at Southstone Memorial.
” I slap on a tight-lipped smile and pat Mike’s shoulder through the leather of his jacket.
“I think people undermine the importance of working with a good group of people. That’s not as easy to come by these days. ”
Lacey rests her palms at the V-neckline of her black top. “You two are just adorable.”
I grin as I peel my hand away. “Not usually the compliment given to tattooed bikers, but sure.”
We begin our journey through the crowd to the exit of Last Call. “You still rocking just the one sleeve?” Mike asks.
“Yeah, I’ve grown to like the asymmetrical look,” I admit, my fingers ambiguously tracing the leather over my right pec. “I actually extended the black and gray over my chest. Jenna’s idea. Clearly, I’m a sucker for an ink-clad needle.”
The brisk September air greets us on the other side of the glass door, and I’m spinning on the heels of my boots.
“Alright, I’m parked in Guam. I’ll say goodbye now.” I hold my hand out to Mike for a handshake-hug, and then Lacey and I embrace before we all sever ways.
I dig my hand in the back pocket of my jeans, plucking a cigarette and lighter from it. Lodging the smoke between my lips, I shield the gentle breeze with one hand while the other works the ignitor.
My mouth purses around the tip of the cylindrical paper, and I inhale the bitter taste of tobacco. Tucking the lighter away, I blow out a thin ribbon of smoke against the midnight.
I always expect parking to be a hassle on a Saturday night, but when I rode my motorcycle into the lot directly behind Last Call, every white-lined spot was occupied.
Even when I journeyed the village street, vehicles were lined bumper to bumper on both sides.
Eventually, I just rode off the main strip, locating a random parking lot behind a couple brick buildings.
I travel along the cement of the sidewalk, finally curling around the corner leading to my motorcycle. There’re only a few cars residing in the small lot, a pale glow stamped on the center of the blacktop from the single light pole.
The shade of the sky has deepened, dotted with just a handful of stars. My brows dip on my next puff of smoke, suddenly recognizing how shitty the lighting is in this desolate space.
My legs idle in front of my Harley, my body quickly swiveling to lean my lower back against the side of my bike. I raise my right palm to curl around the chrome of the handlebar, and my stainless-steel ring clanks against the surface.
I slope my chin toward the sky, taking another drag of the cigarette before ejecting a string of smoke.
My eyes squint, fastening to the twinkling stars against the midnight canopy.
There has to be only twenty or thirty stars maximum.
But each one glistens incredibly bright, a golden halo practically outlining each spec.
My mouth encloses around the end of the withering paper again, ingesting one last taste before dropping the cigarette on the ground. I press my black boot into the smoke, crushing it against the asphalt before the grating blends with a faded murmur.
Silent alarms ring through me, whipping my head over my shoulder.
A suspicious quiet floods the air, locking all of my senses except my hearing. My eyes roam the brick of the building in the near distance, and another muffled sound abruptly scrapes my ear.
It doesn’t caress it.
It scratches it.
A strangled noise vibrates through once more, my gaze plummeting to the worn dumpster at the corner of the building. Stamped into the night, its steel sides are dented and streaked with grime, overflowing with discarded boxes.
My face falls with confusion, my body pivoting until I’m crouching down.
I lean forward, bracing a palm on the coarse pavement. I glimpse between the ground and the base of the dumpster, the thin space distorting with shadows of motion. My gaze narrows, and I realize I’m looking at the faint silhouettes of shoes.
There’re people behind the dumpster.
I cautiously lift myself off the ground, my internal sirens rattling against my ears as I tentatively approach. An invisible fishing hook has sunken into my skin, gradually reeling my body closer.
With every inch, the ominous weight in my gut grows heavier. As if one pound is being added with each tap of my heel and toe against the black pavement.
Light casts on the steel structure before me, radiating with just as much allure as those goddamn stars.
Somehow.
My mind plunges into a trancelike state, my body fully committed to getting an answer. An answer to a question I don’t know the reason for.
But once I hear the next word thread through the air, I find a purpose.
“No.”