Chapter 4 #3
Dad sets the salt shaker down and folds his hands together. "People act like grief only happens when somebody dies. That's bullshit. Sometimes you're grieving a future that isn't gonna happen and a person you thought somebody was."
A lump forms in my throat. "I wish it would stop hurting."
"I know." His voice softens. "But it doesn't work that way."
Outside the window, sunlight glints off chrome and polished paint. My bike sits beside Dad's Harley exactly where we left them, and the sight makes something settle inside me. "You know what the good news is?" Dad asks.
"What?"
"You're here."
Emotion stings unexpectedly behind my eyes, and I blink hard against it. Dad notices immediately. Of course he does. His expression softens. "One day at a time, baby girl."
I swallow and nod. "One day at a time."
A small smile appears beneath his beard. "That's all anybody can do."
Maybe he's right. Healing probably isn't some magical moment where everything suddenly stops hurting. Maybe it's a hundred small moments strung together. A ride through the countryside. Lunch with my dad. A day where breathing comes a little easier than it did yesterday. Right now, that's enough.
Lunch stretches longer than either of us planned, and by the time we're back on the road, the afternoon sun has begun its slow descent across the horizon.
Golden light spills over the fields surrounding Jackson, turning the corn and soybeans into waves of green and gold.
The ride home feels different than the ride out.
Nothing about Ethan hurts less than it did a few hours ago, and the betrayal still sits heavy in my chest, but saying the words out loud helped.
Hearing Dad remind me that loving someone wasn't a mistake helped even more.
The roads are quieter now. A few trucks pass in the opposite direction while farmland stretches endlessly on either side of us.
Dad rides ahead as always, keeping a steady pace that lets me relax and simply enjoy being back on my bike.
The familiar rhythm of the ride settles over me until something catches my attention.
His head shifts slightly. One glance at the mirror. Then another. A few minutes later, he checks again.
My brows pull together behind my helmet.
At first I tell myself he's looking for me.
Making sure I'm still back there. That's something he's done my entire life.
The explanation works for all of thirty seconds before I notice his attention shifting between both mirrors.
Whatever he's watching isn't behind him anymore.
It's behind us. Unease settles low in my stomach.
Growing up around bikers teaches you how to read people without words.
Most of the time, body language tells the story long before anyone opens their mouth.
Dad's shoulders have lost the easy looseness they'd carried all afternoon.
The relaxed posture from lunch is gone, replaced by something tighter. Sharper. More alert.
I glance into my own mirrors. Traffic is light.
A pickup truck follows several car lengths behind me, and farther back a motorcycle rides near the rear of the line.
It's too far away for me to make out details and too far away to feel threatening.
Still, when Dad checks his mirrors again, I know he's looking at the same bike I just saw.
The knot in my stomach tightens.
Piston Blackstone doesn't get rattled easily. I've watched him handle angry club members, cops, and situations that would've had most people panicking. Whatever has his attention isn't something he's brushing off.
The highway curves through a stretch of trees, giving me a brief glimpse of his profile. His jaw is set hard beneath his beard. No smile. No relaxed expression. Just focus.
The motorcycle remains behind us through the next town. Then the next. Then another stretch of open highway. Dad signals and turns onto a county road that eventually leads back toward Jackson. I follow him, and several seconds later the bike makes the same turn.
A cold chill slides down my spine.
Maybe it's a coincidence. People use these roads every day, and there's a good chance the rider lives somewhere near Jackson. The explanation feels reasonable right up until Dad checks his mirrors again, then does it once more a few minutes later.
The rider never gets closer, but he never disappears either. He hangs back at a distance that feels intentional, far enough away not to draw attention and close enough to remain visible.
My grip tightens around the handlebars. Dad lifts a hand briefly. Not a wave. Not a signal I immediately recognize. The message is clear anyway. Stay close.
My pulse kicks up another notch as I close the distance between us.
Open fields give way to tree-lined roads, and the closer we get to town, the more tense Dad becomes.
That bothers me more than the motorcycle itself.
If he thought it was nothing, he'd relax.
Instead, every glance in the mirror seems to confirm whatever suspicion has taken root in his head.
Jackson appears ahead of us several minutes later.
We pass the hardware store and the feed mill before rolling through Main Street.
Usually Dad acknowledges people when we're riding through town.
He waves. Nods. Slows down to talk if someone flags him over.
Today he does none of that. His focus remains fixed on getting home.
The closer we get to the Iron Reapers compound, the more alert Dad becomes.
Every few minutes his gaze flicks toward the mirrors before returning to the road ahead.
By the time the gates come into view, the uneasy feeling that's been riding with me since the county roads has settled firmly in my stomach.
The compound sits just outside Jackson on several hundred acres of land the club has owned for decades.
Security has gotten tighter over the years, and Dad made sure of that.
Between the security company he runs and the club's own precautions, cameras cover every angle of the property and the front gate stays staffed around the clock.
One of the guys at the entrance spots us immediately and the gate begins sliding open before we even slow down.
"Piston."
Dad lifts two fingers from the handlebars.
The prospect beside the older member nods toward me. "Good ride, Scarlett?"
"It was."
We roll through the gates and onto club property.
Usually the sight of the clubhouse settles something inside me.
Today it doesn't. Because people are waiting.
My stomach immediately drops. Dad notices it at the same time I do.
Several bikes line the front of the clubhouse.
More than usual for the middle of the afternoon.
A handful of men stand outside near the porch with their attention fixed on us as we approach.
Nobody's laughing, drinking a beer, or giving each other shit. They're waiting.
Dad pulls into the lot and kills his engine.
My eyes immediately land on Uncle Mason, the Iron Reapers president, standing near the clubhouse steps with his arms crossed over his chest. Even from a distance, I can tell something's off.
The easy confidence he normally carries is gone, replaced by the hard expression I've seen a handful of times growing up.
Beside him stands Dagger, Switch, Riot, and Tank. Every one of them looks serious.
The second Dad swings off his bike, all of the guys walk toward him. "What'd you see?" Uncle Mason asks.