Chapter 5 - Miles
Five
Miles
North Carolina greets me like it always does, humid air, familiar roads, the low hum of the clubhouse bleeding into the night.
It should feel like coming home.
It doesn’t.
Something inside me is unsettled worse than before.
I roll into Salemburg just before sunset, bike dusty from miles I shouldn’t have taken and nights I shouldn’t have stayed away for.
The Hellions’ lot is already filling up—trucks, bikes, laughter spilling out of the open doors like the place itself is breathing.
There’s a party tonight. Someone’s birthday.
Someone’s release from prison. Someone’s patch.
Someone’s divorce or wedding. Someone’s something.
Doesn’t matter which.
I kill the engine and sit there longer than necessary, helmet still on, hands resting on the grips like if I let go too fast I might lose something important.
I can still taste her.
It’s ridiculous. Three weeks of silence, one night I shouldn’t have allowed myself, and she’s still there—warm and steady and real as the road under my tires. The memory isn’t sharp. It’s worse than that.
It’s soft.
I swing off the bike and head inside before I can think too hard about Arkansas or porch lights or the way she said my name like it wasn’t something I planned to leave behind.
The bar’s loud. Music thumps. Someone shouts my name. Hands clap my shoulders. A beer appears in front of me without me asking for it.
Normal.
I take a swallow and barely taste it.
Women notice. They always do. Barflies with sharp smiles and practiced curves, leaning close like proximity is permission. One presses a hand to my chest as she laughs at something I didn’t say.
“Hey, Miles,” she purrs. “You disappear on us?”
“Something like that,” I reply.
She tilts her head, studying me. “You don’t look right.”
I step back, gently disengaging her hand. “Find someone else to play with tonight.”
Her smile falters. “Your loss.”
Maybe it is. I don’t give a fuck. She’s not going to taste like Danae’s lips. She’s not going to wrap around my body like she was made to fit against me. Her pussy isn’t going to milk my cock like her sole purpose is to suck me dry.
I move through the room like a ghost, nodding where I need to, listening just enough to not be rude. The noise washes over me without sinking in. Every laugh feels too loud. Every single body feels too close.
I don’t want any of it.
Which is a problem.
Raff corners me near the back, one eyebrow raised, beer dangling loose in his hand. Raff’s been with the Hellions long enough to know when something’s off. He doesn’t waste time pretending otherwise.
“You look like shit,” he says cheerfully.
“Missed you too,” I answer.
He leans his shoulder against the wall, eyes sharp. “You turn down three women in ten minutes. That’s not normal behavior for you.”
“I’m tired.”
Raff snorts. “You’ve been tired since I met you. That’s not it.”
I don’t answer right away. The music shifts, bass vibrating through the floor. Somewhere behind us, someone whoops loud enough to rattle bottles.
Raff waits.
“Just got the itch,” I share finally. “For the open road.”
He studies my face like he’s looking for cracks. “That all?”
“That’s all,” I reply.
He doesn’t call me on it. Raff’s smart enough to know when pushing will get him nowhere. He nods once, accepting the half-truth for what it is.
“Smoke heading out again tomorrow,” he states instead. “Headed west this time. Montana, maybe further. Kinda surprised you haven’t cleared leaving with him already.”
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
“Yeah?” I say casually.
Raff watches me. “You thinking about going with him?”
I shake my head. “Someone’s gotta keep the books straight. Need to stay put or my head is never gonna settle.”
“True,” he agrees. “But you’re not exactly here right now either.”
I meet his gaze. “Drop it.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Just saying, brother. You’re unsettled like never before. Whatever it is, this shit ain’t about getting fresh air and new scenery.”
Raff wanders off, leaving me alone with my thoughts and a beer I don’t finish. I end up outside, leaning against the railing, cigarette burning down between my fingers. The night air is thick, grasshoppers loud, the moon hanging low like it’s eavesdropping.
This is the life I chose.
The Hellions.
Salemburg, North Carolina.
Responsibility wrapped up in loyalty and ink and blood oaths. I don’t regret it. Not really. But I keep seeing her house when I close my eyes.
Small. Modest. Quiet. A place built around staying.
I exhale smoke and laugh under my breath. “Don’t be a fool,” I mutter.
She deserves better than a man who leaves before sunrise and thinks that makes it noble. Better than someone who measures distance in exits and never in days.
Inside, the party rages on. I don’t go back in.
Instead, I sit there until the cigarette burns out and the noise dulls to background hum. My phone buzzes once in my pocket. Country Boy’s name lights the screen.
You good?
I type back, Yeah. Just tired.
A pause. Then: Get some sleep.
I don’t reply.
Later, when the bar finally empties and the night quiets, I head home. Upstairs to my room, I let the silence of my home consume me. I strip off my clothes and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at nothing.
I could go. That’s the dangerous thought.
I could throw a bag together, tell Country Boy I need a few days, and point my bike west. Smoke would grin like Christmas came early. The road would open up, wide and forgiving.
And Arkansas would be waiting.
Danae would be there with tired eyes and steady hands and a life that doesn’t bend just because I want it to. A life that needs consistency, not a man who leaves his name behind like an afterthought.
I lie back and stare at the ceiling, jaw tight.
Wanting something doesn’t mean you get to take it. I learned that a long time ago.
Sleep comes eventually, restless and thin. Even in dreams, I’m riding, road unspooling ahead of me, horizon always just out of reach. And every mile I put between us only makes the distance feel louder.
The road has always been my answer. Tonight, it feels like the question instead.
The night comes and goes with rest being an illusion. Morning is here and I need to get out of this empty space I call home.
Honey’s Hot Rods smells like fancy waxes and feels like home.
Honey keeps the place cleaner than most shops, but you can’t scrub a building’s soul out.
Not when men have poured their lives into it one busted knuckle at a time.
There are oil stains on the concrete, parts on tables waiting to be used, skid marks where Stud likes to use cars to sign signatures on the pavement and call it a test drive, and all the general nuances that make it normal, comfortable.
I like it here for the same reason I like ledgers. Things make sense in a shop.
If something’s broken, you can find the part that failed. You can fix it. You can put it back together and know exactly what it’ll do the next time you turn the key.
People aren’t built like that.
My Thunderbird sits on the lift like a promise.
Cherry red paint dulled by time, chrome still proud in places.
A ’56 Ford—real steel, real weight, real presence.
She’s not a daily driver. She’s a project.
A long-term love affair with a machine that demands attention and gives it back in purrs and growls.
I’ve got the hood up and my hands buried in the engine bay when Raff walks in, wiping his palms on a rag, grin already cocked like he’s got a joke loaded.
“You been here all morning?” he asks.
I don’t look up. “Yeah.”
“Country Boy know you’re cheating on your ledger with a car?” he jokes.
“Country Boy knows I need something that doesn’t talk back,” I mutter the honest truth.
Raff laughs and leans against the tool chest, watching me work. He’s got that calm lately—different than before. Like his edges have softened around something steady. Josie. The baby coming. A life he’s building that doesn’t involve sleeping with one eye open.
I envy him for it. I also don’t understand it.
I tighten a bolt, then shift to the next. My hands know what to do even when my head doesn’t.
Raff’s gaze drifts over my shoulder. “You still fighting that fuel line?”
“Fuel line’s not the problem anymore, changed that.” I state. “It’s the carb. She’s not getting with the program and can’t find the spark, air to fuel ratio to fire away.”
“Like you?” Raff says.
I shoot him a look.
He lifts both hands, smiling wider. “Just saying, brother. You look like you’ve haven’t found the calm to chaos to freedom ratio for weeks. All smoke, no air.”
I go back to work. “You always this poetic when you’re avoiding real work?”
“Real work’s overrated,” he replies. “That’s why I became a fabricator turned real estate investor instead of a therapist. And the money’s better. My books man told me so.”
I snort because I remember when Raff bought the first investment property and he asked me about the numbers.
Together we set up a corporation and got all of his accounting set up so when he got his first tenant everything could run seamlessly.
And who knew having rentals would lead him to meet his woman and build a life he loves. “Smart man that books guy you got.”
Silence settles a minute, the comfortable kind. The shop hums around us, distant radio, a fan rattling, the faint clink of Tom working in the big shop across the lot. Honey’s voice carries once and a while, laughing at something I don’t catch.
I wipe my hands on a rag and lean back, stretching my shoulders. The ache there is familiar. Earned. Raff’s still watching me.
“What?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing.”
“The one where you pretend you’re fine,” he says. “And then you disappear for a while. And then you come back quieter. Each time away gets a little darker version of you upon return, brother.”