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It is the kind of open road that makes you feel like you could ride forever and never look back.

The Brutal Chains are riding tight today.

Two long lines of patched brothers eating up the miles, their cuts catching the light like battered flags of loyalty and blood.

Brick leads the way, his massive frame hunched forward, one hand casually resting on the handlebar, the other dangling loose like he owns the road.

Hook is a few bikes ahead of me, flipping off a passing truck for honking. Torch rides beside him, laughing at the display.

Pipe rides next to me, the steady rumble of his bike comforting in its familiarity.

Finally, bringing up the rear is Semi and Vinny.

Every patched member is here. Brick made it mandatory. The annual State Line Rally is tradition.

Old alliances, old stories, and more booze and bad decisions than anyone could count.

Normally, I would be itching to get there, itching to get wasted and lose myself in the noise.

Today, the only itch I have is a deep, gnawing ache under my skin.

Melissa andTyler.

It is the first night in two weeks I will not see them.

First night I will not hear Tyler's laugh or see the way Melissa's whole face lights up when she smiles, even when she tries to hide it.

Distance is good.

I need it.I am starting to feel things I have no damn business feeling.

She deserves better.

She deserves more.

The miles blur together.

We take back roads, winding through thick woods and past wide-open fields that smell like fresh rain and earth.

We slice through tiny towns with crooked gas stations and rusted-out barns, past battered highway signs full of bullet holes.

The farther we ride, the lighter I feel.

The wind tears at my cut and pulls the tension straight out of my body, peeling it away piece by piece.

On the bike, there are no past mistakes.

No worries about what could or should happen.

Just the road, the throttle, and the sound of freedom howling in my ears.

By the time we roll up on the rally grounds, the sun has disappeared completely, leaving the world bathed in the soft glow of fire pits and headlights.

The lot is packed with bikes from friendly clubs.

The Devil's Sons out of Crestfield.

The Iron Nomads from the next county over.

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