Page 57 of Property of Thrasher
Tiny entered the office space leaning against the wall. That big frame of his looked settled, like he’d already decided the thing he brought and just wanted to say it right.
“What’s goin’ on?” I wondered.
He exhaled once through his nose, a man opening a valve.
“I wanna marry Lyric.”
No wobble in it. Just the brick of the fact set on the table.
“Yeah?” I said, because a man deserves his own words echoed back before you tell him what you think of them.
“Yeah.” He checked my face like you check the sky before a ride—habit, not fear. “Figured I should run it by you. Any opposition from the club?”
“None.” I didn’t have to think on that. “You’re good for her, she’s good for you. Old ladies should be chosen by the men who’ll carry ‘em, not by a room. Nobody here’s gonna kick dirt on your door for choosing right.”
His shoulders let down an inch I bet only I would notice. Then he lifted a brow and added, “Maybe you could prepare Melody. I don’t want her to kick me in the nuts. Lyric says she’s overprotective and I heard she broke Maria’s nose”
He barked a laugh—fast, loud, the kind that comes from the chest. “What they got out of fucked with their heads. Lyric said Melody feels shit deeper than most but hides it all away. I don’t want her to think I’m taking Lyric from her. But never felt like this before, brother.”
“Fair. I’ll see what I can do for you.” I responded thinking about the way Melody did tuck away into herself rather than wear her emotions on her sleeve. The reaction she had to Maria shocked me but I couldn’t lie and say I wasn’t in love with it. If someone said that shit to me about her, I’d get jealous too.
I couldn’t define what we had like Tiny was with Lyric, but I did know there was something different about her. I also knew there wasn’t another woman around that I craved the way I did Melody.
“They have a bond. It’s like brotherhood level. No one is gonna come between me and my brothers, I don’t want Mel to think I’m doing that with Lyric.”
“She’ll come around,” I said, a corner of my mouth tipping.
He nodded, then thumbed his jaw like there were details to chew. “I’m not doing a circus ceremony. I’ll tell ‘em at church after I give her the ring, then we keep it close. Want you as my best man, Enzo. Want the club in it, but nothing over the top. Lyric ain’t like that.”
“Say when,” I replied honored to be beside him. “I’ll stand with you.”
He turned his eyes to the lot, found whatever he was looking for, and pushed off the wall. “Appreciate it.”
After a pause he spoke quiet like, “If there’s anything you think I’m not seeing—say it now.”
“You’re seeing it,” I gave back honestly. “All I can tell you is patience. She’s got a past that pulls on the line. Sometimes you gotta let her have space.” I tapped my sternum. “Doesn’t mean you let go. Means you hold even when she wants to shut you out.”
He left and I got back to the task at hand. By the time the sun tilted and the heat quit biting, I’d texted Melody to be ready for dinner. She’d sent back a thumbs-up and nothing else. Meant yes. Meant she was already tying her hair back, already shutting out whatever the day brought to give her full attention to our time together.
I rolled up to the hotel in the kind of evening light that makes everything look like it belongs in a photograph whether it deserves it or not. She was on the curb by the back door, boots on, loose braid over one shoulder, that soft T-shirt she wore when she didn’t care who saw her plain. When she saw me, she smiled like a thing in her had settled. It landed low in me, that look.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yeah.” She slid her tote strap across her chest, took the helmet like it was already hers, cinched the strap without looking, and hopped on. First time I put her on a bike she’d clutched with fingers that left prints. Now her palms found that spot on my middle and fit like she knew she found home.
We took the long way by instinct. Taking the cut through behind the lumber yard, the S-curve where the pines pull back enough to give you sky. She leaned with me, not against me. Half a mile in, the tension that rides under most people’s skin when they’re new to a bike slid out of her shoulders. She rested the crown of her helmet between my shoulder blades, a small weight I’d started keeping track of.
At my place, the trees held the day’s cool like a secret. I killed the engine, and the quiet climbed back on the world—cicadas, a soft tick from the pipes, some bird late to the evening. Inside smelled like cedar and soap and the faint metallic ghost of machine oil no amount of scrubbing ever takes out of a man’s life. She looked around the way she always did—cataloging without judging—then put her helmet on the chair by the door the same spot she always did. Little rituals felt big around her.
“Water?” I asked.
“Please.” She hopped up on the counter, heels knocking the cabinet, hands on either side of her like she needed to touch wood to stay in her body. I handed her a cold bottle. She took a sip, rolled it on her tongue like she was letting her day dissolve.
“Tiny called me,” she shared, eyes on the rim of her glass.
“Yeah?” I slid a cutting board out, set a steak on it, salted with the pinch that lives in my hand. “What for?”
“Asked me to go ring shopping with him.”
