Ride Easy (Hellions Ride Out #3)

Prologue

Country Boy’s office door sticks like it’s got opinions.

I shoulder it open anyway, because I’m not in the habit of asking wood for permission to enter.

The small room was maybe a kid’s bedroom once upon a time that was transitioned into an office when the place was turned into a bar.

The common area of the clubhouse is loud behind me—pool balls cracking, someone laughing too hard, the low thrum of bikes outside like a heartbeat—but in here, behind this door, it’s quieter.

He keeps it that way which is why the door sticking doesn’t bother him.

Keeps the noise out so he can hear his own thoughts, at least that’s what he says.

Country Boy looks up from behind the desk, jaw already set like he’s been expecting a problem. “Say it,” he tells me.

I shut the door and lean back against it, arms crossing over my chest. Ink covering down both arms in full sleeves, disappearing under my shirt.

Never hidden, though, is the art over the tops of my hands, I won’t ever hide who I am.

People see the tattoos first. They judge without even knowing a person.

My attitude. Let them.

Underestimate me. Go ahead.

“I’ve got a meet to take,” I explain. “Bella Vista, Arkansas. Saint’s Outlaws.”

The air shifts. Country Boy’s eyes narrow. “Arkansas.”

“Yeah.”

He pushes up from his chair slow, like he’s giving himself time not to explode.

Country Boy’s not the kind of president who yells to hear himself.

When he’s mad, the whole room feels it anyway.

Like pressure building before a storm. It’s an air about him.

And his problem isn’t about Saint’s Outlaws, Wrath, or any ally club.

It’s with me. Because he knows what I want and I’m pretty sure he’s going to deny my request.

“You don’t ride out alone,” he states. Because my need to escape feeling tied down absolutely drives the man insane. I have learned to stop taking off without a head’s up because he takes brotherhood seriously. Me leaving without a word crawls under his skin to no end.

“I’m not planning to.”

Country Boy’s gaze flicks to the spot, the reminder.

The mark, a small one under my left ear where the scar never quite fades.

Like he’s tallying old damage. Like he’s weighing the cost of me leaving and the cost of me staying.

I live with the visible reminder of what happened and what it almost cost me every day.

“Every time you get an idea,” he mutters, “it comes with a divide in the highway and a choose your path question.”

I shrug. “Highways don’t lie. People do. Bad choices lead to lessons learned. We all manage to get back on track eventually.”

His mouth tightens. “Why’s this meet on your shoulders?”

“Because it’s money.” I tap two fingers against my chest to my officer’s patch. “And because Wrath asked for me. Cleared it with Tripp before he even dialed my number.”

That name lands heavy. Talon “Tripp” Crews is the Haywood’s Landing Hellions President and our lead chapter of all of the Hellions in the Carolina’s. He has the power to make Country Boy stand down if he was to try to stop me from taking the meet.

Wrath runs with the Saints—an ally club with reach and reputation, not the kind you ignore if you want to keep business moving smooth.

We’ve worked with them before. Not often, but enough to know what to expect.

Saints don’t play games. Saints don’t waste time.

And out of all the Hellions chapters he prefers to work with Salemburg.

Country Boy drags a hand over his beard, eyes hard. “I don’t like it.”

“That’s not new,” I state the obvious.

He points at me, warning in the gesture. “I mean I don’t like it because you like riding alone. I need to know you got a plan and it isn’t one where you have no man at your back. You get that nomad itch and you start thinking you’re untouchable.”

I push off the door and step closer. “I don’t think I’m untouchable.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He studies me, “you got a plan. I see it in your eyes Miles. And that I don’t like.”

I run my hand through my hair. Damn fucker always reads people quick. “Smoke will be with me for most of the ride,” I give him the truth. “We split in Tennessee. He heads back after the state line and I keep going. Less attention that way.”

Country Boy’s stare stays locked on mine. He’s reading me, like he always does—trying to find the angle I’m not saying out loud.

“You plan to be in and out?” he asks.

“Meet. Verify terms, grab a key to the drop facility. Confirm transport details, times and shit. Collect half. Leave,” I state. “I’m not staying for drinks or a welcome party.”

Country Boy exhales slow, like he’s swallowing down whatever instincts are clawing at him.

“You always were built wrong,” he says finally.

“Like you came out already halfway gone. I know you got every brother’s back without fail, but damn you can’t stay in one place longer than two weeks without finding a way to hit the pavement. ”

I let that roll off me. People have said variations of it my whole life. Too quiet. Too restless. Too comfortable with distance.

“Is that a yes?” I ask.

Country Boy’s eyes cut toward the window for a second—toward the bikes, toward the men, toward the life he’s responsible for keeping intact.

Then he looks back at me. “It’s a yes,” he states.

“Because you’re right. It’s money. And because you’ll go whether I bless it or not.

And Tripp’s already looped in. I wish you’d take Dove or have Smoke go the whole way.

But I also know better than to push you or argue because I do nothing but waste my time and energy. ”

I smile a little. “You know me.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice going cold. “That’s the problem.”

He steps around the desk, stopping close enough that I catch the scent of leather and the faint bite of whiskey.

He drops a hand on my shoulder, not gentle, not rough—just solid.

The weight of a promise. “You check in,” he orders.

“When you hit Tennessee. When you hit Arkansas. When you leave. If you miss a call, you miss one check-in —”

“I know,” I cut in. “You’ll come burn the state down.”

Country Boy’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but definitely amused. “Damn right.”

I nod once. “Smoke and I roll out in the morning.”

“Bring it back clean,” he tells me.

I hold his gaze. “Always.”

I walk out before he can change his mind.

***

Smoke’s already outside when I swing a leg over my bike. He’s a wall of muscle and ink and bad attitude, leaning against his ride like the asphalt owes him rent. He gives me a look that says he already knows.

“Arkansas?” he asks and I nod.

“Bella Vista.”

“Heard through the grapevine, Wrath called in.” He spits to the side. “You got a death wish, Treasurer?”

Bella Vista isn’t a problem. It’s parts of Tennessee that pose the threat. “Only on weekends.”

Smoke laughs, but it’s brief, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. He watches the road like it’s a living thing that might bite.

We roll out of Salemburg with the sun starting to rise, the heat pressing down like a hand on the back of my neck. The town shrinks behind us—churches, gas stations, familiar corners that feel smaller every time I leave. And damn, if that doesn’t settle something in my soul.

The highway takes over. Miles disappear out here. There’s nothing to do but ride, think, and simply be. The thrum of my engine settles into my bones, the wind tearing at my cut, the world narrowing to lanes, speed and following the lines ahead.

Smoke rides close until we hit the interstate, then he drops back where he can watch my blind spots. Because he knows me, probably too well. When I need to escape, Smoke is a Nomad who welcomes me at his side. He knows I get wound up if I stay in one place too long.

Interstate 40 west is an easy run, but sometimes backroads help clear the mind.

Smoke and I alternate between major highways and taking the scenic routes.

We stop for gas outside Johnson City. Smoke keeps the small talk minimal, but he doesn’t leave me alone with my thoughts too long either.

He always seems to plan our stops just when my mind goes places it shouldn’t.

Maybe he chases his own away, I don’t know.

What I do know is he gets me without me having to share my inner demons.

Hours and miles go by. The more space between Salemburg, NC and me, the more at ease I become.

It’s crazy because there is supposed to be no place like home, but for me, home feels like jail sometimes.

At the Tennessee line before crossing into Arkansas, we pull off at a rest stop that smells like diesel and swamp ass.

Smoke kills his engine and swings off, stretching like he’s trying to shake off the ride. “This is where you get stupid,” he states with a smirk.

“This is where you turn around,” I correct. “And don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy, daddy.”

He steps close, eyes narrowing. “Country Boy’s gonna have my balls if you don’t check in.”

“I’ll check in,” I state with a shrug.

“Don’t just check in,” he snaps. “Listen. If something feels wrong—”

“I’ll leave,” I finish.

He doesn’t look satisfied, but he nods once anyway. “You better. Or at least reach out. I won’t be far.”

“Seriously, I get you got kids man, but I’m good, brother.”

Smoke shakes his head. “Can’t explain it, something feels off this time.”

I laugh in his face, “Honey’s got you learning to worry. Careful, Smoke you keep havin’ feelings you might just find you wanna be back home with your woman and your kids.”

He shakes his head. “I fucked that shit up a long time ago. Even if I wanted to come home, Honey is done with my ass. We co-parent and that is that.”

It’s my turn to smirk, “keep tellin’ yourself more lies, Smoke. I’ll be alright, you go do what you gotta do and I’ll touch base when I head back East. You wanna head back you’re always welcome in Salemburg.”