TINY
After walking away from Syvannah’s door, I can’t sleep. So instead, I get ready to ride with no destination in mind. I swing a leg over my bike, start the engine, and the saddlebag wiggles.
“What the…?”
Peanut’s head pops out, eyes wide like she’s been caught sneaking into a movie theater.
“Oh no,” I mutter. “Not tonight, Houdini.” She refuses to move. Because of course she does.
Red shouts from across the lot, “Peanut’s trying to prospect!” He’s laughing while I carefully lift her out. She sticks her claws into my cut and won’t let go.
“Jesus, girl…” I whisper. “You’d follow me to the ends of the damn earth, wouldn’t you?” Peanut purrs. And I swear, she means yes. Instead of fighting her on it, I grab her carrying case and strap her in.
I take off with Peanut beside me. Only asphalt, streetlights, and the kind of silence that engines alone understand. Los Angeles after midnight feels like a different world. Damp pavement, slower traffic, stray dogs watching from alleys. I rideuntil the ache in my chest burns out, until the thoughts stop chasing me.
When I finally kill the engine, the sky is turning gray. I park near the overlook that faces the city. The one I use when I need to think without witnesses. The one that’s sacred to me. The skyline looks like it’s on fire behind the smog, and for once, I wish it were. At least a flame makes sense.
By the time I roll back to the Clubhouse, the sun is already up, and the smell of coffee, oil, and bad decisions hangs in the air. My brothers are already starting their day. Red has his laptop balanced on a toolbox, Trigger is shirtless, wiping his hands on a rag, and Capone’s voice drifts from the common room, low and sharp.
“Morning, sunshine,” Trigger calls when he spots me. “You look like a man who lost a fight to insomnia.”
“More like round three,” I reply, dropping my helmet onto the workbench.
Red glances up from the bike he’s rewiring. “That means you’re volunteering for extra runs?”
Trigger smirks. “Careful. He might take you up on it. Tiny’s allergic to downtime.”
“Downtime makes people lazy,” I say, reaching for a wrench. “Laziness gets people killed.”
Peanut materializes beside my boot like she teleported into the garage, meowing and rubbing against my leg. “The hell?” I mutter, glancing around the shop. I’m sure I shut the door when I rolled in, and Peanut was not with me.
She flicks her tail, proud as a queen, then leaps into my open saddlebag and curls up on a spare pair of gloves like she owns the place.
“You’re not supposed to be in there.” I frown. Peanut’s only answer is a loud, unapologetic purr.
Trigger walks by snorting. ‘Bro, you got a cat who picks locks.”
“She doesn’t pick locks,” I argue.
Peanut immediately slips out of the bag, darts across the dirty floor, and vanishes through a gap under the tool bench.
Trigger laughs. “You sure about that?”
I shake my head and scowl because, no, I’m not.
Trigger tosses the rag at me. “Jesus, you ever lighten up? We’re not in a war zone.”
“Not yet,” Red cuts in. “But Lattimer’s boys are sniffing around the south docks again. Give it a week, and we’ll be polishing bullets instead of bikes.”
“Speak for yourself,” Trigger says. “I plan to polish both.”
The garage is filled with laughter. It’s the kind of sound that masks fear with noise, and for a moment, it almost succeeds.
“War dogs,” Red mutters, half-joking. “That’s what we are now. Hellhounds without the hell.”
I pause for half a second at the name before smirking. “Nah. We bite cleaner.”
Trigger snorts. “And grumble louder.”