Chapter 5 - Miles #2
I stare at the Thunderbird’s engine like it might offer me an excuse. “I need a couple weeks on the road,” I state finally admitting to myself I need the chance to miss the routine I have here.
Raff doesn’t react the way most men do. No lecture. No guilt. Just a slow nod like he’s been expecting it.
“Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”
I glance at him. “You figured?”
“You don’t get restless for no reason,” he begins. “You’re a measured bastard. When you start itching, it means something’s chewing on you.”
I tighten my jaw. “It’s just the road.”
Raff’s eyes sharpen, but he doesn’t call me out. Not directly. “The road’s always been your excuse,” he challenges instead. “But it ain’t always the reason.”
I go still. The shop feels too warm all of a sudden.
I reach for another tool I don’t need, just to keep my hands moving. “I’m thinking west. Maybe cut through Tennessee, swing through Arkansas, and go until the sun tells me to turn around and head home. Get lost for a bit.”
Raff pushes off the tool chest. “How long is ‘a bit’?”
“A couple weeks.”
He lets out a slow breath through his nose. “You want company.”
It’s not a question.
I don’t answer immediately. The truth is yes, I do. Not because I can’t ride alone. I can. I’ve done it more times than I can count. But because there’s a kind of quiet you only get when you’ve got someone riding with you who doesn’t demand words.
Raff and I used to do it all the time before responsibilities stacked up like bricks.
Long runs. No destination. Just motion.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I want company.”
Raff’s smile is quick, soft. Then it fades. “I can’t leave with you, brother,” he states the disappointment in his voice not hidden.
I already know. Still, it lands like weight. “Josie.” I remark. “I get it Raff. I’m happy for you, brother. Really. Just miss the good ole’ days sometimes. Country Boy has Sara and Royal, you have Josie, Justice, and the new baby. But I would be a liar if I didn’t say yes I want company.”
“Josie,” he confirms. “She’s due soon. Any day now. I’m not missing that.”
The way he says it, firm and certain, makes something twist in my chest. Not resentment. Not anger.
Respect.
And maybe something darker under it.
Loneliness.
I nod once. “Yeah. Of course.”
Raff watches me, reading the part I’m not saying out loud. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
He steps closer, voice lowering. “Miles.”
I look up, meet his eyes.
He’s not joking now. Raff’s gaze is steady, like a hand on your shoulder before you do something dumb.
“It’s okay,” he shares, “to want the road. But don’t use it like a bottle, you hear me? Don’t drink it just to forget. Don’t get hooked on the high of escape.”
My mouth tightens. “I’m not forgetting.”
Raff snorts softly. “That might be the damn problem.”
I don’t answer. I don’t have one that won’t sound like weakness.
Raff’s expression shifts a notch, something almost sympathetic. “You don’t have to drag someone with you,” he states. “Sometimes it’s okay just to be alone. I know Country Boy worries but I’ll get through to him.”
I laugh under my breath, humorless. “Since when do you preach solitude?”
“Since I got something to come home to,” he says simply. “It changes your mindset and the math.”
There it is.
Math.
I look back at the Thunderbird and think about how easy it would be if people were parts and problems were bolts you could tighten.
“Two weeks,” I repeat, quieter. “I just need air.”
Raff nods. “Then take it.”
He claps my shoulder, firm. “Just come back.”
“I always do.”
He holds my gaze a second longer. “Not always the same man returns when you roll out, brother. Find what is crawling under your skin and fix it.”
That’s the thing he doesn’t understand. I’m always the same. I just don’t hide it as well anymore.
Two days later, I roll out before sunrise.
Salemburg is asleep, lights dark, the roads empty except for early-morning truckers and a stray deer I have to brake for hard enough to curse into my helmet.
My bike feels right under me. Familiar. Steady.
The road opens up and my chest loosens like it’s been waiting for this breath.
I don’t tell Country Boy the whole truth. I tell him I’m taking a week. Just a week. A reset. I’ll check in. I’ll keep my phone on. Nothing reckless.
He doesn’t like it. He okays it anyway, because he knows pushing me when I’m restless only makes me disappear harder.
Smoke meets me outside town and rides with me for the first few hours, then peels off with a two-finger salute and a grin that says he knows exactly what I’m doing without me saying it.
Then it’s just me.
The way it’s always been, underneath the club and the titles and the obligations.
I ride through morning fog and into open daylight. I stop for gas and coffee that tastes like burnt punishment. I watch the world change from pine to rolling hills to wide stretches of nothing that make you feel small in the best way.
Somewhere around noon, I catch myself thinking about her.
Not in pieces, not in flashes.
In full.
Danae’s tired eyes. Her steady hands. The way she looked at me like she wasn’t afraid—like she was evaluating. The way she fit against me like she belonged there for that one night, like my body recognized hers as something it had been missing.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars until my knuckles whiten.
“Don’t,” I mutter.
But the road doesn’t listen. The road doesn’t care what you want. It just carries you.
By late afternoon, I’m deep into miles that don’t belong to anyone. I pick a cheap motel off an exit and park where I can see my bike from the door. Old habits. Necessary habits.
I shower. I eat something that qualifies as food only because it’s hot. I lie on the bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the AC unit and the distant sound of traffic.
This is what I asked for.
Solitude.
Space.
Air.
And still, my mind drifts back to a small house in Arkansas with a porch light that stayed on like a promise.
A woman who didn’t flinch when men like me put her in a corner. A woman who didn’t back away from blood in pain but instead stepped into healing. A woman who didn’t embrace fear when adrenaline kicked in, but faced what came at her.
A warmth I can’t scrub off my skin no matter how far I ride settles every time I think of her. I turn my face into the pillow and close my eyes, trying to let sleep take me.
It does, eventually.
But even in the quiet, even with nothing but the road ahead, her name sits heavy in my chest like a destination I’m pretending I don’t have.