Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Maddox – 24

"Another one?" the bartender asked.

I've had more than my share, andthe glasses were dirty, but I couldn't sayI was picky now.

"Sure, why not." Giving a little waveto myglass,I indicated another pour.

While enjoying the burn of whiskey, I couldn't recall the town I had ridden into that morning in Arizona. It felt like I had been riding in circles for a year.

Running a dusty figure over the barsurface,I traced the ring of the glass, tryingto ignore the loneliness that sucked at the edges of my brain and heart. It seemed to be chasing me no matter how fast I rode or how much I drank.

The light beamed as the door to the bar opened, lettingin the Arizona sun and heat. Bikers streamed in, loudlytrudgingthrough the small space in their heavy boots. I turned back to the study of the ring on the bar, twirling a left-over bottle cap. The newcomers held little interest to me.

"Roscoe, nice to see you and the boys. What'll it be?" the bartender asked the man in a friendly voice. Ah, a regular.

"Beer is good, Jake. Thanks," a man, Roscoe, I presumed, slid onto the stool beside me.

"That your bike out front?"

The cut he was wearing was from the Iron Brotherhood motorcycle club. They weren't anything to joke about.They were organizedand efficient, but they all had a decent reputation. This guy was a patched member and, ifI wasn't mistaken, thepresident of the Brotherhood. That was a big deal,a hugedeal. Not that it was any business of mine.

"Yeah, it's mine," I answered. There was no harm in conversation, I figured. "I like to ride just as much asanyone, I guess." Tipping my glasstowards hiscut,I indicated the patches.

"True enough," he laughed easily. "Where are you riding too?"

"Nowhere, really," I shrugged. "Anywhere."

That was my truth. Since I'd been discharged from the military, I'd been riding aimlessly through the West Coast, searching for something—a sense of purpose, maybe? Coming home hadn't set well on my shoulders after all. The decision that once appeared promising now feels uncomfortable, like a sweater that constantly itches.

The men he came in with had settled at the tables andengaged ina half-hearted, loudargument, jostling each other and scrambling with chairs.

"Denny, knock it off," Roscoe shouted out. "We're in public. Our image." He tapped the cut with a grin, andthe men at the table hooted and hollered. Suddenly, amournful feeling rose in me, andmy loneliness doubled. These men had what I wanted: a team — a family.

"Well, afterthis,we're returning to Phoenix. We always welcome company. Ride with us," Roscoe offered.

Shooting down mydrink,I took it for the lifeline it was. "I'd like that."