Page 39 of California Wild

Kwilé grumbled something but grabbed it, tossing it onto the pile of things Jesse had given him over the past year.

Jesse stood, stretching his arms over his head, rolling out the tightness in his shoulders.

Kwilé squinted up at him. “Where you headed?”

Jesse sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Some punk karaoke bar.”

Kwilé stared at him for a long moment, then cackled. “Holy shit, you’re serious.”

Jesse grinned, tapping the top of Kwilé’s head like an annoying little brother. “Be good, old man.”

Kwilé waved him off. “Get the hell outta here, rockstar.”

Jesse shook his head, laughing as he climbed the basement stairs.

Back to the street.

Back to the real world.

Back to the life he was still trying to figure out how to live.

And if he was a little slower getting in his truck this time—

Well.

That was between him and his demons.

An hour later, Jesse was buried in the chaos of The Holding Company—Ocean Beach’s loudest, rowdiest dive—with a cold soda in hand and a steady thrum of punk rock vibrating in his ribs.

The place was alive. Packed from wall to wall.

Salt air rolled in from the pier, clinging to the scent of spilled beer, sweat, and sunbaked leather. Neon signs buzzed overhead. The rooftop was thumping, bodies swaying under dim string lights and the raw edge of live vocals screaming something about heartbreak and gasoline.

It should’ve felt good. It used to.

Jesse leaned back against a sticky wooden booth, scanning the rooftop. Two floors down, you could still hear the tide. Up here, it was all laughter, bass, and bad decisions.

To his left, Isaac Rayleigh was in full form—black tee, sleeves rolled up, tattoos on display, one foot braced on the bench as he plucked a straw from someone else’s drink and flicked it across the table. Cool as ever. Every damn person gravitated toward him.

“Yo,” Isaac grinned, elbowing Jesse. “Zach’s about to lose fifty bucks. He swore he’d get Dom to sing.”

Across the table, Zach Reed—edgy, hot, always two seconds from flashing his teeth or his abs—was goading Dom like it was a sport. “Come on, man. One verse. One! I’ll Venmo you and buy you beer for a month.”

Dominic Laredo sat hunched at the end of the booth, arms crossed, jaw tight, giving zero shits about the noise around him. “I don’t do karaoke.”

“That’s not what your last girlfriend said,” Zach shot back.

Dom’s only response was a glance that could level a house. The bartender walking by actually flinched. Jesse huffed a laugh into his cup.

The rest of the table—mostly younger SEALs—were getting louder, placing bets, talking shit. A guy at the mic was absolutely slaughtering an Alkaline Trio song, and no one seemed to care.

Classic Friday night.

Jesse leaned back and looked out across the bar. Isaac was telling a story now, using his beer bottle like a prop, gesturing wildly while everyone around him laughed like idiots.

It was the same routine.

The same noise.

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