Knox:
I’d been running pickups all morning—cash, mostly. Hand-offs in alleys, behind pawn shops, and once in the back of a strip mall where two teenagers swore they were “just selling vape juice.”
Sure you were, boys.
The sun was already high by the time I rolled back into the lot behind the MC clubhouse. Gravel crunched under my tires, and my old bike rumbled low as I killed the engine. I stayed still for a second, just listening to the engine click as it cooled, the heat of the day already making my cut stick to my shoulders.
I didn’t hate the work. Hell, some part of me still liked the ride, the way my adrenaline hummed just beneath the surface when I had cash strapped to my chest or something heavier stashed in the saddlebag.
But it didn’t feel the same anymore.
Not since Viv.
N
