Page 52 of Riding the Line (Steel Saints MC #1)

When I got to the clubhouse, I just stood and stared.

I knew that place like the back of my hand.

The smell of oil, grease, and a faint trace of cigar smoke.

The kitchen I had loved from the second I first saw it.

The rooms in the back that I was sure were now empty, and waiting for more survivors.

The bay door was half-open, letting in a shaft of morning light that stretched across the concrete floor like a spotlight I couldn’t avoid.

So, I stepped into the garage with my shoulders back and chin high, every instinct in me screaming to turn around and run.

Much to my surprise, my Triumph sat in the corner—half-covered by a tarp, the front peeking out like a secret that wouldn’t be hidden.

People started noticing me as I made my way through, and silence fell.

My hair was a different color, my eyes no longer green.

But they knew who I was. Half a dozen heads turned my way—mid-conversation, mid-wrench-turn, mid-laugh.

All of it stopped. The scrape of metal on metal echoed too loud in the sudden quiet.

You could’ve cut the tension in the air with a dull butter knife.

I met their stares one by one. There was hostility in their eyes but, at least in some of them, there was a sadness too.

Kaycen’s jaw tensed as he stood straighter beside his bike.

Henrick crossed his arms. Even quiet Benny, who I once taught how to make scrambled eggs that didn’t taste like rubber, wouldn’t meet my eyes.

Nobody said a word. My hands were shaking, and the garage felt like it had suddenly become the length of two football fields.

Shoving my hands in my pocket, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

If looks could kill, I would’ve been a puddle on the floor.

I tried to remind myself that I had betrayed their trust, and tried to put myself in their shoes. That didn’t really make it much easier.

At the far workbench, Cliff stood cleaning a valve cover, pretending to focus on the task in front of him. The tension in his shoulders said otherwise.

“Cliff,” I said gently, trying to keep my voice steady even though my stomach twisted. “Where are they?”

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. He just kept wiping, jaw tight, eyes shadowed under his graying brows. Scrubbing the part in front of him with more than a little aggression. I nodded, and turned to go inside. The man who had given me my beloved Molly was closed off to me.

Then, without looking at me, he said, “Upstairs.” One word. Gruff, quiet. Like I had dragged it from him. But it was communication, it was a start, and I would take it. He paused, then added, “They’ve been through hell. We all have been these last few days.”

“I know.”

Cliff finally looked at me. His eyes weren’t angry—just tired.

Disappointed. “I don’t think you do, young lady.

You got a lotta people here feeling like idiots.

Me included.” He shook his head. “But… I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to see you.

Place’s been too damn quiet. And no one’s cooked a decent chili since you left. ”

I blinked, my throat tightening. “I’ll make you some, and I’ll chop up some extra onion for you, too. Maybe even make some cornbread.”

“You better…” He hesitated. “For everyone’s sake, I hope you didn’t fuck this up beyond fixing. This club is better with you in it.”

Before I could reply, another voice cut in.

Rodney leaned back against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes sad.

He must have been watching the entire exchange.

“They’ve been messes, both of ’em. Mac’s mean as hell, and Dalton is just quiet, which is worse somehow.

Last time they were like this was when their daddy passed.

They need you, Ni—” He paused, cleared his throat, “Erm, what is your name?”

I turned toward him, surprised he had even spoken up. “It’s Kaitlyn, but my friends just call me Katie.”

He shrugged. “I think Nicky fits you better. Just sayin’. Anyways, whatever you’re here to do… good luck.”

I nodded then headed into the kitchen, past the empty motel rooms, and finally to the stairs.

Here goes nothing. My boots were nearly silent, but each step reverberated throughout my body.

I reached the top and paused, the familiar hallway stretching out before me.

I suddenly found the air oppressive and heavy, my lungs seemingly having to work twice as hard to function.

Just as I took a step forward, towards whatever fate awaited me, Dalton’s door swung open, and he stepped into the hallway. I froze.

He didn’t see me at first. His head was down, hand tugging on a hoodie sleeve as he moved toward the stairs.

But when he looked up, he stopped dead. My eyes raked over him, taking in the stubble of a beard.

The bags under his eyes. The bruise across his jawline.

Holy crap, he looked awful. And it was my fault.

Those last two words rang in my head over and over. All of it. Mine.

His eyes locked onto mine, wide with shock and something deeper. Something buried. His lips parted like he meant to say my name, but then snapped shut like he thought better of it.

He turned his head slightly, towards his brother’s room, his voice calm but low and urgent. “Mac,” he called, “You better get out here.”

My eyes snapped to the other closed door, and then Mac stepped into the hallway, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, clearly mid-workout or maybe trying to outrun his own thoughts.

His abdomen was slick with a thin sheen of sweat.

When he saw me, his whole body stilled. Then the storm hit.

His expression twisted, raw fury bleeding through every line of his face.

“What the hell is this?” he snapped. “No one called 911, cop. You’re not wanted here.”

I didn’t flinch. I couldn’t afford to. Wasn’t sure I had the right to.

“Mac, Dalton… please. I came to talk,” I said, voice level despite the ache clawing at my throat.

“Talk?” Mac laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. “ Now you want to talk? After you lied to us for over a year? After you tore our lives apart and walked away without a goddamn word?”

“Oh, don’t discount that bullshit note she left behind.”

I glanced at Dalton, then back at Mac. “I had to—”

“You chose to,” he growled, stepping closer. “Don’t twist it. There is no had to. You made a conscious fucking decision. And you chose to leave us behind. To live the lie.”

“I’m not here to make excuses,” I said quietly. “I know what I did. I know how much it cost. But I’m here because I couldn’t stay away. Because I love you. Both of you. And I want, more than anything to explain—”

Dalton guffawed, and Mac’s jaw clenched hard enough I could see the muscle tick.

Dalton frowned at me. “I’m not falling for you or your bullshit again.

You’ve got some nerve coming back here and talking about love like that fixes anything,” he muttered.

“You don’t just get to drop in and expect forgiveness. ”

He strolled past Mac into the bedroom, and then Mac turned his back on me too, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled.

Damn it all to hell. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

But I had come this far. I walked over to the door they had shut in my face, fists clenched at my sides.

My heart thundered against my ribs like it was trying to break free.

For a minute, I just stared at the grain of the wood.

Willing myself not to tuck tail and run.

I was better than that. They deserved answers. Finally, I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again, harder this time.

“Please,” I said, my voice cracking. “Please just… just listen.”

Nothing.

“I know I don’t deserve it. I know that. But I need you to hear me. I need you to know the truth. I—” My throat tightened, and then I tossed out the only card I had left to play. “Mia Huntington. Anastasia Little. Gabriella Santiago. Kelly MacIntyre. Ruby Johnson.”

There was a long pause. Then the latch clicked.

The door opened just a few inches—just enough for me to see Dalton’s eyes, shadowed with something unreadable.

He stepped aside without a word, leaving the door wide enough for me to slip in.

The room hit me like a punch to the gut.

It was familiar—same paint, same shelves, same bed—but it looked like a storm had rolled through.

The same storm that had gone through my house.

Clothes were scattered, drawers half-open.

The sheets were twisted, the floor littered with half-empty bottles of whiskey and a broken picture frame.

Mac stood in the far corner with his arms crossed and his eyes on the floor. Dalton leaned against the dresser, watching. Guarded. Then he said, “You wanna explain the names you dropped like they meant something?”

I stepped further in, careful not to disturb anything, even though everything already felt broken.

My hands still shook, but I didn’t try to hide it anymore.

“When I was a detective, before I took this assignment, those are the names of the five little girls that went missing in Charleston. My partner Shelly and I were hitting fucking dead ends at every turn. It was like these kids just vanished. You ever have to knock on a mother’s door, and tell her that you still haven’t found her baby?

It’s one of the worst feelings in the world.

The Feds told me it was the DiAngelos, a name I had only heard in passing before.

They gave me a chance, and I had to take it. ”

I continued in a voice barely above a whisper. “When I first met you both, I didn’t expect any of this. It was supposed to be a job. I was supposed to get in, get what we needed to take the DiAngelos down, and leave.”

I looked at Mac. He didn’t lift his gaze.