Page 21 of Rio's Release

All our bikes were crushed, so I’m not sure if I’m on one of those or in the truck. Hell, I haven’t ridden in years.

I walk past the guard post, and Zig embraces me. I hold on tight, overcome with more emotion than I expected.

We pull apart, and Zig is grinning. He looks older, with a few more lines on his face, but that smile is so sweet to see.

“You okay?” he asks.

I nod, and my gaze swings around. Blue, Bandit, Mauler, and Bagger.

“I wondered who I’d see. I wasn’t sure.”

“We all came, boss. Wouldn’t miss it,” Blue says.

I nod.

“You feel up to riding?” Zig asks. “If not, we can take the truck.”

“This one mine?” My gaze lingers over the sleek lines of a new black Harley.

“I know how you like your Road Glides.”

There’s a helmet on the seat, waiting. None of the boys are in their colors. Smart. I don’t want to blow this after everything I did to keep the club out of it. Instead, they wear black hoodies.

Zig tosses me one, and I slip it over my shoulders.

“We’re meeting Ghost in Cloudcroft, and it gets cold in the mountains,” Zig tells me.

Ghost is here to see me?I’m surprised, but I don’t let it show.

“My driver’s license is expired, and they know it.” I jerk my chin to the guard tower. I’m not giving them a reason to stop me. “I’ll ride in the truck until we’re out of sight.”

Zig glances at the guard tower. “Sure, boss. Sorry, I didn’t think of that.”

“We’ll switch once we get a couple miles away,” I say.

“Sure. You ready?” Zig cocks his head.

More than ready. I’ve waited what seems like a lifetime for this. “Yeah. Let’s go, boys.”

Zig slides behind the wheel on the pickup, and I climb into the passenger seat.

I power down the window and flip off the guard tower as Zig pulls out, and my boys do the same. We haul ass, roaring out the long dirt road. Memories of the bouncing prison bus ride that brought me here wash over me. Christ, it feels like a lifetime ago.

I relax back into the leather seat. It all seems surreal.

Zig leans down in a cooler and pulls out a bottle of beer. Ice chips slide along the brown glass. He holds it out to me with a grin, and I take it.

Twisting off the top, I swallow down my first beer in so long, but I know better than to drink a lot tonight. My tolerance for alcohol is gone with the long years of abstinence. Sure, there was homemade hooch inside made by the prisoners who worked in the kitchen—ones who smuggled yeast and sugar and other ingredients to make the stuff. It tasted like kerosene and left a man with a pounding headache. No thanks.

We make it out of sight of the prison, turning off the grounds onto a state road, and Zig eases onto the shoulder, looking over at me.

“You ready to ride?” he asks with a grin.

“Damn straight,” I say, yanking the door handle.

Blue climbs from the black Road Glide and passes me the helmet. “She rides like a dream, boss.”

I put on the helmet and swing my leg over the seat, feeling the leather creak beneath my ass. I lift the weight of the big bike off the kickstand and feel the grips under my hands. “It feels good.”

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