Chapter 11: The Long Drive Home
The rhythm of the highway was a hypnotic, punishing thing. After the stillness of the cabin, the roar of Bill’s Harley-Davidson felt like a return to the real world—or his world, which was the only one that mattered now. The arnica gel had eased the worst of the pain, but the deep ache in her muscles was a constant, throbbing reminder. Sitting on the worn leather seat, the vibrations traveled up through the old bruises and fresh, tender skin, a physical echo of every mistake.
He didn’t try the hand-on-the-thigh tactic again. The point had been made, the territory scorched and reclaimed. Instead, he rode with an easy confidence, one hand occasionally dropping from the grip to pat her hip or squeeze her knee through her jeans. Not a claim of ownership—that had been settled—but a confirmation of it. A ‘yes, you’re still here.’ She kept her arms wrapped tight around his waist, her cheek pressed against the cool leather of his cut, watching the gray expanse of highway bleed into the outskirts of New York. The city’s skyline emerged through a haze of humidity and pollution, a jagged silhouette she’d once seen as freedom but now saw as a cage designed by giants.
Instead of heading toward his apartment, he gunned the engine towards Queens, navigating a labyrinth of industrial backstreets she knew too well. Her stomach clenched tighter with each familiar turn.
Hesse Motors loomed ahead, a sprawling, grease-stained temple to chrome and horsepower surrounded by a chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire. Bill’s blacked-out cruiser was a regular fixture here, but today, the yard held a different energy. A handful of other bikes were scattered like predators at rest—a couple of sleek sportsters, a hulking road king—and leaning against the bay doors were the men who owned them.
Lo saw them before Bill even cut the engine. Jay, hulking and bald, polishing a chrome exhaust pipe with aggressive strokes. Benny, lanky with a perpetual smirk, rolling a tire between his hands. Sly, the old Italian with a face like a clenched fist, chewing on a toothpick as he watched them approach. All of them patches. All of them Sergeant-at-Arms-level authority. They weren’t just crew; they were his peers, the inner circle.
The men looked up as the rumble of Bill’s bike shifted to a low idle and then silenced. A collective awareness rippled through the yard.
Lo shuddered, a full-body tremor that had more to do with sheer, burning annoyance than fear. She wasn’t scared of these men; she’d grown up with them, had been a teenager giving them the finger while they taught her how to change a tire. They were all older than her, all like big, horrible brothers who delighted in her misfortune. Their laughter, she knew, would be a weapon. This wasn’t going to be a formal surrender; it was going to be a public shaming, a ribbing seasoned with genuine anger, and it was going to be awful.
Bill cut the engine. In the sudden quiet, the only sounds were the distant groan of city traffic and the drip of an oil pan from inside the bay. He swung his leg off the bike, his boots hitting the cracked concrete with a solid thud. He grinned, a wide, unapologetic slash of white in his tanned face, and took off his sunglasses, tucking them into the neck of his shirt. He looked toward the men, giving a slow, easy nod. Told you I’d bring her back.
That was all it took.
Jay dropped his rag. Benny let the tire thump to the ground. Sly spat out his toothpick.
One of them—she couldn’t see who—started a slow, deliberate drumroll with a wrench against a metal garbage bin. Bang. Bang-bang-bang.
Lo closed her eyes for a second, breathing in the fumes of gasoline and regret. She swung her leg over the seat, her body protesting the movement, and stood on shaky legs.
The eruption was immediate.
A cheer went up, raw and male and deafening, followed by a cascade of catcalls and wolf whistles. “Look what the cat dragged in!” “Shit, Bove, you actually found her!” “Took you long enough, princess, we had a pool goin’!”
Her face flushed a furious, hot crimson. She didn’t look at them. She kept her gaze fixed on the grimy floor of the service bay ahead, where she knew Bruce’s office was. She started walking, her pace deliberate. As she passed Jay, he reached out to ruffle her hair. She ducked, her hand flashing up, her middle finger held rigid and high. This just fueled their laughter.
Bill strode beside her, that infuriating grin now stretching ear to ear, his eyes alight with dark amusement. This was his victory lap, and she was the prize he was parading.
She was immediately set upon. They closed in around her, not touching, but forming a gauntlet of leather, denim, and disapproval. Their laughter was edged now, mixed with the anger they felt she deserved. Their words rained down on her, a hailstorm of casual, brutal commentary.
“Tapped his phone? You got a death wish, kid?” Jay grunted, shaking his head.
“Heard you tangled with Skeeter. Fuck’s wrong with you, Lo? You wanna end up in a dumpster?” Benny’s smirk was gone, replaced by a scowl.
Sly just tsked, a sound of profound disappointment. “Your father would be spinning in his grave, young lady. Spinning.”
She endured it. Her jaw was clenched so tight her temples ached. She glared up at Sly, her green eyes hard. She ignored the lewd comments about what Bill must have done to “tame her,” ignored their scolding, their offered bets on how long she’d last in the filing room. She just kept walking, each step feeling heavier than the last.
Then, a new sound cut through the noise—the heavy, authoritative thud of bootstraps on concrete. A presence that commanded silence not through volume but through sheer gravitational pull.
The men’s chatter died instantly. They parted like the Red Sea, creating a clear path to the open bay doors.
And there he stood. Bruce.
He wasn’t just a big man; he was a monolith in faded blue coveralls, his massive arms crossed over a barrel chest, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His face, usually arranged in a default of jollity, was a storm of granite. The twinkle in his eye was gone, replaced by a cold, glacial blue.
“Reyes!” His voice boomed through the garage, bouncing off the metal lifts and tool chests. It wasn’t a shout; it was a seismic event. “Front and centre!”
Lo’s heart hammered against her ribs. The deep-seated ache in her body seemed to intensify, a sympathetic echo. She swallowed hard, pushing down the acid taste of pride. With a huff that was pure, teenage defiance, she shoved her hands deep into her pockets and walked the final few yards to stand before him. She kept her chin up, but her gaze was fixed somewhere around the third button of his coveralls.
The garage was utterly silent now, save for the low hum of a compressor.
Bruce looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Then he turned his head slightly, addressing the gathered men without taking his eyes off her. “Five weeks!” he announced, his voice still booming, but now with a theatrical, mocking edge. “Five weeks she lasted on the outside! I believe that’s a new record, gents! Shortest flight in the history of the club!”
A low rumble of appreciative laughter rolled through the men. Lo’s blush deepened.
Bruce turned his full attention back to her. He began to recite the litany of her sins, his voice dropping to a conversational tone that was somehow worse than the booming. “Let’s review, shall we, lass? You illegally tapped the phone of a Sergeant-at-Arms of this club. A federal fuckin’ crime, for starters. You used that information to run. Not just run, but to involve a civilian—Elara, wasn’t it?—putting her in a compromised position with known, unsavoury associates of ours. Then you decided to freelance, inserting yourself into a business negotiation with Skeeter, a known addict with a hair-trigger and a debt to the club, nearly getting yourself snatched or worse in a dive bar parking lot. You wasted Bove’s time, his money, and his petrol. And, according to the very expensive diner receipt he showed me, you threw a tantrum with a menu that would make a five-year-old blush.” He paused, letting the weight of each charge settle on her shoulders. “And all of this, Olivia, after you were expressly told to stay put. After you were given a clear, simple order for your own fuckin’ safety.”
He leaned in a little, his shadow engulfing her. The smell of motor oil and spearmint gum was overpowering. “Have I missed anything, lass?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. The dare was there, in the blue of his eyes, in the slight tilt of his head. Bite back. Give me a reason.
Lo’s throat worked. She wanted to scream. She wanted to tell him it wasn’t an order, it was a prison sentence. She wanted to explain about the walls closing in, about the need to breathe air that wasn’t filtered through club business. But she saw Bill, standing just behind Bruce’s shoulder, his arms crossed, his expression neutral but his eyes watching her with unwavering intensity. She heard the unspoken directive from last night: Use your words. The right ones.
She sucked in a sharp breath through her nose. “No, sir,” she grunted, the words sour on her tongue.
Bruce held her gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment, then straightened up, his spine cracking audibly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the shadowy interior of the office. “My office. Now.”
He didn’t wait for her. He turned and strode inside, his boots echoing.
Lo stood there for a second, exposed in the center of the silent garage, feeling the stares of a dozen men. Her face felt like a smacked ass—hot, sore, and deeply ashamed. She turned and trudged toward the office door, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
As she crossed the threshold, the tension in the garage broke. The chorus of bikers erupted behind her, their laughter and shouts chasing her into the dim light.
“You naughty girl, Olivia! Go inside!”
“Better you than me, kiddo!”
“Don’t slam the door!”
She let the heavy metal door swing shut behind her, cutting off the sound, and entered the lion’s den.