Page 32 of Priest
Behind us, the room swells with laughter, music, life pushing forward because it always does. It strikes me then, how long it’s been since I rode for the sake of riding. Not chasing. Not hunting. Not putting miles between me and a problem I refused to name. Just road under tires, wind in my face, Deacon at my side the way he’s been since before either of us knew how much men could lose.
“We’ve got a short run coming up,” he says. “Easy miles. Two towns over. In and out. Nothing that needs the Prez’s attention.”
I meet his eyes.
“And yet,” I say.
“And yet,” he agrees. “Sometimes the Prez needs to remember what it feels like to ride without the weight for a minute.”
I consider it longer than I should.
“You trust me?” I ask.
He doesn’t hesitate. “With my life.”
That’s not bravado. That’s truth earned the hard way.
I nod once. “Alright.”
Relief flickers across his face, quick and gone. “Good. Get your head straight. The club needs you. I need you.”
He turns to go, then pauses and looks back. His voice comes quieter this time.
“And for what it’s worth, whatever you’re carrying, it doesn’t get to take you out. Not on my watch.”
He disappears back into the noise, leaving me with the echo of his words and the low, restless hum of the clubhouse around me. I stay there a moment longer, feeling the decision settle into my bones.
A short run. Clear road. Fresh air.
Maybe Deacon’s right. Maybe moving is exactly what I need.
I don’t yet know it’s the choice that will change everything.
10
Priest
I sleep like shit the night before the run.
My room stays dark while the clubhouse settles around me in slow layers, the noise thinning into pipes ticking in the walls, a pair of boots passing once in the hall, and a muffled laugh near the bar that dies before it reaches anything real. Usually that kind of quiet sits easy on me. It means the club is breathing right. Men in their rooms, prospects handling cleanup, women gone or tucked into places they chose for the night. Tonight, peace stays out of reach.
Deacon’s words keep circling back through my head. You’re wound tight. The club needs you clear. I need you. He said it the way he says everything important, plain enough to leave no room for me to dodge it, and I had already given him my answer. I was riding. That part was settled before I walked away from him.
The rest refuses to settle with me.
Blue stays in my head like a wound under a bandage, quiet until I move wrong. Sadie has been pressing deeper into the club, taking space I never handed her and somehow making it look like mercy when no one pushes back. Dead Man’s Hand keeps showing up at the edges of our business too often for coincidence. Every problem has its own shape, but lately they have started casting the same shadow.
By the time dawn grays the room, I’m already dressed. Movement has always worked better than stillness. Stillness gives ghosts room to talk, and I’ve had enough of ghosts.
Sadie finds out just after breakfast, when she walks into the kitchen and sees me pulling on my cut.
The kitchen is warm from Max’s cooking, the air heavy with coffee and bacon grease. Prospects move around the room with plates in hand, loud until they see me near the counter. Their voices drop on instinct. Sadie comes in slower than usual, one hand sliding along the counter as if the room tilts under her feet. She has learned how to make people soften without asking for it. A shallow breath, a palm against her stomach, a pause long enough for someone to notice. She uses all of it now, but her eyes give her away. They move over my boots, my cut, the gloves tucked into my back pocket.
“You’re riding?” she asks.
“Yeah.” I snap the cut into place and reach for my coffee. “Supply run. Bay of Saints to Wicker Falls, then the long cut back through Evernight Cove. We should be back before lights out.”
Her face changes so fast I almost miss it. Color drains first, then her mouth tightens like she’s holding words behind her teeth by force. She starts to fold her arms, catches herself, and presses one hand to her stomach instead.
