Chapter 3 - Miles
Three
Miles
The helmet clicks into place in her hands like it belongs there. She hesitated for half a breath before putting it on, fingers brushing the edge like she’s testing a truth she hasn’t decided to believe yet. Then she committed to taking the chance.
The parking lot is quiet now—too quiet. The kind of silence that follows confrontation, when the air hasn’t figured out how to move again.
I swing onto the bike and wait. She steps closer, close enough that I feel the heat of her body through leather and denim. When she climbs on behind me, her hands settle at my waist without being told. Not desperate. Not shy. Just sure.
That does something to me.
With the engine coming to life, I pull out smooth, easy, like this is just another night and not the moment everything tilted on its axis. I don’t push the speed. I don’t show off. I ride like I want her to breathe to feel the experience.
We roll away from the hospital lights and into the dark, the road opening up in front of us like an invitation. The hum of the engine settles into my bones, familiar as a pulse. Her helmet taps lightly against mine when I slow at a light.
“You okay back there?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says, voice steady in my ear. “This is nice.”
I almost smile. We hit the highway and the town falls away fast. Trees blur. The wind cuts clean and sharp, scrubbing the edges off my thoughts. This is why I ride. Not the danger. Not the image. The quiet.
“Riding clears your head,” I tell her after a few miles. “Allows a man be alone with his thoughts without drowning in them.”
She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Do you ever find answers out here?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I find the right questions.”
Her grip tightens just a little.
We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. The road does the talking for us—long, gentle curves and open stretches that feel like exhaling after holding your breath too long. I take us on a loop that skirts the edge of town, nothing fancy, nothing reckless.
Just enough.
When I turn toward her neighborhood, I feel her straighten, awareness snapping back into place. The ride slows. Reality creeps in.
Her house comes into view, porch light glowing soft and steady like it did before. I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. The sudden quiet feels loud.
She swings off the bike and pulls off the helmet, hair mussed, cheeks flushed from the wind. She looks at me like she’s still half on the road.
“Thank you,” she says.
I nod. “Anytime.”
She glances toward the street, then back at me. “I need my car.”
“You’ll have it,” I reply.
She frowns slightly. “How?”
I don’t elaborate. “By morning it will be here.”
Something in my tone must convince her, because she doesn’t press. She just nods and shifts her weight, suddenly unsure of what comes next.
The space between us is charged now. Not frantic. Not rushed.
Waiting. “You didn’t have to step in back there,” she says quietly.
“Yes,” I reply. “I did.”
She studies my face like she’s trying to read the fine print. “You don’t even know me.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter what I do or don’t know in details. I know enough.”
The porch light casts soft shadows across her features. She looks tired. Strong. A woman who carries more than she should without complaint.
“You want to come in?” she asks.
The words are simple. The invitation is not. I hold her gaze for a long second. Long enough to feel the pull. Long enough to imagine what it would be like to follow her inside, to let the night take a different shape.
Then I shake my head. “No.”
Surprise flickers across her face. Not hurt, just unexpected.
“Why not?” she asks.
“Because you’ve had a long night,” I state. “Because that man might double back to see if you were lying, I will be leaving my mark.”
Her jaw tightens. “You think he would?”
“I think men like that don’t like being embarrassed,” I reply. “Especially in front of witnesses.”
She exhales slowly. “So what you’re my security detail now?”
“For tonight,” I say.
I swing off the bike and push it closer to the side of the house, still within street sight, but in a personal position. I set the kickstand down and pocket the keys.
“I’m leaving it here,” I tell her.
Her brows knit together. “You’re not staying.”
“I’ll be nearby,” I share. “And if he comes back and sees the bike, it’ll reinforce your story.”
Understanding dawns in her eyes. “That’s… thoughtful,” she replies carefully.
“Practical,” I correct.
She smiles but it doesn’t fill her face. We stand there for a moment longer, neither of us quite ready to end it. The night hums around us—crickets, distant traffic, the quiet sounds of a house settling into sleep.
“Will I see you again?” she asks.
I meet her gaze, feel something steady lock into place in my chest. “If you want to.”
She nods. “I do.”
I step back before the answer can cost us both something we’re not ready to pay. “Get some rest.”
She watches me walk down the driveway, eyes following until I disappear into the dark. I don’t look back.
Not because I don’t want to.
Because I want to too much.
The road waits for me, patient as ever. And for tonight, that’s where I belong.
I don’t leave right away. I walk the block twice, counting steps, memorizing angles, watching reflections in dark windows. The night feels ordinary again—too ordinary for what almost happened in that parking lot. I don’t like ordinary after tension. It hides things.
Her street is quiet. No cars slow down. No doors open. The porch light stays on.
Good.
I cut through the side yard and make the call I should’ve made earlier. Smoke answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep.
“I need a favor,” I tell him.
He exhales. “You always do.”
“Hospital parking lot. Silver sedan. Keys in the gas tank cubby.”
A pause. Then a low whistle. “You pulling guardian angel duty now?”
“Just move the car,” I state. “Park it where it belongs.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah,” I add. “Be invisible.”
Smoke snorts. “My specialty.”
I hang up and wait. Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep once across the street and disappear. The sound of an engine fades. I don’t move until the night settles back into itself.
Only then do I circle the house. That’s when I make a decision on impulse.
The locks are basic. Residential. No alarm system that I can hear or see. Windows old, frames warped just enough to give me what I need without breaking anything. I choose the back, near the laundry room, where the shadows collect.
I’m inside in under thirty seconds.
The house smells like soap and something warm—coffee maybe, or the ghost of dinner. It feels lived-in in a way the clubhouse never does. Softer. Human.
I move quietly, every step measured.
The living room comes first. Hospital bed by the window, exactly like before. A television playing some western in black and white, volume low. Her grandfather sleeps lightly, breath shallow but even. I pause there longer than I mean to, listening.
Alive. Safe.
Good.
I move on.
The hallway is narrow. Family photos on the wall—her younger, smiling with a woman who looks like her, then older pictures with the man in the bed before illness hollowed him out. A life distilled into frames.
Her bedroom door is half closed. I shouldn’t go in.
I do anyway.
She’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, covers kicked down, one arm flung out like she fell asleep mid-thought. Hair loose around her face. The tension I saw earlier is gone, replaced by something softer, younger.
Vulnerable.
I stop just inside the doorway.
Watching someone sleep is an intimacy you don’t earn. It’s something you’re either invited into, or you steal like I am right now.
I tell myself I’m checking. That I’m making sure she’s safe. That this is about protection, not curiosity. Somewhere between the first breath I count and the fifth, I stop lying to myself.
She stirs, brow furrowing like she’s fighting her way through a dream. I still completely, breath shallow, hand instinctively near my knife.
She relaxes again.
I let out a slow breath.
“Don’t do this,” I murmur under my breath—to myself, not her.
I don’t touch her. Not even a fingertip. I don’t want to know how that would feel, because I know how that would end. Instead, I back out of the room the way I came, closing the door to the same angle it was before. I make one last sweep of the house, checking windows, locks, sightlines.
No signs of trouble.
I leave the way I entered, slipping back into the night without a sound.
At the edge of the driveway, I look once more at the porch light. It’s still on. Steady.
I don’t knock.
I don’t leave a note.
I don’t give her my name.
Names make things real. And I’ve never been good at staying.
***
I spent last night at my motel room for a few hours before making the walk back to her place to get my bike. It was there long enough to make a statement. Now, I have to get home. Bella Vista, Arkansas isn’t just a hop, skip, and jump from Salemburg.
The ride back east is long and quiet. Smoke stops me after we cross into Tennessee, helmet tipped back, eyes sharp.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“Feel worse,” I reply.
“Car you had me park,” he chimes in. “Nice place she’s got.”
I nod. “Thanks, but not mine.”
Smoke studies me for a beat too long. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”
“No.”
He exhales. “Probably better that way.”
We ride until dawn bleeds into the sky, the road stretching and folding beneath us like it always does. By the time North Carolina comes back into view, the ache under my ribs has nothing to do with old wounds.
Salemburg comes to life slow, same as ever.
Country Boy’s truck is already parked at the clubhouse when I pull in. He’s waiting out front, coffee in hand, eyes sharp.
“You’re back early,” he states.
“Business done no need to linger,” I answer.
He watches me dismount, takes in the bike still dusty from miles, and really studies me. “You look like you left something out there.”
I meet his gaze, expression blank. “Just the road.”
He doesn’t buy it. But he’s Country Boy and he doesn’t push. Some things don’t need pressing.
I head inside, wash the road off my hands, and sit down at the table with my ledger. Numbers. Columns. Order.
It helps.
But later, when the clubhouse quiets and the sun dips low, I find myself staring west without meaning to.
All while thinking about a woman who sleeps with her porch light on, diagonal in a bed.
My mind is stuck on a house that has family memories.
My brain is on a loop of regret about a name I didn’t give and a goodbye I didn’t say.
I tell myself it’s better this way. The road always takes more than it gives.
And I’m always choosing the road.