Page 14 of Baby for the Bikers

It just made me want her more.

And I’m going to make damn sure she knows it.

6

BRICK

“Well?”Maddox leans against my office doorway, leather jacket already on. “You gonna stare at those numbers all night, or are we getting out of here?”

I rub my eyes, blinking away the blur of spreadsheets. Ten hours of inventory, order forms, and business projections make a man need a drink. Or three.

“Just finishing up.” I close the ledger that holds Black Dog’s future. “Where’s Ryder?”

“Already headed upstairs.” Maddox checks his watch. “He looked like he doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

“Let’s head to Friday’s, then?” I grab my jacket, already tasting the whiskey.

“Where else?” Maddox’s grin is all trouble as we head for the door.

The garage feels different at night. During business hours, it pulses with life—tools clanging, bikes rumbling, people comingand going. Now, it’s just an empty space with echoing footsteps, waiting for morning to bring it back to life.

Five years ago, we walked away from this place without looking back. We left the town that raised us, the legacy Tank built, and everything that reminded us of what we’d lost.

Standing here now feels like stepping into old clothes that don’t quite fit right anymore.

There’s a clarity to the air up here, cool and sharp as if the sky itself has been distilled. Wolf Pike sleeps early. Most storefronts are already dark. Not Friday’s, though—the only bar in town stays lit until two every night, the same way it did when we were teenagers sneaking in with fake IDs.

“You good?” Maddox asks as we walk. He always knows when the memories are riding me hard.

“Yeah.” I roll my shoulders, shaking off the weight. “Just thinking about tomorrow’s opening.”

“Diner’s gonna kill.” His confidence never wavers. “Between your business sense and our little baker’s talents, we’ll own this town again in a month. All our efforts since we returned are going to pay off.”

“And you, what do you bring to the table?”

“Nothing but my charms—which will definitely bring in the customers.”

“Right. There’s no lie there, but we’re not trying to own anything.” The words come out harder than intended. “Just trying to build something.”

Something honest. Something legitimate.

Something that doesn’t smell like gun oil and blood.

Maddox doesn’t respond, just nods. He gets it, even if he won’t say it. We’ve both seen enough to know what we’re running from.

Friday’s comes into view, a neon sign humming in the darkness. Despite being back six months now, we don’t make it here often. Between getting the garage running and preparing for the diner’s opening, our nights usually end with takeout and beer from the fridge.

“Been what, three weeks since we had a proper drink?” Maddox says, holding the door.

Inside, it’s familiar territory but not quite comfortable. We’ve been selective about reintegrating, focused on business more than socializing. Some patrons nod in recognition. Others still give us the cold shoulder.

We grab a corner booth away from the main crowd—always keep your back to the wall and eyes on the exits.

“Whiskey neat,” Maddox tells the waitress without looking at the menu. “Two.”

Six months back in town, and some routines just click into place. He still remembers exactly what I drink after all these years.

“So.” He leans back once our drinks arrive. “How bad do you think we fucked up today?”

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