Chapter 13 Miles #2
We talk about small things at first. Her shift. Her grandpa eating better this week. The way the evenings feel longer now that summer’s leaning in.
But under it all, there’s something steadier. Something building.
“I miss you,” she says finally, voice softer.
The words hit harder than any punch. “I know,” I answer. “Me too.”
Across the room, Smoke’s voice rises. “Honey, I told you—” I glance over. He’s pacing now, hand in his hair.
“I was there last week. I came back this week. I just pulled out of town today.”
Pause.
“No, I didn’t go inside.”
Another pause.
“For what? So you could slam the door in my face in front of them?”
The tension in his voice tightens the air in the room. I turn slightly away, giving him what privacy I can in a twelve-by-twelve box.
Danae hears it anyway. “You sharing a room?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“That’s loud.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “That’s Smoke.”
On the other side, his voice drops, then spikes again.
“I’m trying, Honey!” Silence.
Then a string of words too low to make out. A second later, he ends the call hard enough I hear the plastic crack against his palm.
I know what comes next before he even looks at me.
He grabs his jacket.
“Gonna grab a drink,” he mutters.
I meet his eyes. “Yeah?”
He shrugs. “Not staying in.”
Translation from Smoke speak, he’s not staying alone with his thoughts or his demons. Part of his problem is he won’t sit with himself and sort his feelings, his past, or even think about his future.
Once upon a time, I’d already be pulling my boots back on. We’d find a bar. Find noise. Find a woman who didn’t ask questions and didn’t expect answers. It was easier that way.
Temporary.
Numb.
Smoke jerks his chin toward the door. “You coming?”
For half a second, the old instinct rises. The itch. The familiar script.
Then I look down at my phone. Danae’s still there. Breathing quietly on the other end. Waiting.
“Nah,” I say. “I’ll be here you need me.”
Smoke blinks like he didn’t hear me right. “What?”
“I’m good.”
He studies me a long second. “Since when?”
Since Arkansas. Since her. Since I figured out I don’t want to be the man who runs from something real.
“Just good,” I repeat.
He shakes his head like I’m speaking another language. “Suit yourself.”
The door slams behind him.
The room goes still.
Danae doesn’t say anything at first.
“You still there?” I ask.
“I am.”
I lean back on the thin motel pillow and close my eyes.
“He okay?” she asks carefully.
“He’s Smoke.” That answers enough.
“You used to go with him,” she states. It’s not an accusation. Just an observation.
“Yeah.”
“And now?”
I stare at the ceiling again. “Now I’d rather hear your voice.” Silence.
Then a soft exhale that sounds almost like relief. We talk a little longer. About nothing. About everything. About how distance feels different when you know where you’re headed.
When we hang up, the room feels smaller but steadier.
I set the phone on my chest and listen to the hum of the AC. Outside, a motorcycle engine revs somewhere in the parking lot.
Not mine.
I don’t need to chase noise tonight.
I close my eyes and picture Arkansas highways instead. Long stretches of road leading somewhere that feels less like escape and more like arrival.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’m choosing.
And that might be the biggest change of all.
Morning comes too damn quiet. I wake up staring at a ceiling stained the color of old nicotine and regret. For a second, I don’t remember where I am. Then the hum of the motel AC and the empty bed across from me snap it back into place.
Tennessee.
Transport.
Smoke.
Danae.
I roll onto my side and grab my phone off the nightstand.
6:12 a.m. Too early for her to be off work.
She’s up, though. Coffee in hand, getting patients situated, charts updated, and shift change approaching.
Checking on her grandpa as she can. Moving through her morning like she always does—steady, responsible, selfless to a fault.
I type out a text before I can overthink it. Morning, darlin’. Call me when you get off. Missing you already.
I hit send.
The message goes through.
I toss the phone on the bed and sit up, rubbing a hand down my face. Something feels… off. Not loud. Not obvious. Just a thin thread of tension winding tight in my gut. I can’t explain it.
I stand, stretch, and head to the bathroom. When I come back out five minutes later, I check the phone again.
Nothing.
I tell myself I’m being stupid. She’s probably doing bedside reports or something. Probably just hasn’t looked at her phone yet. Smoke stumbles in twenty minutes later smelling like cheap perfume and stale whiskey.
“Morning,” he grunts, dropping into the chair by the window.
I glance at him but don’t say anything. He doesn’t ask if I slept. I don’t ask where he ended up. My phone stays silent. By the time we’re packed and walking toward the bikes, the unease isn’t subtle anymore.
It’s a pulse I can’t steady, this worry creeping in. It’s after seven now. Sometimes she does end up staying over, but it isn’t often. I call her.
It rings. And rings.
And rings.
Voicemail.
I don’t leave one. I hang up and try again.
Same thing. I stare at the screen like I can will her to answer.
“She good?” Smoke asks, lighting a cigarette.
“She’s not answering.”
He shrugs like that’s the end of it. “Maybe she’s busy.”
Maybe. But Danae always answers. Or she calls back. Or she texts. She doesn’t just… disappear. We mount up anyway. The job’s still in motion. Cash to collect. Road to cover.
But when the engines roar to life, the sound doesn’t settle me like it did last night. It amplifies the worry.
We ride.
Wind in my face. Miles burning beneath me. Tennessee giving way to open stretches of highway. I call again at the first long straightaway.
Voicemail. I don’t say anything this time either. By the time we pull into a gas station two hours later, my nerves are strung so tight I feel like I could snap. I cut the engine and immediately pull my phone out.
Three missed calls.
Raff.
And two texts. Both from Raff.
Where are you?
Call me ASAP.
My heart drops so hard it feels like I missed a step on a staircase. I don’t even tell Smoke. I just hit call.
Raff answers on the first ring.
“Miles.” The way he says my name tells me everything.
“What?” I demand.
“You need to listen.”
“Raff.”
“Josie got a call this morning.” My grip tightens on the phone.
“From who?” This is the shitty part of
“Their grandpa.”
The world narrows to the sound of my own breathing. “He says she didn’t make it home from work. They had to call over a backup caregiver.”
The words don’t make sense at first. “What do you mean didn’t make it home?”
“She never showed up after her shift to relieve the night caregiver.”
That thread in my gut snaps into a wire. “What about the hospital?”
“Called. She ain’t there.” My mouth goes dry. “No one can reach her,” Raff continues. “We’ve been trying since six.”
I look around the gas station like the answer might be painted on the damn pumps.
“She didn’t answer me either,” I share, voice low and dangerous.
Raff exhales hard. “We’re rolling out. Called Country Boy, Stud, Grinder, Dove, everyone is already in motion, brother.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
“Wrath knows. Country Boy too. Rest of the club’s on the way.”
A rush of heat floods my veins. “I’m not too far. Tell Wrath I’m going straight to the Saint’s clubhouse.”
“Then you better twist that throttle.”
Fear doesn’t hit me like a scream. It creeps ever steady. Cold fingers down my spine. Because Danae doesn’t just vanish. She’s predictable in the best way. Responsible. Accountable. The kind of woman who calls if she’s five minutes late.
“Anyone got eyes on Reeves,” I mutter knowing I had Grinder digging into him. Dove was working his contacts too.
Raff goes quiet for half a beat. “The doc?”
“Yeah.”
“He bothering her again?”
“Has been on and off. Nothing consistent.”
The pieces click together in a way I don’t want them to.
“I need Grinder tapping into Reeves’ phone,” I state, already moving toward my bike. “He’s got the information. Dove has the right contacts.”
“Already thought of that,” Raff replies. “I’ll tell him to get on it now.”
Smoke’s watching me from across the pump, cigarette forgotten between his fingers.
“What happened?”
I end the call and meet his eyes. “Danae didn’t make it home.”
He doesn’t ask who Danae is. He’s heard her name enough. “She missing?”
“Yeah.”
Smoke flicks the cigarette away and swings onto his bike without another question. “We riding out or what?” he asks.
I nod once.
“Then quit standing there.” Smoke’s entire demeanor is serious now.
I shove the phone into my pocket and mount up. This time when I start the engine, it’s not about freedom.
It’s about fury.
We pull out of that gas station like hell’s chasing us. I don’t pace myself. I don’t think about fuel efficiency. I don’t think about speed traps.
I think about her walking to her car after work. I think about two flat tires recently. I think about Dr. Reeves offering her rides. I think about her saying she was uncomfortable.
Fear crawls up my throat and turns into something darker.
Rage.
The highway blurs.
Wind whips so hard it feels like it’s trying to tear my helmet off.
Smoke stays tight on my right side. He doesn’t try to slow me. He doesn’t try to talk or signal to calm down.
He just rides.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket at eighty-five miles an hour. I don’t stop.
Another buzz.
I grit my teeth and keep twisting the throttle.
Every mile feels like an insult. Every state line then county line like it’s mocking me for being this far away.
I replay every conversation I’ve had with her the past month.
Every detail. Every hint.
Did she sound scared? Did she mention something I brushed off? Did I miss it?
The what-ifs are worse than the silence. Because silence means I don’t know. And not knowing is its own kind of torture.
When we stop again for fuel, I yank the helmet off before the engine even dies.
Phone out.
Four missed calls.
Raff again.
And one from Grinder.
I call Raff first.
“Talk to me,” I bark.
“We’re boarding the plane, Wrath has vans waiting at the airport. We’ll be to Bella Vista soon enough,” he states. “Grinder’s working Reeves’ phone. It’s powered off.”
Of course it is.
“Last ping?”
“Hospital parking lot. Around midnight.”
Midnight.
Danae gets off around seven. Reeves usually works the seven p.m. to seven a.m. shift as well. Why would he cut off at midnight?
The world tilts.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Raff adds quickly. “But it’s something.”
It’s too much of something.
“Police?” I ask.
“Grandpa filed a report.”
Good. But I don’t trust police to move fast enough.
Normally I wouldn’t want cops involved at all.
The Hellions have more resources and as an outlaw breaking laws to suit my purpose doesn’t bother me like the boys in blue.
Right now, though, Danae in the wind, I want every available body out there looking for her.
“This isn’t just missing, Raff,” I share quietly. “This ain’t her.”
“I know.”
That’s the worst part. He knows. Josie knows. Danae isn’t some random broad, she’s fucking family.
“I’m close,” I tell him. “Keep Grinder on Reeves. I want everything.”
“Already done.”
I hang up and call Grinder.
He answers with keys clacking in the background.
“Tell me you got something.”
“I’m digging,” he states. “Reeves’ phone went dark at 12:07 a.m. But I’m tracing his vehicle GPS through the manufacturer application installed on his SUV. Give me time. I got it running. Will be delayed when I’m in the air, but it will keep working and I may have something as soon as we land.”
“I don’t have time.”
“I know,” he says evenly. “Then ride.”
I end the call and stare at the open road. My one time solace is now the enemy as every mile feels too far.
Smoke walks over, helmet under his arm. “They got anything?”
“Working it.”
He nods once. “Then let’s not waste daylight.”
We mount up again. This time when I take off, it’s full throttle.
No restraint.
No caution.
The engine screams beneath me. Wind tears at my cut and I welcome it. Because the only thing louder than the bike is the fear in my head. Danae is out there.
Somewhere.
And for the first time in my life, the open road doesn’t feel like freedom.
It feels like a weapon.
And I’ve never had more reason to ride like hell.