Page 47 of Tiny's Testament
“Whatever ghosts you’ve got chasing you, don’t bring them through my gate unless you plan to bury them here.” Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut behind him.
I stand in my spot for a long time, staring at the empty chairs, the faded wood of the table carved with years of our faith.Protect. Respect. Honor. Words carved into wood that’s seen more blood than peace.
Outside, engines rumble softly as the brothers return to their rooms. The smell of oil and desert dust blends with the night air. I take a deep breath, but it doesn’t soothe me. Not tonight.
I press my palms flat to the table and bow my head. “I won’t bring them here,” I whisper. “I’ll take them to hell myself.”
I drag a hand down my face, the skin rough under my palm. I push away from the table and head for the garage. The smell of oil and metal steadies me. Machines don’t lie. They break, and you fix them.
Torch’s old Harley sits half-gutted on the lift, chrome scattered across the floor like bones. I grab a wrench and start tightening bolts that don’t need it, just to keep my hands busy. The clinking and scraping sound fills the silence, giving me a moment to breathe.
Every time the wrench hits metal, I hear Capone’s voice again.Don’t bring your ghosts through my gate.
Too late for that. They’re already inside.
The door creaks open behind me, and Bones pokes his head in, a beer in each hand. “You’re still at it?”
I don’t look up. “Something to do.”
He walks in, tosses me one of the bottles. “You keep fixing bikes that aren’t broke, you’re gonna run out of problems to solve.”
“Not likely.”
Bones takes a long pull, studying me over the rim. “Capone breathing down your neck again?”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“Yeah, and you’re not answering my question.”
I finally meet his gaze. “You ever lie to the club?”
Bones smirks. “Brother, I lie to myself daily. Helps me sleep.” He clinks his bottle against mine. “But I never lie to my brothers. Not about the stuff that matters.”
“Maybe I don’t know what matters anymore.”
He tilts his head, grin fading. “You do. You just don’t like what it costs.”
We drink in silence. Outside, the sun sinks low, spilling a warm orange glow through the garage windows. The light hits the chrome, burning gold, and for a moment, everything looks too calm to be real.
Bones drains his beer, sets it on the counter, and slaps my shoulder. “Whatever’s eatin’ you, handle it before it eats back. Trust me. Regret’s worse than bullets.”
He leaves me with the hum of silence and the tick of cooling metal.
By the time night falls, the garage is dark except for one flickering bulb. My knuckles ache, grease stains the creases of my hands, and the guilt hasn’t budged an inch.
That’s when I hear Syvannah's soft, distant laugh. It drifts in from the porch where the night air rolls in off the city. A thread of light through the dark.
I should walk away, let her rest. But my feet move anyway.
The porch light glows low, painting her in amber. She’s wrapped in a blanket, mug cradled in her hands, hair loose around her shoulders. Peanut sits at her feet, tail twitching like a metronome.
“Capone giving you hell?” she asks without turning.
“Not yet.” I sink onto the step beside her, the wood creaking under my weight. “He’s suspicious.”
“Because you’re a terrible liar.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
