Page 14 of Smitty

His words hit hard. There hadn’t been many people in my life I’d wanted to hear that from, and Cyrus was high on the list. He’d seen me at my worst. He’d seen the hunger, the fear, the heartbreak, and the uncertainty, but that hadn’t stopped him from expecting the best from me. My chest tightened as I said, “Thanks, boss.”

“Ah, don’t go getting all soft on me.” Cyrus shook his head. “You know I can’t take that shit. Besides, I knew you’d figure it out someday.”

He smiled, and that was the end of that.

Simple and honest, just like he’d always been.

Goose and I said our goodbyes, and I promised to check back in with him soon, and I actually meant it. He’d spent years looking out for me, and I owed it to him to do the same for him. We got out to the truck, and I found myself looking over at the garage as Goose backed up and started back to the clubhouse.

The drive back was quieter than the trip over. Partly because of Goose, and partly because of me. The visit with Cyrus had left me with all kinds of thoughts. Some were welcomed while others were not. By the time we rolled through the gate, I’d managed to shove the memories back where they belonged.

Well, at least for now.

Goose parked around back and killed the engine. As we got out, I spotted Drifter talking with Memphis and Seven, and even from a distance, I could tell something was up. They weren’t talking. They weren’t laughing or cutting up. They were just standing there watching as we walked over.

Goose glanced over at me, and he mumbled, “That don’t look good.”

“Sure don’t,” I muttered back. “Got any idea what’s going on?”

“Nope, but I intend to find out.” As soon as we got closer, Goose looked to Memphis and said, “What’s going on?”

Seven let out a breath as he ran his hand over his jaw. “Maverick had an accident. Pretty bad one.”

His words stopped us all cold. I’d never actually met him, but I’d heard about him and the brothers from the Washington Chapter. They were the OGs, and all the clubs looked to them whenever something big came up. Maverick was the president, and from what I’d heard, he had big shoes to fill.

Maverick was a legend in his own time.

Hell, he still was.

Goose’s expression darkened as he asked, “What the hell happened?”

“Wiped out on his way home from the clubhouse.”

“Damn.”

Motorcycle wrecks were never good. It didn’t matter how experienced the rider was. They always ended badly. “Is he okay?”

“Broken hip and elbow.” Seven grimaced. “And road rash from hell.”

We all winced. Road rash was the worst. It was a cross between a severe burn and a bloody scratch that, if bad enough, could go all the way to the bone. Drifter shook his head and grumbled, “Jesus.”

“But he’s going to be okay?” Memphis asked, sounding hopeful.

“No reason to think he won’t.” Seven shrugged. “He’s healthy and in good shape.”

“Hard-headed, too,” Drifter added.

“Yeah,” Seven scoffed. “That probably went in his favor, too.”

Memphis’ eyes narrowed. “Any idea what caused it?”

“Brake failure.”

Memphis gave him a look. I’m sure I did, too. Around here, we knew better than to ignore the possibility of bad intentions, especially when it came to a club president. “They think someone tampered with them?”

“They don’t think so,” Seven answered. “The bike had been giving him trouble for a while. He was losing pressure with the rear brake, and he had one of their boys work on it. They’re thinking the brake line fitting at the rear caliper wasn’t seated right.”

“If it worked loose enough, he’d lose hydraulic pressure,” I added.