“Getting good material?”
Cassie turned.
“Some.”
“For your little report.”
“Documentation.”
“Right.”
He took a bite of his burger.
“You know what happens when journalists write about clubs like this?”
“I’m not a journalist.”
“Same problem.”
“What problem?”
“You show up with questions.”
“People give you the worst day of their lives.”
“You turn it into a paragraph.”
Cassie closed the notebook.
“What should I do instead?”
Derek looked surprised.
He had expected an argument.
She continued.
“Seriously.”
“If I’m doing it wrong, tell me.”
He stared for a second.
Then said:
“You can’t understand it.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
Cassie looked at Hank.
“Understanding everything isn’t the requirement.”
“Listening accurately is.”
Derek shook his head.
“That’s a school answer.”
“No.”
She leaned slightly toward him.
“My dad trusted you people before I existed.”
“He has told me almost nothing about why.”
“If I write this badly, I’m not just failing a class.”
“I’m reducing something that helped keep him alive.”
Derek held her gaze.
Cassie continued.
“So if you think I’m wrong about something, correct me.”
“If you think I haven’t earned a story, don’t tell it.”
“But don’t decide I’m incapable before I’ve done anything.”
Maria watched from another booth.
Derek looked away first.
“Your fries are getting cold.”
Cassie smiled.
That was the closest thing to surrender she had received from him.
Over the next three weeks, she kept showing up.
Sunday rides.
Thursday meetings.
A garage night where she spent two hours cleaning carburetor parts because Graham refused to let her sit in the corner taking notes while everyone else worked.
“You want to observe culture?”
He handed her a pan of solvent.
“Observe while cleaning.”
She interviewed Maria.
Hank.
A member named Russell who had joined after losing his son to an overdose.
A quiet mechanic called Benji who barely spoke during meetings but somehow knew everybody’s motorcycle better than they did.
She learned that the Iron Wolves raised money for disabled veterans.
That they escorted funeral processions when families asked.
That they had once spent an entire weekend rebuilding a wheelchair ramp for a former Marine nobody in the club had previously met.
She also learned the club was not noble all the time.
People argued.
Held grudges.
Drank too much.
Made selfish decisions.
Some old members had left badly.
Some had been asked to leave.
Cassie wrote those things too.
Graham read none of her pages.
“You don’t want to know?”
She asked one night.
“Not until it’s done.”
“What if I get something wrong?”
“Then somebody else will tell you.”
“What if it’s about you?”
Graham looked at her.
“Especially then.”
One Thursday evening, Cassie sat on a worn couch inside Rusty’s transcribing an interview.
The clubhouse was quieter than usual.
Pool balls clicked.
Music played low.
Her phone buzzed.
MOM: You alive?
Cassie smiled.
YES.
MOM: Your father feed you?
Cassie looked toward Graham.
He was eating peanuts and drinking coffee.
TECHNICALLY.
She put the phone away.
Then Graham’s rang.
He looked at the screen.
The change in his face was immediate.
He stepped outside.
Cassie watched through the front window.
Graham stood near his motorcycle, one hand in his pocket.
He barely moved.
But something about his shoulders tightened.
Hank noticed too.
When Graham came back inside, Hank met him halfway.
“That who I think?”
Graham nodded.
Maria looked up.
“Tommy?”
The name changed the room.
Cassie had heard it before.
Always incomplete.
Tommy left.
Tommy and Bull.
Before Tommy.