Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Chrome and Consequences
Easton
The highway out of Lovelace stretched ahead like a long ribbon of asphalt, the early sun breaking through the fog, casting a pale light over everything.
It felt like the world was holding its breath, waiting to see if I’d make the right choices today.
Bruce rode a few bike lengths ahead, his Harley’s taillight a steady pulse through the thinning morning mist, a reminder that I wasn’t alone on this road.
The run to Billings was supposed to clear my head. But every mile only kicked up more dust—thoughts swirling, refusing to settle. Chrome, open road, and air sharp enough to sting were usually enough to quiet my random thoughts. Today, though? My mind wouldn’t cooperate.
Emma kept slipping in—her warm smile when I walked into the old mercantile, the hope in her eyes mingled with that hint of nervousness.
I could still picture the way her breath caught when I said I had to go, how she tried to hide it.
The flicker of disappointment had been real enough to replay in my mind.
“Get over it,” I muttered, my voice swallowed by the wind.
We carved around the foothills, the mountains falling back in layers of shadows, while fields stretched wide on either side.
Usually, the Harley beneath me—a heavy, humming machine—was enough to drown out the noise in my head.
Today, though, my thoughts looped through Emma’s laughter, her scent lingering like warm vanilla and old pages, images of her looking at me like I was both trouble and something she wasn’t ready to give up on.
Focus. Billings. Chrome. That was the plan.
By the time the city began to shimmer on the horizon, I felt the first crack of loosening tension in my shoulders—not peace, not yet, but something close.
Bruce led us through a tangle of streets, his confidence radiating like a beacon.
We pulled into the Harley Custom Shop lot, and the engines fell silent in a synchronized rumble.
The quiet that followed rang in my ears.
“The chrome awaits,” I said, swinging off my bike, attempting to shake off the lingering thoughts of Emma.
Bruce didn’t even pretend to laugh. He yanked off his helmet and headed toward the door with a purpose that felt… off.
“You’re the one who wanted this pilgrimage,” I called after him. “Try to look excited.”
“Just want to get in, get what I need, and get back,” he replied curtly.
That wasn’t normal.
Inside, the shop smelled like heaven—warm rubber, metal, and cleaner.
Chrome gleamed on every shelf, a freshly painted tank glowing under a spotlight like it was auditioning for centerfold of the month.
I usually had to drag Bruce away from the chrome aisle; today, he grabbed a cart and headed straight for it, like a man on a five-minute grocery run.
“You’re scaring me,” I said, following him. “Is your blood sugar low? Did you switch to decaf?”
He ignored me, lifted a curved chrome piece, barely glanced at it, and dropped it back.
Yep. Something was definitely off.
“Okay, what’s going on?” I asked, crossing my arms against the leather of my jacket, feeling the weight of whatever was coming.
“Nothing.” He looked away, fingers drumming against the chrome.
“Bruce.”
His shoulders deflated a millimeter. “Cam called me on the ride up.”
“Chief Holt?” I said. “Did the firehouse burn down? That would be ironic.”
“Not funny.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. “He found out I had the day off. Asked me to swing by the station when we get back. Something came up at the city management meeting.”
I leaned against the endcap, a sense of unease creeping in. “Uh-oh. Did someone propose a law that made the city dry? The town would riot.”
He shot me a look. “Can you be serious for thirty seconds?”
“No,” I said honestly. “Try anyway.”
He exhaled slowly, his expression darkening. “They were talking about installing a baby drop-off box.”
The room tilted for half a second, the weight of his words crashing over me. “A baby box?” I muttered, disbelief coating my tone.
“Yep. It’s a heated, alarmed compartment where desperate mothers can place newborns safely instead of… the alternative.”
“Shit. You mean a place where desperation meets darkness,” I said quietly.
“Yeah.” Bruce nodded once. “Cam wants to talk feasibility—what the building can support, where it might go, how fast they can respond. He sounded… different. Like this hit him in the gut.”
I could picture Camden—steady, serious Camden—sitting in that meeting, jaw tight, already imagining worst-case scenarios. The man carried other people's emergencies like they were his own.
"That explains why you're rushing," I said, watching a muscle tick in Bruce's jaw. "Still doesn't explain why you're acting like your pants are on fire."
Bruce's gaze flicked away. “There’s another part.”
I waited, arms crossed, feeling the gravity of what was coming. He shifted, shoulders hunching forward like he always did when he had to deliver bad news.
“Cam asked if I thought you might be… willing to help fund it.”
There it was. The punch I’d felt coming since we left Lovelace, that familiar tightness in my gut when someone remembered my bank account before they remembered me.
I didn’t flinch, but something inside me went still, like a predator sensing a trap. “So, he wants me to be the town's wallet again?” I said lightly, though my knuckles whitened around the expensive handlebar grip I was still holding.
“No,” Bruce snapped, eyes flashing with fierce loyalty. “He didn’t say it like that. He said the town doesn’t have money for something like this. Not fast. And that you... you have the means. And a good heart. He said if you were open to helping, it could save time. Maybe save a life.”
An iron weight settled in my gut—the chrome surrounding us lost its luster, turning into a cold, hollow mockery of everything I was.
Fifteen, twenty grand—Bruce mentioned the price in a low voice.
It was nothing. It was everything. A choice I’d made too many times before—when to step up, when to step back, when to keep my own life from being swallowed by everyone else's expectations.
But a baby box…
That wasn’t a scoreboard or a pet project. This was real. Human. Preventable. I forced a breath out through my nose. “So, he wants a check.”
“He didn’t say that.” Bruce looked pained. “He said not to pressure you. Don’t make it weird. Just… mention it.”
But it was weird. And heavy. And the part of me that hated being treated like a walking donation rattled its chains. What was worse?
Emma flashed in my mind, the image of her face when I left after the storm.
If this leaked before I made a decision… if she heard through town gossip that I’d balked at something like this… What would she think?
Selfish. Typical rich guy. Only cares until the cost lands on his doorstep.
The idea of disappointing her burned hotter than the idea of spending the money ever could. I dragged a hand over my jaw. “So what did you tell him?”
Bruce met my eyes. “That you’re not an asshole. And if you said no, it’d be for a reason.”
I huffed out a humorless breath. “High praise.”
He tried to smile, but it didn’t stick. Silence pooled between us, thick with all the things I didn’t want to think about. I needed something that wasn’t about responsibility or money—just a damn day with my friend.
I broke first. I clapped Easton's shoulder a little harder than necessary, feeling the solid muscle beneath his leather jacket. “You know what we need? Dirt. When we get back, we take the bikes up that old logging road. Make a day of it. Maybe an overnighter if the weather holds.”
The suggestion sparked something in him—an echo of who he was before duty shoved him into the present. His eyes brightened for a moment, the familiar reckless gleam I’d seen a thousand times since we were teenagers with more nerve than sense.
“That road isn’t going anywhere,” he said, his tone softening as his fingers absently traced the edge of a chrome exhaust pipe on the shelf beside us.
“So we should go see it before we’re eighty and riding tricycles instead of Harleys.”
He nearly smiled, the corner of his lips twitching where a scar from a sophomore year football game still tugged tight whenever he laughed. But the gravity of Camden’s call settled over him again, shoulders squaring as if he were preparing for a blow.
“Not today,” he said, regret clear in the way he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. “Cam wants to jump on this fast. I told him I’d help measure, research, whatever. Later, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, studying the chrome-plated price tags that suddenly seemed obscene. “Right after we solve all of Lovelace’s problems.”
He gave me a look, brows furrowed in that way that made him resemble his old man. “You good?”
“Always,” I lied, forcing a smirk.
He didn’t believe me, but didn’t push, just nodded once and turned back to the shelves.
We wrapped up the world’s fastest chrome trip. Bruce tossed the part he needed into the basket, paid without haggling—another red flag—and we were back outside within minutes.
As we neared Lovelace, he signaled before he peeled off toward the station. I slowed enough to ride parallel for a beat. “Tell Cam I said good luck with the project.”
Bruce snorted. “I’ll tell him you said… something.”
He veered away, his Harley cutting toward town, leaving me alone with nothing but road and wind and the loudest silence of my life.
Most days, that emptiness soothed me. Today, it pressed in like a vise. Every fence post along the way came with an image I didn’t want—tiny hands, a blanket, a choice no parent should ever have to make. What if that box wasn’t there one day when someone needed it?
I thought about money—how quickly it had turned into a weight over my head instead of freedom. I thought about Cam and the firehouse and how seriously he took everything, especially when humanity was at risk.
And I thought about Emma.
Her passion for the Historical Society. Her devotion to the town’s stories. The way she carried responsibility as if it was stitched into her bones. If she heard I’d shrugged off something like this…
My grip on the throttle tightened until my hand cramped.
By the time Lucky Ranch appeared over the hill, I felt wrung out. Too restless to relax. Too wired to sit still.
I parked, killed the engine, and stood there for a moment with my helmet in my hands. My ranch house was quiet when I walked in—coffee lingering in the air, afternoon sunlight slanting across the floor. Most of the time, it was comforting.
Not today.
I set my helmet on the counter and braced my hands on the edge of the sink, head bowed. I didn’t want to think about the baby box. Or money. Or responsibility. Or the hundred ways this could twist wrong if I mishandled it.
After a long breath, I pushed away from the counter and walked into my office.
The place was a mess—papers stacked crooked—but the desk drawer slid open with a familiar creak.
I pulled out the checkbook, flipped it open, and scratched out a check for twenty-five thousand dollars before I could talk myself into overthinking it.
There. Decision made. Clean. Quiet. No parade required.
I folded the check once, then again, and set it in the center of my desk—easy to grab, impossible for me to pretend I hadn’t already chosen a side.
Then I just stood there, staring at it.
All I wanted—simple, stupid, selfish—was Emma.
Her laugh. Her softening eyes. The way she made everything feel a little less sharp.
I reached for my phone before I could talk myself out of it. My thumb hovered over her name. Then I typed:
ME: You still up for that grilled cheese taste test? Thinking tonight. I make the sandwiches. You be the judge. Fair warning: Once you try them, you’ll never try another…
It was playful, cocky—exactly the tone she expected. Underneath it was a truth I wasn’t ready to name. Please come over. Please let tonight be easy. Please don’t see me as the guy who disappoints.
I stared at the message. Then I hit send. The whoosh made my pulse jump.
Now, waiting suddenly felt like the hardest thing I’d done all day.