Page 50 of Brazen Being It

Surprisingly,it’s been a quiet week.

No sign of Frankie. No Salentino. No strange cars running our backroads or signals over the scanner. The air itself feels like it’s holding its breath. I wait for the hammer to drop, because quiet like this, after months of trouble, never lasts. Every time I walk the property, boots crunching the frostbitten grass, I scan the tree line, half-expecting those shadows to move, half-wishing I could will them to life just so we can get this shit over with.

I don’t sleep easy. Don’t let myself. If you relax in times like this, you don’t get a warning—just a bullet or a knife in the dark. But the only things that come are the ordinary noises: wind rattling through pine, the distant cough of a neighbor’s truck, or a thunderstorm that rolls through. The sounds of a world still spinning, still ordinary, even if mine is anything but.

I check in on Cambria’s mom, too. Can’t help myself. I send Smoke and Knox, two Nomads, and the only guys mean enough to scare up answers without drawing heat. When they come back, they tell me she’s still alive—working the street, strung out, stubborn as ever. “Woman’s a ghost walking,” Knox grunts, handing me a wrinkled note with the street address and a one-word update: breathing. I toss it in the trash.

There’s a part of me that aches for Cambria, for what she came from. The way she cares for her mother, but can’t save her. There’s another part of me—meaner, sharper—that knows some people don’t want to be saved. She’s alive. For now. That’s all I need to know.

My phone buzzes. The vibration’s low, rattling against my thigh as I stomp out a cigarette on the gravel. I fish it out, thumb smudged with grease.

Text from Rex.

SERMON. NOW.

No one ignores that message. Not even me.

I flick the cigarette into the dirt, grind it down, and jog up the steps into the clubhouse, head already filling with worst-case scenarios. Inside, the air’s thick with expectation. Every man in the place looks up. Even the old-timers put their cards down. They know something’s brewing. Rex is at the head of the table, stone-faced. Shooter, Toon, and Axel are already in their seats, eyes hard.

On the table is a map. Not the tourist kind, but the old biker’s kind—creased and stained, marked with routes only we know. Highways twisting through the Smokies, mountain passes barely wider than a truck, old border towns where cops look the other way if you grease the right palms. Red marks cross the page, some faded, some fresh. The last one’s bleeding right over the state line.

“Got word from our contact in Tennessee,” Rex says. He doesn’t bother to sit. He stands like a judge, eyes flicking to me, then to Axel, then back to the map. “There’s movement near the border. Salentino is making his way here.”

Toon curses, low and ugly. Axel just folds his arms and stares. I glance at the map. There’s a dot near Waynesboro, another on an old mining trail. Trouble’s coming fast.

Rex’s eyes land on me. “You ran that last shipment clean. I want you to head up the recon.”

“Alone?” I ask, not because I’m scared but because nobody does recon alone, not anymore.

“Take two. Your call.” Rex’s voice is final. I nod. That’s what I do now. I lead. I make choices. And this time, I’ve got more than the club to come back to. I’ve got her.

Toon is a no-brainer. He’s steady, quick, and meaner than a rabid wolf when you need him to be. Axel, I hesitate. Old habits die hard. But if this recon goes south, I want a man who won’t blink when I say shoot. Axel’s my brother—has been all my life, and lately he’s been showing up for me and Cambria like no one else. We may not always see eye to eye, but there’s no one I’d rather have at my back when the bullets start flying.

We prep before dawn, moving through the motions with a practiced quiet. Bikes checked, weapons cleaned, burners charged, radios and batteries stowed. No Hellions colors today—just dark denim, black leather, and the scent of nerves burning under the skin. Toon checks his pistols, Axel fits a new set of magazines in his bag, and I line up my knives just the way I like them, steel to bone, habit dad taught us both when we would hunt as kids.

Cambria finds me in the back of the garage, just as I’m tightening the last strap on my saddlebags. While I haven’t told her details, I did tell her we had to go assess the threat. Rex told Axel that was what needed to be said to Yesnia and the same could be shared with Cambria.

“You’re sure it’s not a trap?” she asks, arms crossed over her chest. There’s worry in her eyes, but not fear. She’s brave. Braver than I’ve ever been.

“No,” I admit. “But if it is, I want to be the one walking into it, not sending someone else.” I touch her hand. “I’ll come back.”

It’s not a question for her. It’s a promise. The kind that I’ll give in blood.

“Good,” she says. Her jaw’s tight, her voice softer than she means it to be. “Because if you don’t, I’ll come looking.”

I laugh, and it feels good, even now. “You’ll come looking, that is one thing I’m sure of .”

She gives me a crooked smile, and for a moment, the world is simple again. Just a man and a woman and the future they want.

I’m coming back for her. No more hiding, no more half-promises. When I get back, I’m going to put a ring on her finger and make her mine, for real. Permanent. No court, no priest—just the two of us and the life we’re carving out from the dirt.

The ride into Tennessee is a blur of backroads and muscle memory. We keep off the main highways, carving through shadowed woods and old mining trails only smugglers and moonshiners know. My bike vibrates beneath me, a living thing, engine snarling with every mile. Toon rides beside me, silent but alert, eyes scanning every driveway, every turn. Axel brings up the rear, always watching.

Every bend feels dangerous. Every ridge could be an ambush. There’s a hum in my blood—a mix of fear and purpose, old ghosts and new oaths.

By the time we hit our first contact, a run-down gas station with a flickering neon sign and an ancient dog sleeping under a rusted-out Chevy, we’ve seen two suspicious trucks, shadowy figures in the rearview, and picked up chatter on the scanner we don’t recognize. The old nerves are back, but sharper, cleaner. I’m not afraid. I’m ready.

Curtis meets us behind the building, visor down, smoke clinging to his lips like a curse. He flicks it to the ground, grinding it under his heel.

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