Page 45 of Tater
He considered that, then nodded. “Yeah. But we’ll learn.”
She looked down at her hands—at the faint gold shimmer still hiding under her skin—and for the first time in a long time, she believed him.
“I think I could,” Ren said softly.
Tater reached out, rough fingers brushing the back of her hand. “You already are.”
The dragon stayed silent.
Just listened.
By the time she stepped outside, the light had softened into amber. The yard shimmered under it—mud, chrome, puddles reflected the fading sky. The storm had left everything slick and raw, but alive.
The boys were scattered through the lot—smoking, wrenching, talking low. It wasn’t rowdy, not like usual. Too much had gone down for that.
When she stepped onto the porch, the sound shifted. Heads turned, not in judgment but in acknowledgment. Ren wasn’t just anyone walking out of the clubhouse. Ren was Tater’s old lady—the woman who’d gone toe-to-toe with a ghost and come back breathing.
Eagle was the first to meet her eyes. “Heard you made it final with that son of a bitch,” he said.
“Yeah,” she answered. “It’s done.”
He nodded once, slowly. “Good. Man like that don’t deserve to linger.”
No one pushed for details. The Bastards knew better. They’d all lost someone to Shadow’s reach at one time or another. Tonight, the balance felt even again.
Tater came out a minute later, a cigarette hanging loose from his mouth, jacket unzipped, eyes on her first. Always on her first. He didn’t say anything, just slid up beside her, his arm finding its usual place across Ren’s shoulders.
The little gesture said everything. The crew relaxed, the air shifting back toward normal. Brick passed Eagle a bottle, Patch laughed low at something she couldn’t hear. The world started turning again.
Tater took the cigarette from his mouth and handed it to her. Ren took a drag, slow, letting the smoke burn away the last of the night’s ghosts.
“You good?” he asked, voice low.
“I’m here.”
“That’ll do.”
The fire barrels flickered to life around the lot, orange light catching on leather and chrome. The smell of oil and smoke mixed with the cooling air—their kind of peace.
Eagle raised his beer toward us. “To the Bastards,” he said. “And to the fire that don’t quit.”
A few of the boys echoed it, rough voices blending with the crackle of flame.
Tater’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “They’re talkin’ about you, you know.”
Ren smirked. “They better be.”
He laughed—a real one that time, deep and low—and kissed the side of her head. “That’s my girl.”
She leaned against him, watched the flames dancing against the steel of the bikes, the light catching on his patch and hers.
For once, she wasn’t thinking about the past or what came next. Just warmth. The hum of the club around them. The heartbeat of home.
And when the dragon stirred faintly under her skin, it didn’t ache this time. It purred.
The fire barrels burned low by the time they slipped away.
The laughter and engines faded behind them, leaving only the night—the good kind, thick and full of crickets and quiet. The kind that didn’t need to hide what it was anymore.
