Chapter 30-Sawyer
The delivery goes smooth.
No roadblocks.
No tailing bikes.
Not even a whisper of the Hellbound crew.
I shake hands with the foreman, get the paperwork signed, and head out to the truck.
The desert air burns hot against my skin, the scent of dust and oil mixing with the faint memory of Bit’s shampoo.
She calls me tonight like she has every night since I left.
Her voice does something to me.
Cuts straight through the noise in my head and settles me in a way nothing else can.
“Hey, cowboy,” she says, and I can hear the sadness behind the smile in her voice. “You made it there alright?”
“Yeah, Sweetheart. Delivery went smooth. You and Angie doin’ alright?”
“We’re fine. Don’t worry about us.”
That’s all she says, but I can picture her perfectly—barefoot, wearing my shirt, curled up on the couch under that quilt she made, looking like she belongs there.
Like she’s always belonged there.
She has.
I tell her I’ll be home soon.
She tells me to drive safe.
And when we hang up, the silence feels heavier than the desert night.
Benji’s sitting on the tailgate, nursing a beer, watching the sky turn black.
“You’re quiet,” he says finally.
“Just thinking.”
“About her?”
“Yeah.” I exhale slow, my hand tightening around the bottle. “Got a bad feeling, Benj. Can’t shake it.”
He studies me, jaw tight. “You think it’s the Heathens?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Could be nothing.”
But we both know better.
The next morning, we load up early, hitting the road before sunrise.
The cab smells like coffee and dust, the kind of scent that usually feels like home—but not today.
Today, it feels like anxiety.
The closer we get to Dry Creek, the worse it gets. That crawling under my skin, that hum in my chest—it’s building.
Micah’s quiet beside me, eyes on the GPS, and Benji’s in the back seat, scrolling his phone when it happens.
The phone rings.
Once. Twice.
I glance in the mirror and see the way Benji’s face drains of color.
“What?” I bark.
He looks up, eyes wide. “It’s Angie. Something’s wrong.”
The world tilts.
The air in the cab goes razor-thin.
My hand tightens around the wheel, knuckles white. “Put it on speaker.”
Benji does. Angie’s voice bursts through the line, high and trembling.
“Sawyer—it’s Bit—something happened—”
That’s all I need to hear.
“We’re coming, Angie. Tell me everything.”
I listen and I fucking floor it.
The tires scream against the asphalt, the truck fishtailing as I gun it toward home.
Because that bad feeling?
It wasn’t just in my head.