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“Maybe, but first, I need to get back into the swing of things.”
“Interesting,” she murmurs just as Dad comes into view.
“A bike?” My smile spreads, and I jump off the steps, feeling my heart pounding. “Is that…?” I look back at Ma and then to Dad.
“Your old bike?” She nods. “Sure is, but what do you think?”
“It’s fucking gorgeous.” I can hear the awe in my voice, and I don’t try to hide it. “What did you do?”
Dad grins as he wipes his hand along the seat. “Every fucking thing. Check it out.”
I do just that, running a reverent hand over the black leather seat, the polished chrome handlebars, and the sparkling emerald paint on the gas tank and the saddlebags. It’s gorgeous. It’s amazing. “Seriously, this is so fucking cool.” I look at my parents with a smile, excitement racing through my veins. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Thanks, works,” Dad teases with a laugh.
“Thank you. Thank you so fucking much.” I wrap my arms around both of my parents, my gaze steady on the bike, glistening in the sun. This bike was my childhood dream. It was the only thing I wanted as a kid, and I scrimped and saved, doing every odd job around the ranch just to save the money to buy it. Eventually, Dad would’ve gotten it for me, but I couldn’t wait.
Leaving my bike behind hurt like a motherfucker, and I didn’t even have one in Angel Harbor. Just the van and Ace’s truck. But now she’s here, and I’m here, and we’re together again. “Incredible.”
Ma’s eyes light up with joy. “You like it?”
“Nah, Ma. I love it.” I wrap her in a hug, lifting her off the ground while she’s laughing and smacking my shoulders. “It’s perfect.”
It’s beyond perfect, and the only thing I want now is to hop on her and stretch her legs.
“Go on,” Dad thumps me on the back until I set Ma down on her feet. “Give her a good, long ride. Try to stay out of trouble while you’re at it.”
I flash a lopsided grin, accept the keys, and prepare to hit the road, all with a huge smile on my face.
Hell yeah, my old Harley is back and looking badass with all the new gear. A huge grin spreads across my face as I take the keys.
I swing my leg over this beast and my ass plants right into the classic leather seat. Feels perfect. I kickstart her and that familiar rumble between my legs is music to my ears.
The roads around Opey are just how I remember them. Maybe even better since they’re smooth with no potholes to mess up my ride. These new tires grab the pavement tight as I lean into the curves and open her up on the interstate. It’s like I never stopped riding these roads.
Hours pass before I finally turn the bike around and head back to Hardtail Ranch. As much as I want to put a dent in the whole Texas highway system, I have other shit to do today, starting with a bartender—the head bartender, according to Ma—at the Barn Door and five years of history to catch up on.
After going home and rinsing off the road, I head over to the Barn Door, strolling through the doors I wasn’t legally allowed to enter the last time I was here.
I wear a crooked smile as if I already own the place, which I kind of do and brush off the thirsty, half-naked women looking at me like I’m a piece of meat they want to sink their teeth into and make my way to the long wooden bar just past the entrance.
Gray and I snuck into this place more times than I’d ever admit, so I know exactly where to find Ivy. Saint steps in front of me about twenty feet from my destination with a scowl. “Saint. Hey.”
His scowl doesn’t waver. “Don’t distract Ivy.”
I flash a wide smile with what I hope is a boatload of charm. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I just want a cold drink and maybe check out a few things. Been gone a long time.”
Saint barks out a laugh. “Bullshit. But good luck to ya, kid. You’re gonna need it.”
I don’t need luck. Ivy and I have history. I just want to catch up with her. “Thanks,” I mutter and make my way to the bar. She’s smiling and chatting with a middle-aged couple while she stirs two different cocktails. They thank Ivy and leave a tip, giving me the perfect opening.
But she spots me first, smiling like I’m nothing other than a customer. “What’ll it be?”
“Bourbon sour. Is that in your wheelhouse?”
“Child’s play,” she replies, pulling the cocktail ingredients. “You sure this is what you want? You used to be a beer guy.”
“As you pointed out, we’re both different people. My drink choice is different,” I lie just to get a little more of her time.
