Page 6 of Brazen Being It

What that something is, I have no clue. We ride for miles, the sun crawling up over the horizon like it’s reluctant to start another day. There’s something cleansing about it—about being on the road before the world wakes up. The way the wind whips across my skin, the rumble of the Harley-Davidson beneath me, it’s the only time I feel like I’m not being judged. Out here, no one gives a shit about who your father is or how many years it took you to earn your patch. The road doesn’t care about bloodlines or club politics. It only cares if you survive the next mile.

We stop at a gas station in some nowhere town. Toon fills his tank while I lean against the pump, sipping a flat coffee from a machine that probably predates cellphones. A woman in a stained apron eyes us from inside the store, like she’s deciding whether to call the cops or offer us a breakfast menu.

“You ever think about transferring?” Toon asks casually.

I blink. “What?”

“To Haywood’s Landing. Or South Carolina.”

I laugh, short and bitter. “You serious?”

“Dead. You’d get a fresh start. Guys there don’t give a damn who your dad is. You’d be judged on who you are, not what shadow you were born under.”

It’s tempting. Too tempting.

But I shake my head. “No. If I leave now, it’ll feel like I ran.”

Toon shrugs. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll look like you finally stepped out of line to walk your own.”

We don’t say much else after that. Not for a while.

The next night, back at the Catawba compound, the parking lot is alive. Bikes lined up in neat rows. Music spilling from the clubhouse. Somebody’s grilling, and the smell of charcoal cooking burgers and oil fills the air. It should feel like home.

It doesn’t.

Axel’s standing near the garage, arms folded, laughing at something Rex just said. I catch his eye. He nods. Nothing more. No “hey, good to see you.” No “how was the ride?”

Just a nod.

This is how it’s been between us since the hotel room where he shattered my trust. Is it me causing the distance? Or does he still have this doubt inside him about me? I don’t know.

More importantly, I don’t care.

Once my damn idol, now he’s nothing more than a shadow of my past. I don’t want to be like Axel “Double” Crews anymore. I want to be me in all my mistakes.

Andrew “Little Foot” Jenkins.

I don’t want to be Shooter’s son. I don’t want to be Andrea’s twin. I want to be myself and accepted for it. And anyone who can’t accept it, well just like Axel they can get a nod and I’ll keep on moving.

Toon claps my shoulder. “I’ll catch you inside.”

I watch him go. Then I light another smoke and lean against my bike, staring up at the sky. What the hell am I doing? This was supposed to be everything. The patch. The respect. The legacy. Instead, I feel more like a ghost than ever.

The night rolls on inside the clubhouse like a freight train—music thumping, beer flowing, voices loud with that gritty edge that only comes from men who’ve seen too much and lived to talk about it. I lean against the bar, half-listening to Rex joke with a couple of the older guys. It should be familiar, comforting even, but it’s not. I nurse my beer and let the noise wash over me.

Axel’s in the back corner, his arm slung around Yesnia, laughing like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He looks relaxed. Happy. Like a man who is sure of where he belongs. I envy the hell out of him for that.

When he catches me watching, he nods again. That same half-assed, obligatory nod. I give one back. That’s how we communicate now—barely.

Rex eventually slaps my shoulder. “You good, kid?”

“Always.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

I force a smirk. “Wouldn’t dare.”

He grunts. “If you need something, you ask. You’re family. Start acting like it.”

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