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“Quiet as a graveyard. I passed Gatling and Tex on my ride out. They didn’t see anything either.”

That took the edge off my worry, but only slightly. As the trial date drew closer, I expected things to get heated. Those two robbers on the loose were a wild card—they could pressure Hattie to change her statement, or prevent her from testifying altogether.

“Rubs me the wrong way,” I muttered. “If your buddy got caught and locked up, wouldn’t you paint the town red to set him free? Why are these guys sitting around with their thumbs up their asses?”

“Perhaps you overestimate their loyalty, boss,” Vlad replied. “Their friend took the fall. They get away clean with over a million in stolen cash. Some men are cowards. They wouldn’t think twice about leaving a comrade to burn.”

I scrubbed a hand over my mouth. Vlad had a point. I’d met more than a few men like that in my lifetime—my abusive asshole of a father being one of them. I couldn’t fathom how he kicked me to the curb without a second thought. Sold the shitty trailer we lived in a week later, so I didn’t even have a home to go back to. Ten years down the road, I found out he was shacked up with a girlfriend a few towns over in some snobby as fuck gated community.

When I showed up on his doorstep, there was no recognition in his eyes. He didn’t want to remember the son he’d abandoned, or the life he’d left behind.

Still, this whole thing with Hattie and the bank robbery nagged at me.

I hated that she’d been in danger and I wasn’t there to protect her. On top of that, her mother had passed, and Hattie was now an aunt twice over. I was supposed to be with her through it all. But her life had continued without me.

The rumble of an engine drew my attention to the road. In the distance, I spotted Nico “Hot Shot” Marconi zipping along on his fluorescent orange Suzuki. Behind him, followed the FullThrottle Auto Repair tow truck, pulling a trailer with my bike strapped to the bed.

Fuck, it felt good to see her again. Gleaming with those decadent shades of plum purple in the summer sunlight. It was a massive beast—a Harley-Davidson Electra Glide touring bike, intended more for lazy Sunday rides in comfort than speed or agility.

I’d had a custom-made pillion seat designed for Hattie, in the hopes she would ride with me. The size of a small armchair, with buttery smooth leather, and a central heating unit, so she wouldn’t get cold. I spared no expense, making sure my woman could rest easy.

But she swore she would never go near the damn thing.

Didn’t help when she found out that the pillion seat was more affectionately known in the biker world as the bitch seat. She definitely wasn’t pleased about that.

Hot Shot came to a stop beside me and pushed the visor of his helmet up with a grin.

“Special delivery, Prez. She’s practically good as new.”

“Thanks for taking care of her after the crash,” I replied.

He shrugged and tossed my key ring to me.

“No offense, but it’s better than visiting your grumpy ass in the hospital. That place gives me the heebie-jeebies. And I’ve never had much of a bedside manner.”

The tow truck slowed and turned into the parking lot. One of his mechanics jumped out. I recognized Morgan from my visits to Hot Shot’s garage—backward baseball cap mashed down over her frizzy bob of brown curls, large round glasses, somewhere in her late twenties. Her greasy blue coveralls were peeled down to her waist due to the heat, sleeves knotted around her midriff. She never seemed to have much to say, choosing to keep her head buried in an engine instead of making small talk.

Not that I blamed her for that. I’d do the same if I had the choice.

Hot Shot removed his helmet, popped the kickstand down into place, and helped Morgan unload my bike. After they wheeled it over to me, I ran my hand across the body work—not even a scratch. Just as smooth and flawless as the first day of her brand new paint job, over thirty-five years ago.

The clubhouse door opened and Blackbeard emerged with a low whistle.

“I thought I heard the obnoxious mosquito whine of a Suzi.”

“That mosquito whine could leave you in the dust any day of the week,” Hot Shot replied, crossing his arms.

None of us rode sporty bikes like he did. Since that marked him as the odd man out, he usually found himself fighting to defend his precious little ride. Most of the time, he seemed to enjoy the ribbing though and took it in stride.

Blackbeard sauntered in a circle around the Suzuki, flicking the practically non-existent back seat with two fingers.

“This is why you can’t get girls. They keep falling off as soon as you hit the gas.”

Hot Shot chuckled, shaking his head at the obvious attempt to bait him.

“At least my bike doesn’t disintegrate on the road.”

Blackbeard arched an eyebrow, amused at the jibe.