Page 18 of Thunder's Reckoning

“I got Gearhead on your car,” I told her. “Might take a bit of work, but I’ll make sure it’s runnin’. In the meantime, you can stay here as long as you need.”

Her eyes stayed on mine, like she was tryin’ to decide if I meant it or if I was just settin’ her up for somethin’.

“I don’t expect nothin’,” I added. “Not from you. Not from them. I’m not part of whatever you’re runnin’ from, and it ain’t my business. I’m just givin’ you a place to catch your breath ‘til you can move on. I ain’t some fuckin’ weirdo.”

Silence stretched long enough for me to hear Malik openin’ into the takeout box. Then she said it. “I didn’t think you were. Thank you.”

Kid looked up from the food. “Can I eat this now?”

I smirked. “It’s yours, man. Dig in.”

He plopped down on the floor beside his sister, nudged a box toward Sable. She took it with a whisper of thanks.

I turned to go.

“Zeke,” she said.

I looked back.

“Thank you,” she said again, and this time, it wasn’t quiet.

It was real.

***

BY THE TIMEI left the house, the sun had burned off most of the morning haze, turnin’ the air sharp and bright. I swung a leg over my bike, let her rumble settle in my chest before hittin’ the road.

Didn’t point the front wheel toward the clubhouse.

Didn’t want to.

Instead, I cut south, away from town, toward the stretch of backroads that led out to where Momma kept her place. Wide, two-lane blacktop wound between pine stands and fields gone to seed, the smell of warm earth and salt from the marsh ridin’ the wind.

It wasn’t far, maybe forty minutes if you didn’t get stuck behind a slow poke, but it always felt like crossin’ into another world. Out here, there weren’t any brothers to answer to, no club politics, no noise but the bike and the birds.

The house came into view just past a long curve, sittin’ back off the road behind a row of crepe myrtles that exploded pink every summer. Two stories, wraparound porch, white paint kept clean enough to blind you in July. Momma’s pride and joy.

I cut the engine at the end of the drive, just listenin’ a second to the way the quiet settled. Then I rolled up slow, kickstand down before my boots hit gravel.

Door swung open before I could knock.

“Well, if it’s not my boy,” she said, standin’ there with one hand on her hip, the other still holdin’ a dishtowel. Same sharp blue eyes I’d been born with, same silver hair that should’ve aged her, but didn’t, momma was still a pretty lady.

“Hey, Momma,” I said, and it came out softer than I meant it to.

She stepped aside, and I leaned in for a hug that smelled like cornbread and laundry soap. She was small enough I could’ve picked her up, but she held on like she could still ground me to the earth if she wanted to.

“Come on in,” she said. “I got lunch on. I’ll fix you a plate.”

Kitchen was warm, sun slantin’ through lace curtains onto the big oak table that had seen more meals and arguments than I could count. She slid a mug of coffee toward me, then set about slicin’ a loaf of fresh bread, butter softening in a dish beside it.

“You look tired,” she said, glancin’ at me over her shoulder. “Been runnin’ too hard?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

She didn’t push, not right away. Momma knew the value of lettin’ a man talk when he was ready.

“Things goin’ okay?” she asked, casual as anything.