Lattimer’s name has a way of cutting through steel and engine vibration, and even with Peanut tucked warm against my ribs, I can’t shake the feeling that something old just stirred.
Peanut’s little head pokes out of my cut, fur brushing my chin. “We made it back, princess,” I murmur. Usually, she rides in her yellow carrier strapped behind me, but last night she wanted my body heat and whined until I took her out. The princess has lungs that could shame a Harley.
Peanut blinks up at me, unimpressed. I swear that cat judges harder than Capone on Church day.
She found me after the worst night of my life.
Kensi, Aftermaths Ol’ lady, and her dad were run off the road by a rival MC that decided sending a message mattered more than who got caught in it. I remember the headlights coming fast and wrong, the deliberate push of chrome against chrome. I laid the bike down to keep us from taking the full hit, and I skidded across gravel and grass while asphalt chewed through denim and skin like it had teeth.
By the time I stopped sliding, half the skin on my right leg was gone. The road rash was deep enough to expose muscle, and somewhere in the chaos, a gun went off. The bullet tore through me, close enough to an artery that the doctors later called it luck.
I walked away, but walking and whole aren’t the same thing.
After the surgeries and grafts, I told everyone I was fine. I told them I’d been through worse. What I didn’t say was that something inside me cracked when I realized how close Kensi had come to dying because of us, because of this life. Aftermath is one of my closest friends and my brother, and Kensi is the love of his life. If anything happened to Kensi because of me, I’d never be able to forgive myself.
I started disappearing at night, sitting alone, letting the pain in my leg bleed into something heavier and harder to name. The clubhouse felt too loud. The world felt too sharp.
One night, I ended up in an alley behind a closed auto shop, my back against a brick wall, stitches pulling tight, the smell of oil and garbage thick in the heat. I told myself I was clearing my head. Truth was, I didn’t care much whether I stayed there.
That’s when this tiny black and white scrap of fur crawled out from behind a dumpster and climbed straight into my lap like she’d been looking for me.
She was all bones and attitude, one eye crusted half shut, tail crooked like it had been stepped on too many times. I mutteredthat I didn’t need a damn cat, but she ignored me and tucked herself against my chest as if I belonged to her.
I fed her the last of my jerky, and she purred so loudly it vibrated against my ribs.
I thought I rescued her.
Truth is, she refused to let me sink.
Peanut blinks up at me again, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking. I scratch beneath her chin. “Yeah, yeah,” I murmur. “You saved me. I get it.”
The clubhouse gate comes into view, chain-link shimmering in the streetlights. My Road Captain patch catches the glow when I slow to a stop, and Bones, pulling gate duty, lifts a hand in greeting.
“Early bird, Tiny.”
“Late-night run,” I correct. “Didn’t want the San Diego crew sitting on our goods too long.”
He smirks as steam curls from the coffee in his hand. The smell of burnt beans rides the morning air. “You look like hell, man.”
I grin back. “Good. Means I’m doin’ my job.”
The gate rattles open, metal grinding, and the growl echoes off the building around us. I ease the bike through. The clubhouse lot is quiet. Only the faint bark of one of the strays Syvannah and I adopted breaks it. We now have half the street’s rejects living along the fence line. Dogs, cats, and even a three-legged raccoon that eats like a king and bullies the others.
I kill the engine, and the sudden silence presses in. The air’s thick, still, too calm for comfort. Capone’s been wound tight for weeks, and word from down south says Lattimer’s alive and rebuilding. I don’t want to believe it, but the streets don’t lie. The “L” carved into one of our informants last week wasn’t a coincidence.
My boots crunch on gravel as I dismount. Peanut crawls onto my shoulder, tail flicking, head on a swivel like she’s scanning for ghosts.
Then I see her.
Syvannah is crouched near the fence, blonde hair catching the sunrise while she breaks apart last night’s leftovers for the strays. The gold light softens her, but when I get closer, I notice the tension in her shoulders, the way her movements are careful instead of easy.
“Morning, Tiny,” she calls, her voice steady, though her fingers hesitate for half a breath before dropping the food.
“Hey, trouble,” I walk closer. The dogs perk up at my approach, tails wagging, half-expecting food. I crouch beside her, toss a few crumbs from my pocket to the smallest one. “You starting’ an animal sanctuary or building a crew?”
“Don’t tempt me.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’d make it work.”
“I know you would.”