Page 7 of Diesel’s Desire

Whoever hit that van knew what they wanted. That much I can put in a report.

I don’t say any of that to Morris. I don’t say it to Johnson, either, when he wanders over to ask if I want coffee from the gas station up the road. I just nod and tell him black, no sugar, and watch the fog start to burn off the ridge while somewhere behind me, that little bagged ring gets boxed up with the rest of tonight’s evidence and driven away to a shelf where I know I could ask to see it again.

But I’m not sure I can forget seeing it.

5

DIESEL

The back lot doesn’t look like the back lot anymore.

Sharon’s crew spent weeks stringing lights through the trees, string after string looping between the oaks Jenson used to just mow around, and somebody dragged the good tables out from storage.

I stand near the bar setup with a beer sweating in my hand, half-listening to Ryder and Ace argue about whether Riot’s tie counts as formal wear or a strangulation hazard, and I let my eyes drift over the whole spectacle, keeping watch. Old habit. Might be the one that’s kept me alive this long.

“Man looks like he’s about to walk himself to the gallows,” Ryder says, nodding toward Riot, who’s tugging at his collar like it’s personally offended him.

“He looks fine.” Ace doesn’t even glance over. “You’re just jealous somebody ironed something today.”

“I ironed my shirt.”

“You slept in that shirt.”

Gunner wanders past with a beer in hand, grinning. “Anybody else notice Bone crying during the rehearsal? Man’s supposed to be the treasurer. Cold, heartless, doesn’t feel a thing. And there he was, snotting into Carol’s shoulder like a baby.”

“He’s sixty-two and his old friend’s daughter is marrying our president,” I say. “Cut him some slack.”

“I’m just saying. Ruined my whole image of the man.”

I let the noise wash past me. It doesn’t need much from me except a nod here, a grunt there. Sasha’s somewhere near the arbor with Ruth and Carol fussing over her dress, and Jenson’s up front looking like a man who’s spent his whole life waiting for exactly this moment and finally got there. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s been running this club for years, and I’ve watched him stare down rival presidents without so much as a blink, and tonight he can’t stop touching his own tie like he’s not sure it’s still there.

Love does that, I guess. Makes a man forget how to be still.

I take a pull from my beer and try not to think about a ring that isn’t in my cut anymore, a cord that snapped in the dark on County Road 9 two weeks back, gone into gravel, never found. Some nights it doesn’t bother me. Tonight, surrounded by all this—flowers and lights and a man about to say vows he clearly means—it sits in my chest like a stone.

I turn when I hear tires on the gravel, slow and careful, coming up the drive past the row of parked bikes.

Morris’s truck.

I don’t think much of it at first. Old man’s practically family at this point, been coming around long enough that nobody blinks when he shows up somewhere he technically shouldn’t. His wife climbs out first, wearing some floral dress that looks like it’s been saved for exactly one occasion a year, and Morris follows after her, slower, working his knees like they’ve got opinions about standing up straight.

Then the rear passenger door opens.

My hand goes to my chest before I even register why—two fingers pressed flat against my sternum, right where the ring used to be. I don’t decide to do it. I catch myself doing it and lower my hand.

Penny.

She’s got her hair down.

I haven’t seen her with her hair down in seventeen years. But it’s down tonight, pale gold catching the string lights, falling past her shoulders. I nearly set my beer down on empty air.

She’s wearing blue. A soft, simple thing because she never needed the effort, never needed anybody telling her she was beautiful. She just was, plain and unbothered by it. I’d counted on her looking different enough to make this easier.

It didn’t. If anything, she’s more beautiful than she used to be. Sharper in the jaw, steadier in how she stands, like every year since she left just carved away whatever softness used to make her easy to underestimate.

“You good?” Ace asks, following my line of sight, and then going quiet when he sees what I’m looking at.

I don’t answer him.