Niner: Motorcycle Club Romance (Savage Saints MC Book 11) Read online

“Well?”

  Just say it.

  “I can’t leave New York. I can’t—”

  “Then the rest doesn’t matter,” she said, drawing a deep breath.

  So that’s what that feels like. To be prepared to give a lengthy explanation or conversation and just have it cut off abruptly and coldly. I guess it’s only fair.

  “I wish you the best of luck here in New York, Lane. I hope you and the Savage Saints stay safe, the repair shop takes off, and that you find the peace, happiness, and brotherhood that you came here for.”

  The finality of this was just too abrupt. I had only walked out as quickly as I had last time because I was getting emotional and I knew I’d see her again. But now this? This wasn’t the conversation someone would have if they were planning on seeing someone again. This was the “we have to go our separate ways forever” conversation.

  “Will I ever see you again?” I asked, my voice cracking.

  Carrie looked down at the ground, but her arm remained in place. Her arm, at this point, might as well have been a separate part of her body for how still it was. It was the barrier preventing me from having the privacy I so craved with her.

  And then Carrie gave the worst answer possible.

  “I don’t know.”

  I don’t know. The uncertainty would murder me. At least if she said no, as painful as it was, Carrie could gradually shift from friend to memory. She would obviously be alive, but I wouldn’t see her as that; rather than being a person I might interact with someday, she could become a part of my story that I would be grateful for. It would make appreciation easier.

  But “I don’t know?” That left everything open at a time when I craved certainty. That made me believe that I could see her…or I could not…I figured that at some point, I’d get over her. I wasn’t a hopeless romantic, at least not outside of Carrie.

  But still. This was going to suck terribly for quite some time with an answer like that.

  “OK,” I said, my voice as quiet as it had ever been. “Good luck in Georgia.”

  The words sucked. They couldn’t convey how I felt. They couldn’t express both the gratitude I had for her coming back in my life and the pain I felt from her leaving it all too quickly.

  But what words could convey that without having me turn into a sobbing mess? What could actually tell Carrie how I felt without making me look like a pathetic mess?

  Nothing.

  “Bye,” I said.

  Carrie just nodded. Her eyes were watering again. I pulled myself away before mine did the same. I left her, the restaurant, and my hopes and dreams for something between us behind.

  All because of the stupid fucking restaurant. That’s all it was, wasn’t it? The fucking restaurant.

  I turned and looked at the name. “Southern Comfort.” Some comfort, my ass. That wasn’t a comfort. It was crippling. It was crazy. It was everything that wasn’t comforting.

  And you couldn’t even take an investment from me? Granted, it would probably come from Uncle or Fitz first, but still…

  Pride did a lot of terrible things to us. So did impetuous emotions. And right now, it was costing me a chance at the best relationship I could have ever had.

  Fuck me.

  * * *

  “Niner?”

  I ignored Biggie as I entered Brooklyn Repairs, having walked from Southern Comfort.

  “Niner? Everything all good? You know today is your day off, right?”

  Again, I didn’t say a word to Biggie. I just went into the office, grabbed my shirt, and threw it on.

  “Niner? Hey man, you alright? We can have you work, but we can’t pay you—”

  “So then don’t,” I said, but it didn’t have the usual sharpness. The words came out very dull, almost like I had slurred them.

  “Niner,” Biggie said, a little calmer than before. “I know something is affecting you. You can talk to me if you want.”

  Biggie, of all people, should have known that I was not the kind of person to talk about issues like these. I wasn’t the person who shared his feelings like it was a therapy session; I was the person who silently sat at a table, nodded when I needed, and then gave the shortest answers possible when it came time to talk.

  Maybe he recognizes that you do need to talk right now.

  Or maybe you’re just too sensitive right now.

  I paused at the entrance to the shop. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Biggie, but I could at least give him some advice.

  “All I’m going to say about this,” I said, “Biggie, if you get someone good in your life…”

  The thought came to mind a split second before I echoed it in my words. I wasn’t sure if I believed them fully, but there was certainly an element of truth to them.

  “Be better than me.”

  Be much better than me.

  “Have the courage to go to hell to be with them.”

  I briefly stole a glance at Biggie, curiosity getting the better of me. Confusion ran across his face.

  “I don’t understand, what do you mean?”

  But I’d said all that I could. If I started talking any more, what could I possibly say? What could I possibly add that wouldn’t either piss me off or make me far too emotional to be seen by anyone?

  Nothing.

  So I just grunted, went out to the nearest car I saw, and started to get to work.

  * * *

  Three Days Later

  I worked every day, from open to close, at the shop.

  It was as close as I could get to therapy. Actual therapy would never work for me. I was perhaps the quietest, most closed-off person a therapist would ever meet. And even if they got me to talk, some Ph.D., white-collar, glasses-toting person on a lounge chair trying to tell me about the trauma of my childhood wouldn’t magically put a smile on my face.

  No, in times like these, I threw myself at the work. The work was where I found refuge and a chance to…well, not unwind. Only time would do that. But work prevented me from winding up any further. Work made it so that my mind could take a break.

  After all, it was pretty damn hard to check on a transmission when I was thinking about her and how simultaneously stupid and sad it was that we weren’t going to work out anymore.

  Actually, did I say I worked open to close? It was more accurate to say I worked open until Marcel or Biggie kicked me out of the shop. Both had the good sense not to ask why I was working so long, and both understood that I knew I was only getting paid for eight hours on Tuesday and Wednesday.

  “Consider me earning my equity,” was all I said if anyone on the floor asked me why I was working so much.

  It was usually enough to shut them the hell up. If it didn’t, a simple glare would do the trick.

  On this Thursday night, I just kept working straight through the closing hour up to our meeting. When Fitz and Uncle walked in, both stared at me, wondering why the hell anyone would keep working. Fitz had spent Monday with me, but Uncle hadn’t seen me in days.

  “The hell is he doing?” Uncle said to Fitz.

  “Working problems out,” Fitz said. “Let him be, Uncle.”

  I didn’t turn to them when they had this not-especially-quiet conversation, but I could feel Uncle’s eyes on me. I knew he wanted to ask more, to be the one tough enough to ask Niner why he was working so much.

  Good thing for him, he thought better.

  Fifteen minutes later, Biggie called for me.

  “Meeting time,” he said. “C’mon, Niner. We can leave it behind.”

  I dropped a wrench, wiped my hands, and headed into the office. Everyone else smelled either clean or of a very faint aroma of oil and gasoline. Me? I probably smelled like I had taken a shower in those two liquids. I was also the only one wearing an official workplace uniform.

  “You good, Niner?” Marcel asked.

  I gave a quick nod. It was all he was going to get.

  “Alright, here we go,” he said. “It’s been almost a week, and we still hav
e not been able to spot Damon. He’s like a ghost at this point.”

  “And Kyle?” Fitz said.

  “We haven’t done shit with him,” Uncle said.

  It was noticeable how tense the mood in the room was. This was the first time many of them were dealing with a concrete threat. Kyle? The Vegas Saints? They were more obstacles of the mind, ones who could shut us down but not necessarily kill us.

  But the Bloodhounds? Damon? Now that was a real threat. That was going to test these guys’ resolve and spirit. This was going to be the thing that gave the Stones their introduction to this world.

  “He’s not the concern right now,” Uncle continued. “We’ll get to him eventually, but as Niner has pointed out, Damon is the most present and dangerous threat right now.”

  “Any ideas?” Marcel said. “Any thoughts on where he could be? Trailing his bike or the Bloodhounds’ bikes have given us about one lead, which only confirmed what we already knew.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a bike?”

  Everyone looked at Fitz like he had just said the dumbest thing in the history of our club meeting. Everyone except me.

  “Maybe he doesn’t have a bike?” Marcel said. “Do you even hear yourself talking? He runs a motorcycle club! Of course he has a fucking bike!”

  “He’s got a point.”

  Whenever I spoke, I usually had the command of the room. Tonight, that was doubly true thanks to the exceptionally closed-off demeanor I’d had all week.

  “Damon was so difficult for us because he was on foot and he knew the streets, closed buildings, and everything so well,” I said. “He would know which subway stations had lazy cops, which ones were poorly manned, and so on. He knew which bus drivers wouldn’t check for tickets. If he’s causing trouble now, he’s not going to do something like have a bike that’ll easily attract attention to him. I’m sure he’ll have one on standby for emergencies, but it’s not like he’s going to be out right now, laughing at the moon while he’s on a bike.”

  “If I may,” Marcel said as if trying to approach a brooding lion. “What do you suggest that we do then?”

  Well, that was the rub, wasn’t it? For as much as we discussed things, matters just tended to stay the same. Like Carrie and I…

  “I don’t think there’s anything different we can do,” I said. “Keep patrolling, keep gathering intel, and hope for a break.”

  Marcel leaned back in his chair, puffing out a sigh. He looked scared, even if he was trying to hide it. Welcome to the real world of crime, buddy.

  We had no choice. It wasn’t going to be fun. It wasn’t going to be glamorous. It might wind up strengthening the club bonds, but it wouldn’t be through enjoyable means.

  This was the life we had all signed up for.

  Just like Carrie and me.

  We knew getting into this that we each had our baggage. We knew that there was no guarantee we’d work out. I knew that she was not the angel I had made her out to be, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t have been something wonderful.

  Instead, now, just as we had no choice but to keep doing what we were doing with Damon, I had no choice but to do what I was now doing with Carrie.

  I had to stick with the plan.

  I couldn’t ever see her again.

  Ever.

  Chapter 16: Carrie

  This will be the last day I ever have here.

  When I walked in Friday, I knew it was going to be just Sam and me. Everyone else had either sent in their letters of resignation or had just not bothered to show up to work. Caroline asked me just to send her whatever paperwork needed to be done whenever she had to do it; otherwise, she would stay far away, the better so the closing didn’t “kill her vibe.”

  And yet, even though I had a feeling today was going to be slammed with customers who knew of our closing, even as I knew Sam and I were likely to run out of food—maybe even close early if it got too bad—there was a certain appreciation and gratitude that had not been present when the week started.

  I felt a sense of finality to the store and to my relationship with New York City—and, I guess, Lane as well—that allowed me not to have to worry about the future. I didn’t have to worry about bulk ordering the right amount of food. I wouldn’t have to worry about pulling money out of my pocket to pay the store’s bills. I wouldn’t have to do anything but get myself home.

  And as a result, suddenly, I began to examine the store in a new light. The bell by the door that always rang when someone walked in was no longer white noise, but instead, a relic of the old-school restaurant, laid to rest by the introduction of more modern beepers and buzzers. The tile pattern on the floor, red-and-white, wasn’t crass or obnoxious so much as it was retro. The style of the counter, like that of a cafeteria, may not have had the soft edges that a tech company’s campus might have, but it was something that reminded me of home.

  “Last day, huh?” Sam said as I approached the back.

  “Last day,” I said. “Enjoy it as much as you can. And feel free to serve extras. We’d like people to end on a good note here.”

  Unlike Lane and I…

  “You got it,” Sam said. “Anything I can do to help?”

  At least one person is here through the very end. At least one person is doing all they can to make the store a happier place.

  “I’d say just do what you normally do, Sam,” I said. “Just be you.”

  I wish I could say the same to myself.

  As soon as the thought of Lane crossed my mind for more than a half-second, I began to feel pain. That pain, of course, reminded me of Lane, which produced something of a vicious cycle that I just couldn’t get rid of.

  Maybe I was being too fatalistic and stubborn for my own good. What if I opened a store that had higher margins, like a pizza shop or a steakhouse? What if I opened a bar? After all, alcohol had the highest margins of anything. If I opened a club, then I could perhaps crush it.

  But that wasn’t the Georgia gal in me. That wasn’t the little girl’s dream. Barbecue was. And now that was gone.

  And besides, I didn’t have the capital to open something new. I’d taken all of my savings and used it to build this store and run it. I’d probably need a few more years at a real job before I could even consider launching anything in Georgia, much less New York.

  And I wasn’t going to ask Lane for money. I didn’t want to rehash all of the thoughts that accompanied that idea, but I knew the only way it would work was for the best-case scenario to happen, and even then, I would forever run the store knowing that it was only possible because of Lane. It didn’t exactly fit within my ethos of doing things myself.

  I composed myself enough, though, to get through business hours, all of which went by much too quickly. Some of our customers knew that we were only alive for a few more hours; others were blissfully unaware, thinking that they would come by on Monday and pick up their lunch meal once again. I sort of envied their lack of stress for the store, but it was also a humbling reminder that life would go on in Brooklyn.

  The best part, though, was that Damon did not appear. Neither did the Savage Saints or anyone from the repair shop, but that didn’t much matter. Today wasn’t about profits or revenue goals, but just about minimizing stress and relishing every moment. Damon’s absence mattered a heck of a lot more than the Savage Saint’s absence.

  Before I knew it, it was eight-thirty. The store only had half an hour left. There were no more customers in. I could have stayed open a little longer, but what was the point? Making an extra thirty or forty bucks in sales wasn’t going to alter my life significantly; it certainly wasn’t going to save the store.

  “Alright, Sam, you can head out,” I said. “Feel free to take as much food as you want.”

  “You sure?” Sam said.

  Bless that kid. He reminded me a lot of myself at that age—willing to work as much as needed, cheerful, and focused. I didn’t have any indication that he also came from a bullied household or had any pr
oblems at school, but if he did, he at least knew how to cope with them outside those settings.

  “Absolutely,” I said. “You have my number and email. If you ever need a reference, you call.”

  I didn’t want to sound too weird, but it was almost like I was losing a son. Admittedly, it was a stretch of an analogy, but I knew I wanted kids, and I knew I didn’t have much time. Sam was the type of son that I hoped to have someday.

  It could’ve been with Lane. But…

  “I absolutely will,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Griffith.”

  There’s probably no quicker way to get that illusion out of the head.

  “Thank you, Sam. I’ll see you around.”

  I went to the back to give him the privacy to pick as much food as he wanted, knowing that as long as I was there, he wouldn’t take as much as he deserved. I leaned back in my chair and stared at the largely empty office. It was quite tiny, but even then, it still felt enormously spacious compared to all of the files and everything that had been in here before.

  As soon as the bell rang, I went up front. Sam had left.

  And so that was it.

  I started to go through the closing procedures, but this time, I also added all the food I could to the boxes. At least I wouldn’t go hungry between now and when I left for Georgia.

  I finished everything within twenty minutes. I went to the lights and hesitated. The lights were only a metaphor for the building’s status, but nothing felt so final as to shut these off for good. The next time light shined in this building, it would be for someone else.

  Someone else who won’t fail at their venture, hopefully. Someone else who will have a better idea that’s not destined to fail. Someone else…who has hopes and dreams like I did.

  This city sure can chew you up and cost you opportunities, but if you can make it here…

  What could have been?

  And with those four words crossing my mind, I turned off the lights. The place went dark, though certainly not so dark that I couldn’t make my way to the front door. I taped the sign to the wall, thanking would-be patrons for their business, walked outside, and locked the door.