Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35372 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 141(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
His eyes squint down a little. "I'm not sure what that means."
"No. I didn't spell it out, did I? And guess what? I'm not gonna either."
"All right." He presses his hand flat on the table like he's about to stand up. "That's fair. You don't know me. You don't know us. But like I said, we're not like you."
Then he does stand. Pushes back from the table with both palms flat and rises to his full height, and I'll give him this—the man carries himself like somethin' that doesn't need permission. His fingers go to his lips and a shrill whistle cuts through the room, sharp and clean. The kind of sound that doesn't ask twice.
Everyone stops what they're doin'.
Every conversation dies mid-word.
Every head in the room turns to look at him like he's the only thing breathin'.
"Let's go, men," he says. "We're headin' out."
That's it. No explanation. No justification. Just the command and the silence that follows it.
He looks down at me. Holds my eyes for a beat longer than he needs to. Then pops off a small salute—two fingers, casual, almost mocking except it isn't. It's respectful. Which is worse.
"We're gonna spend the next three days out at June's place," he says. "Packin' it up and gettin' it ready to sell. If you've got anything to add to what you said—or anything you didn't say—you know where to find me, brother."
Brother. That word again. Comin' from a mouth that looks like mine.
And just like that, they leave.
They file through the door one by one, and none of 'em look back. Not a single goddamned one. The door slams closed behind the last man.
Then silence.
Outside, fifty-seven bikes roar to life.
Not all at once. It builds. One engine turns over, then another, then another, like a heartbeat findin' its rhythm—and then the whole parkin' lot is shakin' with it. The floor vibrates under my boots. The windows rattle in their frames. Fifty-seven machines built to announce themselves to a world that didn't ask, and they don't give a damn whether it asked or not.
I sit there. Don't move. Don't speak. Just let the sound wash through the walls and into my chest and settle somewhere between my ribs where it hums against the brand.
Two minutes later, when Diesel drops down into the empty seat across from me, the rumble is faint. Distant. Fadin' south down the dirt road like thunder rollin' away from a storm that already hit.
Like a memory of somethin' that was just here and now isn't.
Like the echo of a question I still don't have the answer to.
"Well," Diesel says, settlin' into that chair like it's the only piece of furniture left in the world. "How did it go?"
I don't answer right away.
I study him. I watch him the way you watch a man when you're decidin' whether the thing he's offerin' you is a hand or a fist.
Because I have questions for Diesel.
Questions that have been buildin' since before the vote. Since before Brick hit the floor with my bullet between his eyes. Questions about how much he knew. How deep he was in it. How many times he sat across from Brick in this same goddamn room and heard things he should've brought to me and didn't.
How 'in' he was.
How long he was 'in.'
Whether bein' 'in' was a choice or just the slow rot of proximity—standin' too close to a liar for too many years until the lies start soundin' like reason.
It pisses me off.
It fuckin' pisses me off that everyone sittin' in this room tonight knew somethin'.
Knew pieces, at least.
Knew enough to smell it even if they couldn't name it.
Everyone here but me.
And maybe Dusty. Maybe.
The rest of 'em? They knew what was goin' on. They knew what Brick was. They knew what Brandy was. And they just… let it. Let it breathe. Let it grow roots under the floorboards while I sat in a cell countin' days on a wall, doin' time for a club that was already hollowed out from the inside.
They let it happen.
And that thought sits in my chest like a coal that won't cool.
But it's useless rage, this blame. I know that. Blame is a debt and rage without direction is just noise. Just heat with nowhere to land.
Because look how fast they got to me.
Mike and his smugness this morning. His escort. His blacked-out SUVs and his presumption of power. I am nothin' to that man. And he is nothin' to me.
But I have dead bodies in the ground and he's got the means to make that disappear. And I did that. I brought this on myself. One hundred percent of it.
After Eleanor died, I didn't walk away. I stayed. I stayed knowin' what Brick was. Because I was that desperate to acquire what my half-brother was simply given.