“Back then, women around clubs were expected to be wives, girlfriends, bartenders, maybe passengers.”
“I told them Eddie’s brothers were my brothers too.”
“They disagreed.”
“How’d you change their minds?”
Maria smiled.
“I didn’t.”
Cassie frowned.
“I kept showing up.”
“Every meeting I was allowed into.”
“Every memorial.”
“Every charity ride.”
“Every time somebody’s bike broke.”
“Every time somebody’s wife needed help because her husband was in the hospital.”
“Eventually, they stopped asking when I was leaving.”
Cassie looked at her.
“So they let you join.”
“Eventually.”
“How long?”
“Two years before anybody stopped treating me like a ghost carrying Eddie’s jacket.”
Maria became quiet.
“People think belonging happens when somebody gives you permission.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It happens after enough mornings when leaving would have been easier and you show up anyway.”
She looked at Cassie.
“That’s what Derek doesn’t understand about you yet.”
Cassie glanced across the rest area.
Derek was checking his motorcycle.
“He hates me.”
“No.”
“He thinks you’re temporary.”
“That might be worse.”
“It’s easier to prove wrong.”
Derek appeared several minutes later.
“We’re burning daylight.”
Maria smiled.
“Speak of the emotionally constipated devil.”
Derek ignored her.
His eyes went to Cassie.
“You still alive?”
“Unfortunately for you.”
Derek gave the smallest smile.
Then put on his helmet.
They rode another ninety miles.
Cassie did not complain once.
She wanted to.
Her back screamed.
Her fingers went numb twice.
When Graham finally pulled into a roadside diner outside Millbrook, Cassie almost hugged the building.
Inside, the Iron Wolves took over three booths.
Cassie sat carefully.
Hank noticed.
“You look ninety.”
“I feel ninety.”
“You’ll be fine by tomorrow.”
Maria said:
“He’s lying.”
Cassie pulled out her notebook.
Hank slid into the opposite seat.
“Ready to work?”
She nodded.
Hank wrapped both hands around a coffee mug.
“You want a story?”
“Yes.”
“My brother Jimmy.”
Cassie recognized the name.
“Matching bikes.”
Hank looked surprised.
“You researched.”
“Some.”
He nodded.
“1969.”
“Jimmy was eighteen.”
“I was twenty.”
“We bought matching bikes because we were idiots.”
“What kind?”
“Used Sportsters.”
“Both leaked oil.”
“Everything leaked oil then.”
He smiled.
“Jimmy loved his.”
“Polished it every Sunday.”
“Three months later, front tire blew on Interstate 40.”
His smile vanished.
Cassie stopped writing for a moment.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know.”
Hank looked out the window.
“People treated grief like a schedule.”
“Funeral.”
“Flowers.”
“Food.”
“Then everybody went back to work.”
“I didn’t.”
“I spent two days sitting in our garage with Jimmy’s helmet and half a bottle of bourbon.”
“Graham found me.”
Cassie glanced toward her father.
He sat several tables away talking with two veterans.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing useful.”