Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
I throw the covers off and sit on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees, hands dragging down my face. The room is dark, quiet, too damn small for how loud my thoughts are.
This is pathetic.
It’s not like we broke up. Not really. You gotta be in a relationship to break up, and we were never that.
We had an arrangement. We ended the arrangement.
Simple.
I tell myself that again, then again, waiting for it to hit like truth instead of a lie I keep forcing down.
It doesn’t.
The digital clock on the nightstand glows 1:42 a.m.
There’s no chance I’m getting back to sleep.
I stand, grab my jeans from the floor, tug them on. Boots next. Shirt. My cut hangs over the back of the chair in the corner. I shrug into it, letting the familiar weight settle over my shoulders.
Feels better. Not good.
But better.
I pocket my keys and phone and head outside.
The night air in Freedom Falls is cool, damp, carrying the faint smell of the creek that winds beyond the tree line. Crickets hum, the distant sound of a semi rumbles somewhere on the highway, and for a brief second, everything looks exactly the same as it always has.
Which just makes the difference in me feel more obvious.
My bike is where I left it, glinting under the weak porch light. I swing a leg over, start her up, feel the familiar vibration beneath me. It pushes back the worst of the noise in my head.
That’s the thing about riding—there’s no room for bullshit. If your mind wanders too far, you end up in a ditch or under someone’s bumper. Bikes demand your full attention. They drag you into the present whether you like it or not.
Right now, I need that.
I pull out, tires crunching on the gravel, and hit the road, letting the steady hum of the engine and the wind claw some of the tension out of my muscles. I don’t have a destination. I just ride.
My first pass down Main Street is out of habit.
The road curves, I lean with it, and before I know it, I’m cruising past the bakery.
It’s dark, of course. Closed. The front windows reflect the streetlights. The simple Frosted and Filled sign hangs over the door, swaying gently in the breeze. A few flyers are taped in the corner—local events, charity run, some church bake sale Ally agreed to donate to.
I don’t even slow down. Just look, just long enough, then keep going like I never did.
But my chest tightens anyway.
I picture Kelly in there earlier, hands flour-dusted, eyes tired but still bright, pretending like I didn’t just cut something loose between us she’d started to believe in.
You did what you had to, I tell myself, but the words land flat.
The road leads me out of town, away from the soft glow of night lights and into the darker stretch lined with trees and old fence posts. I open up the throttle a little, wind whipping harder against my chest.
The Russian splinter talk from earlier keeps circling in my mind, looping around and around. The truck at the hardware store, the no plates, the way the driver watched me.
I should’ve followed.
Should’ve pushed.
Should’ve gotten a glimpse of the driver’s face.
Instead, I rode away and went back to thinking about how I screwed things up with a woman rather than thinking about how someone might be lining us up in their crosshairs.
Chux is right.
I need my head back in the game.
The Kings have plenty of enemies. You move product, you move guns, you hold territory and respect, you’re gonna have people wanting to take it, challenge it, test how far they can go.
Morozov’s crew may be crippled, but you don’t just snuff out that kind of darkness. It lingers. It festers. It breeds smaller monsters. Like a fantasy beast, cut one head off and another grows back in its place.
We knew that. We prepared for that. We’ve been waiting.
I take the long loop around the edge of town, past the old mill and the rusted-out train cars that have been sitting off the tracks damn near since I was a kid. The moon is high, throwing a silver sheen over everything. For a few miles, I manage to think about nothing but the road.
Then the gas station comes into view.
The only twenty-four-hour joint for miles, its harsh white lights buzz like they’re mad about existing. There’s a pickup parked by the far pump—old, faded paint, dented bumper.
Another truck is idling near the side of the building, half in darkness.
Tinted windows. No plates.
My stomach goes tight.
I slow, letting the bike roll along the edge of the property. The guy at the pump glances my way, nods like any normal local recognizing a King.
The driver in the idling truck doesn’t move.
I circle around once, nice and easy, pretending I’m just turning into the lot. His head tracks the motion of my bike. I can’t see his eyes, but I feel the focus. Intent.