Page 13 of Just Heartbeats (Royalla Motorcycle Club #1)

The commentators announcing the football game on television droned on, long past the play. Kodiak sat on the couch with his boots planted on the coffee table and a remote in his hand. His mind wandered—half to the game, half to the dull ache in his shoulder from earlier at the garage.

The door creaked open. Only one person ever entered the room as quietly as a mouse.

“What do you need?” He turned his head, already recognizing the light tread and rhythm of Roma’s entrance.

She had a habit of showing up. Late at night, mid-day, it never mattered. His room had become her safe place, somewhere she gravitated toward when her thoughts ran long or she was missing her dad.

"Nothing." She padded across the carpet and sank onto the opposite end of the couch. Her eyes weren’t on the screen. They flicked down to her watch, the one she always wore, scuffed on the edges, matte black strap tightened to the smallest setting. She pressed something on the screen.

He wasn't sure if it was her smartwatch or her leather jacket that was her favorite possession. Chopper had bought her both. He was a damn good father, never missed a birthday.

Kodiak muted the TV. “How many steps today?”

Roma slid closer, slow as if she was afraid he'd tell her to leave, and settled against his side. She held the watch face up to him.

He squinted. "Over ten thousand. Not bad.”

She'd educated him about the benefits of walking and having at least thirty minutes of heart points a day. That was important to her.

He had no use for such a watch. Why walk when he could take his Harley?

“It says I only got four hours of sleep last night,” she whispered.

He tilted his head, watching her profile. “Why didn't you sleep?”

"I couldn't." She studied her watch and murmured, “Just thinking.”

Kodiak grunted. He knew where her thoughts drifted—same place his always went when the quiet of the night became too long.

Her dad. Chopper. Grief was the wrench in the gears.

It never quite loosened or sounded good again.

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her gently into the space against his side where she fit better than she probably realized.

She softened against him. Head on his chest. Her watch blinked off.

Kodiak stared at the muted game on television. He missed Chopper, too.

The memories were always there, as if they happened yesterday.

He and Chopper, fifteen and stupid, were standing in the harsh yellow beam of headlights behind that gas station off Route 8.

They’d thought they were slick, pocketing things too expensive for boys who never had spare cash.

It was Chopper’s idea. Or maybe it was his.

Not that it mattered. They did everything together.

Sirens nearly gave them both a heart attack. They both ran. When the cruiser caught up, Kodiak tripped and went down hard. Chopper had stopped running. He could've kept going. Should’ve. But he turned around, hauled Kodiak up, and tried to drag him along.

In the end, they both got nailed for the crime.

Juvie was cold and loud. Too much metal, not enough kindness.

Kodiak had expected Chopper to blame him, to turn quiet and bitter behind those locked doors for the six months they were separated.

But he hadn't. Chopper stuck close, like always.

Talked him through the long nights when sleep was hard and regrets came easy.

That was when Kodiak realized Chopper was more than just a best friend.

He was his brother, blood or not, he'd never have anyone closer to him.

Now, with Roma asleep against him and the television flickering muted light across their faces, Kodiak let the guilt settle low in his chest. He hadn’t been able to return the favor.

When things went bad, when Chopper’s luck finally ran dry, Kodiak failed to save him.

He couldn’t stop the bullet from hitting its mark.

Couldn’t shield him from the world the way Chopper had shielded him that day when they were teenagers.

His arm tightened around Roma. He looked down. Her eyelashes fanned out on her cheeks. Her steady breathing had slowed. Whatever storm had chased her into his room had passed.

Kodiak let his head fall back against the couch, the cushions catching his memories and grief. He closed his eyes, the loss pulsing quietly beneath his ribs. But Roma was here. That meant something.

It meant he wasn’t completely alone.