Chapter 1
One
Miles
Chapter One – Miles
Salemburg wakes up slow or maybe it’s me. It’s a Thursday, but feels like a damn Monday for sure. The stir-crazy feeling is building up inside me and I need a ride soon.
I’m already on my second cup of coffee when the sun starts dragging itself up into the sky, light bleeding through the clubhouse windows.
The building creaks as bodies begin to stir.
I got here about an hour ago, waiting for Dove who apparently snored naked on the main couch all night.
Whoever else was with him never came back.
That’s how mornings work here, half of us in a routine, the other half reckoning with their life choices.
I sit at the long table with my ledger open, pen moving steady across paper. Numbers calm me. They always have. Gives me something solid to hold onto when everything else is noise and impulse.
Dues are light this week. Bar receipts are strong.
One of our storage facilities has a problem with our gate codes for customers to enter the space, and I make a note to move money before the problem becomes a complaint.
It’s a new place we recently purchased from a local family ready to retire.
Since it is an established business, we inherited the existing clients along with the previous problems like this intermittent gate problem.
We don’t have a good receivables balance on this one just yet.
Once we get the units filled again or move some transports through them I can filter money better to give a cushion.
For now, though, it’s a game of balancing numbers.
Treasurers don’t get thanked. They get blamed when something breaks. No one holds back when they need funds.
That’s fine.
I didn’t patch in for praise.
Boots thud from the hallway behind me. I don’t look up.
I know the rhythm of every man in this club.
It’s like a six sense for me. Heavy stride, slight limp—Country Boy.
Country Boy when he’s in a good mood and relaxed, the limp from his busted knee is prevalent.
When he’s angry the steps come in a faster pace with an even rhythm.
“You sleep any?” he asks.
“Some,” I lie.
He snorts. “That’s the game we’re playing. Got it, brother. Your face is giving you away today though. Sara has some cream for tightening and the box even said it promises a refreshing glow. Might wanna give that shit a try.”
I let out a laugh, “got joke, Pres. Nice. I’ll be sure to give your woman a call and ask for the name and a recommendation for a good face mask too.”
He pulls out a chair and sits across from me, eyes scanning down to the ledger.
He doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t even think about it.
I keep clean books, but they’re still mine.
One thing about Country Boy, we have our roles and once he gives us that responsibility he releases it.
He doesn’t micromanage or try to over step.
“Run anything weird this week?” he asks.
“Nothing loud,” I state. “Couple cash-heavy nights at the bar, not stand out though, just some good nights. Smoke’s crew came through twice dropping in dues for Nomad members. No red flags. Reported those to Red so it’s accounted for with Tripp.”
Country Boy nods, satisfied enough for now.
Silence stretches between us. We’ve known each other long enough not to fill it just to feel important.
Some people get nervous in quiet. I get comfortable.
If I can simply be with a person and not have some impulse to fill in the gaps then that I a person I respect and a relationship I appreciate.
“Smoke’s back in town,” he shares after a moment. “Talkin’ about staying put for a bit possibly.”
Now this gets my attention. I look up, pen pausing mid-line. “Thought he was riding with Catawba for a while.”
“He was,” Country Boy says. “Nomad life is him through and through. Says he’ll roll out again soon. But said he has some shit to square away at home and it’s gonna take a beat. He said shit won’t be permanent, but he’s gonna be here for a little longer than the usual.”
I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking. Smoke never stays long. Never could. He was Salemburg once—patched in, bled here—but some men aren’t built for roots. The road gets under their skin, and once it does, nothing else quite fits right again.
I get it. I know there are some here though, they won’t like this. “I’ll catch him later,” I state eyeing my brother. “Stud know?”
Country Boy watches me like he’s weighing something. “You don’t miss it?”
I shrug I was a nomad for a time. “Miss what?”
“Not being tied down,” he continues. “Taking off when the mood hits. No ledgers. No meetings. No balancing shit.”
A corner of my mouth lifts. “You offering me your seat?”
Country Boy huffs a laugh. “Not a chance. Just don’t want to hold you back. Best treasurer we’ve had, but I know you get twitchy feeling stuck.”
The truth sits heavy between us. Salemburg anchors me. The club calms me. I chose this. I don’t regret it. I like my position. But some days, the walls feel closer than they used to. Like the town is somehow shrinking and I wonder if I still fit. Or maybe I’m just restless.
I close the ledger and stand. “I’ll be around.”
“Try to be,” Country Boy states.
I leave before he can read anything else on my face.
The garage smells like oil and metal and heat. It’s honest work down here—hands-on, loud, uncomplicated. I strip off my cut and hang it on a hook before rolling my sleeves up. Ink spills down my arms, familiar and comfortable. One of the prospects nods at me as I pass.
“Morning, Miles. Heading to take these tools to Tom.”
“Morning,” I reply not sure why the jackass is telling me that.
Tom is a master mechanic. Not a Hellion, but he’s worked at Honey’s Hot Rods forever and the man knows cars and bikes.
The gearheads in the club always put in time to help Honey out.
The few jobs we take off Tom’s plate keep her from needing to hire another mechanic and gives men like me something to do so I don’t climb the walls.
I spend the next couple hours doing some state inspections, checking parts for my t-bird to order, and making myself useful in ways that don’t involve money. It keeps the balance. Reminds me, I’m not just numbers and paperwork to the club. Reminds the brothers too.
By noon, Smoke shows up. He rides in like he owns the damn place—bike rumbling loud, boots hitting the concrete hard enough to echo. He’s grinning already, beard thicker than the last time I saw him, eyes bright with that road-worn freedom I both envy and distrust.
“Miles,” he states, spreading his arms like he expects a hug because that’s Smoke, never rattled.
I don’t give him one. I clap a hand on his shoulder instead. “You look homeless.”
He laughs. “Nomad, brother. There’s a difference.”
“Debatable.”
Smoke glances around the garage, at the bikes, the men, the familiar chaos. “Missed this,” he admits.
“That tracks.” I reply with the truth. “You just can’t ever seem to manage to stay.”
I grab the bag of food he’s got from the diner up the road and take a peak. “Thanks for thinking of me, brother,” I tease as I watch his face go hard. Turning I see, the spitfire that gets his attention always heading our way.
“Honey, I grabbed some lunch.”
“Already ate,” she states pausing beside me hands on her hips. “Kids are at school, Smoke. Come back at four.” She turns to me, “Miles, thanks for the assist today. You’re good, head out with your brother and have a good time.”
I grab my chest in mock hurt. “Honey are you dismissing me?”
She nods, “think I made that clear. Time to go, buddy.”
Tiffany “Honey” Brocato is a five feet tall stick of dynamite.
She is built tough, stands up on her own, and if her fuse gets lit, there is sure to be an explosion.
And no one lights her up more than Darrel “Smoke” Warren.
Those two have a history tangled in love, passion, and pain all in equal parts.
The love is real, the fire is scorching, and the burn is the kind that never simmers only hurts.
“Not finished with my shit. If I keep Smoke outta your way can we stay?”
She lets out an exasperated huff. “Do what you want, he certainly always does.” Her glare goes straight to Smoke, “but this is my place of business and you need to stay outta my way.”
“Your wish is my command, princess,” Smoke retorts and I reach out and smack him in the back of the head.
“Shut the fuck up, brother.”
Honey smirks that turns into a full on fuck you smile, “Smoke, you wish I could be your princess. Ship sailed.”
Smoke hangs his head. “Dammit, Honey. I wanna at least be friends. Once we were good together.”
She laughs in his face, “I’m not the one who fucked that up. Thanks for the sperm, though. The sex was great and the kids are gorgeous. I got everything I ever plan to have from you. Visit your kids, then head out like you always do.”
She doesn’t give either of us a chance to respond before she walks off into the front office.
Smoke looks at me, grabs the bag, and hands me a wrapped sandwich. Greasy burgers and fries eaten standing up, leaning against a workbench in comfortable silence. Smoke eats like he hasn’t seen a decent meal in days, which is probably true.
“You riding anywhere?” he asks between bites.
“Not right now. At least nothing on the calendar.”
Smoke arches a brow. “That’s new.”
“I’ve got responsibilities,” I remind him.
He snorts. “You’ve always had responsibilities. You just used to ignore them better.”
I don’t argue. He’s not wrong. “You still hate sleeping in the same bed too many nights in a row?” he asks.
“Depends on who is in the bed,” I reply with a wink.
He grins. “There he is.”
We talk routes, old runs, places he’s been since he left Salemburg. Montana. Nevada. A stretch in Texas he doesn’t elaborate on. Smoke moves like a rumor—never long enough anywhere to leave more than a flash of a memory.
“Country still questing you about staying put?” he asks knowing that I used to be worse than him about staying in place.
“Every chance he gets.”
“Yeah,” Smoke replies. “Presidents like knowing where their people are.”
“And nomads like forgetting,” I reply.
Smoke studies me for a moment, more serious now. “You could ride with me for a bit. Nothing official. Just miles for Miles.”
The offer sits there, tempting. “I can’t disappear,” I share. “As much as I don’t want to be tied down, call me fucking Dorothy because there is still no place like home.”
“Didn’t say forever,” he counters. “Just enough to breathe.”
“Maybe, we’ll see when it comes time for you to hit the pavement and find a new zip code” I state.
Smoke smiles and then gets serious. “I’m thinkin’ Honey isn’t gonna be keen on letting me crash on her couch. If I need a crash pad, you still got the key under the gnome by the steps?”
I nod taking a bite of my burger. “Always, brother.”
The afternoon passes with my head down over the engine of my Thunderbird filing points on the carburetor trying to tell myself this one is fine and I don’t need to swap the whole thing out for a new one.
By the time evening rolls around, Salemburg feels louder.
I stroll over into the clubhouse after having a quick shower to wash the grease of the day down the drain.
The bar fills. Music cranks up. Laughter spills into the street outside.
This is the version of the club outsiders see—the brotherhood, the noise, the spectacle.
It’s real. It’s just not all of it. I step outside as dusk settles, cigarette burning between my fingers. Smoke joins me, leaning against the railing, eyes on the road like it might call his name if he stares long enough.
“You ever think about leaving for good?” he asks.
I take a drag, let the smoke out slow. “No.”
He waits knowing me all too well.
“Sometimes,” I correct.
Smoke nods, understanding. “That’s the thing about roots. Even when you cut them, they still ache to take hold again.”
I flick ash into the dirt. “You sound poetic.”
“Been riding alone too long,” he says. “Gives you time to think. Dangerous habit.”
We stand there in silence, the hum of bikes and voices behind us, the open road stretching invisible beyond the town limits.
Salemburg holds me. The club needs me. I don’t resent that. But when Smoke kicks off the dust and heads for his bike in a few days, when he throws me a look that promises miles and motion and no one asking where I’m going, something in my chest tightens.
I will stay. For now. But, I’ll keep one eye on the road, just in case.
Smoke rides like he’s got something to prove.
Not to me. Not to Country Boy. Not even to Stud and those two seriously have tension and testosterone toying with them every time they are in eye sight of each other.
No, Smoke is trying to prove something to the road itself—like if he doesn’t keep moving fast enough, it’ll swallow him whole.