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“Trying to figure out if I need to keep you on a shorter leash when we’re in public,” I replied. “You were hard on Diablo.”
A shadow darkened Tarzan’s eyes and the concern I’d seen in his face disappeared, carefully tucked away behind a wall. I figured out a long time ago that he harbored feelings for me. Although he would never allow himself to act on them, for my sake. Even when I called him out on it, he remained resolute and firm in his decision that he wouldn’t ruin my chances at achieving my goals.
Keep your reputation squeaky clean, Stevie. If you want your brothers to be brothers and not lovers, it’s best that sex stays off the table.
Instead, Tarzan took me under his wing, even though he was only five years older than me. He had my back from day one, advocating for me when the Howlers protested granting membership to a woman. His clarity and support meant the world to me. And I might have returned his feelings at one time if it didn’t cost me everything I’d worked so hard for.
“He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way,” Tarzan said.
“You’re absolutely right. All I’m suggesting is that you might want to consider toning it down a little.”
“I’ll do that when men learn how to behave themselves.”
I huffed a dry laugh. “So…basically never.”
His gruff expression cracked, revealing a small, sheepish grin. He tilted his head toward the clubhouse.
“Come on. Let me drink you under the table so you can forget that Diablo bastard.”
I fell into step beside Tarzan, welcoming the friendly weight of his arm draped across my shoulders. But I didn’t correct him.
Getting Diablo off my mind wouldn’t be that easy.
***
Nursing a blazing headache the next day, I cursed myself for getting into a drinking match with Tarzan. He could always hold his liquor better than me. I squinted in the onslaught of the bright day, tugging my baseball cap lower on my head, wishing my shades were darker and offered more protection against the sun.
I was tempted to take the day off, but half a dozen motorcycles were lined up in my garage. They all needed to be detailed before the weekend arrived. Armed with a paint spray gun, safety goggles, and a mask, I did my best to ignore the sweltering desert heat and the sweat dripping down my spine.
Judge and I had spent hours poring over this sketch of a crow perched atop a gavel. His bone-white bike was a stark contrast to the glossy black paint. Knowing that one of my brothers would display my artwork on his bike was an honor I didn’t take lightly.
Distantly, I heard the ring of my phone. I’d left it somewhere on my tool bench, too far out of reach.
It can wait, I thought.
The arch of the crow’s outstretched wing took shape across the body of Judge’s bike. Feathers spread in preparation for flight. I smiled to myself. This part never got old—watching the artwork come together, watching the way it transformed a regular bike into something with meaning that was personal for the rider.
My phone rang again. With a sigh, reluctant to leave my work, I tugged my mask off, letting it dangle around my neck. I rose from my stool and crossed the garage to my tool bench. Tarzan’s number was displayed on my phone screen.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s going on?”
“I have a small problem,” he replied.
I leaned back against the tool bench, bracing myself for whatever shitshow I was about to step into.
“What does that mean exactly?”
“I have a friend who wanted some help starting a money laundering gig. I blew a tire on the way home.”
I set aside my paint gun.
“Okay. So, call a tow truck. That seems like a simple fix.”
The grimace in Tarzan’s voice was audible.
“Normally, I would. But I’m five miles outside of Merry Field and the nearest tow truck is Rooster’s Garage.”
I stifled a groan, rubbing my forehead.
