Ghost on the highway

I turned off the engine outside the Saints’ clubhouse and let the rain wash over the hot metal. Silverhaven’s dockyard smelled of rust, the same as always, but the sign above the door had lost its fight. The word BIG flickered once and then gave up, leaving only the red outline of a saint casting light into the puddles.

 It’s been six years since I’d stood on these grounds and sworn I would never come back here again. 

The recorder hidden inside the cuff came alive like a tiny red eye that saw everything I couldn’t say. I was ready… so I swung off the bike, boots splashing and pushed the door in…

Inside, the air hit me as memories I hadn’t asked for rushed in. The stale beer, motor oil, the almost mistakeable hint of blood… it all felt too familiar. 

Immediately I walked in, conversations died. Multiple faces turned in my direction, some I knew but most I didn’t. Half of them looked at me in disgust while the other half stared in shock and I felt… numb. 

The bar was filled up with bottles and soldiers waiting to grab one and behind it… was Luca Monroe. He was polishing a glass carefully like a man that was trying to buy time. Those eyes lifted and locked on mime and the glass instantly stopped moving.

“The dead has no business with the living, Riven Cole,” he said, voice low enough that only I heard the tremor under it. “We don't tend to corpses here.”

I crossed the distance, my boots leaving wet prints on sawdust, then I placed my hands on the counter and said in a low voice, “Then pour one for a ghost.”

 The room seemed to respond to my words like they heard me, a hush spreading round. I heard a chair scraping the ground and seconds later, someone in the back muttered “traitor”. 

"Do you need us to take him out?” Another person asked now standing too close like he just needed a go ahead to pounce on me. He wasn’t trying to be nice and his loud voice left a sting in my heart but I managed to keep my gaze on Luca, not giving anyone else any attention.

“I can handle it,” he said, waving his hand and the man took a while, staring from me to Luca and back to me before retreating into the background. 

“Whiskey?” I asked. Despite how I felt inside me, I still spoke to Luca like I had no idea what he was thinking or what the boys were murmuring. “I will really appreciate a glass, unless the Saints stopped serving the condemned.”

“You’ve got balls walking in here after Reno.”

“Come on, Luca. Reno was a long time ago.” I said leaning in until I could smell cedar on his skin and the faint heat of the whiskey he’d been pouring for someone else. “Some of us aged out of fairy tales, you know.”

His jaw moved and he reached under the bar slowly and when his hand returned, in it was a Maker’s Mark. He poured two glasses and a glass across the oak, stopping an inch from my knuckles. As I tried to pick it, our fingers brushed and the contact caused a ripple to rush through me like a loose spark plug. He on the other hand yanked his hand back as if I’d burned him.

“You can drink it and ride out immediately after,” he said, voice flat. “We don’t need your kind here.”

I let the whiskey settle on my tongue before I swallowed. For some reason, I wanted the heat to burn me and cause a sensation. “I heard differently. Word on the road says you’re short a wrench and long on busted bikes. I could be of help in the garage.”

Luca’s knuckles whitened around the rag. “Word on the road is six years out of date.”

 “Then let me update it.” I said, leaning in with elbows on the scarred oak. I was too close, close enough to see the faint tremor in his lower lip before he pressed it down. “Just give me one week and I will fix what’s broken. I can sleep in the loft and ride out immediately when the job’s done. I just want to prove myself.”

A bitter laugh escaped him causing me to almost feel stupid. “You think it works like that? You walk in here, flash a ghost smile, and I hand you the keys or a space back in the brotherhood? Well… news flash, you lost ypur spot here years ago when you fucked up and disappeared.”

The young men who were listening to the conversation cheered him. 

“You know what I think?” I asked, “you’ve got a line of Harleys out back that haven’t turned over since spring. And if I know him well, Bishop’s breathing down your neck about money you don’t have. Remember the night I rebuilt Saint’s Panhead with a pocketknife? It ran for three more years. You need me.”

His eyes darted in the opposite direction but I saw the hurt in them. “Well, that was then. There are very little chances that you know what you’re doing.”

“I know you know better, Luca. I know.” I straightened, giving him room to breathe. “But if you’re in doubt. Give me one week to prove myself. If I head out now, in no time the other gangs will hear how you’re struggling to keep your men on the road but I can help you avoid that.”

The room had gone still and even the jukebox seemed to hold its breath. He glanced at the prospect hovering with the tray of empties, then back at me. 

“You don’t touch the books and you don’t talk to patched members unless they talk first. You sleep in the loft and only eat what you bring and on day eight, you’ll be gone at sunrise. Do you hear me?”

“On Saint’s grave, I do.”

Luca’s throat bobbed. “Don’t,” he said, his voice so low I almost missed it. “Don’t say his name like you’ve still got the right.”

I held his stare. “I don’t. But I’ve got the skill. And you need it.”