Page 9 of Diesel’s Desire

God, she’s beautiful. Her blonde hair swept up with little pieces falling loose around her face, she’s wearing a dress that catches the last of the sunlight and throws it back gold, and she’s crying before she’s even three steps down the aisle, the crying that comes from being happier than you know what to do with. She’s so young. Barely older than I was when I packed a car and drove away from all of this, and watching her walk toward Jenson Slade without a moment’s hesitation makes me feel things I can’t quite describe.

Tank walks her down, one massive arm looped through hers, moving slow and careful like she’s made of something breakable, which she isn’t, not from what I’ve heard, but he treats her that way anyway. Gentle. Protective. It’s sweet in a way I wasn’t prepared for from a man his size.

Eli Redbird stands at the front where the altar’s been built—just an arch of white wood wound with wildflowers and greenery, string lights overhead between two old oak trees that must be older than the town itself. He’s got a calm, steady voice, and when he starts talking about the ties that bind two people—not just to each other, but to the land, to the family that surrounds them, to the promises made in front of witnesses who’ll hold you to them—I feel my throat tighten despite myself.

Jenson doesn’t take his eyes off Sasha the entire time. Not once. I watch a man I know for a fact runs guns through half this county stand there with his jaw working, eyes glassy, looking at Sasha as if he still can’t believe she’s marrying him.

The vows are simple. His voice breaks once, and he has to stop and breathe before he can finish. Something about promising to earn her every single day and building a life her father would have been proud to see. Sasha’s crying too hard to get all her words out, but nobody in this crowd seems to mind. Ruth’s sobbing outright. Even Bone, standing near the front in his good jacket, has to take his glasses off and wipe at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

Eli pronounces them husband and wife, and the whole back lot erupts—cheering, whooping, somebody letting off what sounds suspiciously like a firework a little too early—and Jenson kisses her like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it in front of witnesses.

I clap along with everyone else. My eyes sting a little, which is inconvenient and exactly the kind of thing that happens when you drink champagne too fast on an empty stomach at a wedding you weren’t sure you should attend.

And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, all that joy, I catch Evan looking at me again.

He’s not trying to hide it. Doesn’t glance away, doesn’t pretend he was looking at something else. He just watches me across two rows of folding chairs and a crowd of clapping bikers, and I know he hasn’t been listening to the cheering either.

I don’t look away either.

I could blame the champagne. Or the vows, or Sasha crying in Jenson’s arms. Anything except how badly I want Evan to keep looking at me.

Either way, I have absolutely no idea how I’m going to survive the reception.

7

DIESEL

The reception’s in full swing by the time I make it back to the bar for my third beer, and I’m doing math in my head the way I haven’t had to since high school—one more, maybe two, and then I switch to water, because tonight is not the night I do something stupid with my mouth. Not with a bottle. Not with anything else.

Ryder and Ace are going at it near the dance floor Sharon’s crew built out of pallet wood and good intentions, both of them squared off like they’re about to settle this with fists instead of words, except the argument’s over who gets Sharon first.

“I called it,” Ryder says. “Soon as the band started.”

“You didn’t call shit. You just started walking toward her.”

“That’s called calling it.”

Sharon stands between them with her wire-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose, laughing so hard she’s got a hand pressed to her ribs, curls falling loose from whatever she did to them this morning. She’s not picking a side. She’s enjoying the show too much to end it early.

I almost smile. Almost.

Then a hand lands on my forearm, and I know the touch before I even turn my head, because I’ve felt it a hundred times over the years, more times than I could count if I tried.

Honey.

She’s got that same tumble of blonde hair, same wide mouth already curving into a smile she knows works on me, same easy way of pressing herself against my side like she’s got a standing reservation there. And for one long, ugly second, I can’t look at her without seeing someone else standing in her place—not Honey, not really, but a memory of a girl I haven’t touched in seventeen years, softer than the woman she turned into, softer than anyone I’ve had since.

I know everyone’s noticed. Diesel’s got a type. Blonde. Something in the jaw. Something in the way she laughs. I never let myself look at it dead-on until right now, standing here with Honey’s hand sliding up my arm and realizing just how often I’ve gone looking for Penny in somebody else.

“You’ve been avoiding me all night,” Honey says, leaning in, breath warm against my jaw.

I don’t answer. My eyes have already found the one thing in this whole lot I shouldn’t be looking for.

Penny stands maybe thirty feet off, near the cake table, a flute of champagne loose in one hand while Ruth talks her ear off about something that’s got them both smiling. Her hair’s still down. Still catching the string lights every time she moves her head. And right as Honey’s fingers curl into the front of my shirt, Penny looks over.

I watch it happen. Watch her face go still, like when a person sees something they wish they hadn’t. It only lasts a second before she turns back to Ruth, nods at whatever’s being said, laughs at the right beat like nothing just happened.

But something happened.