“Eventually he told me Jimmy would beat my ass if I let his bike rust.”
Cassie smiled.
“So you rode it?”
“Eventually.”
“Was that when you joined?”
Hank thought.
“That’s when I understood the club.”
Cassie wrote.
“What did you understand?”
Hank leaned back.
“That grief is easier when someone rides beside you.”
Across the table, Derek sat down.
He had heard enough.
“You’re making us sound noble.”
Cassie looked up.
“I’m writing what he said.”
“That’s the problem.”
“What is?”
“People hear stories like this and think we’re some therapeutic nonprofit with motorcycles.”
Hank rolled his eyes.
Derek continued.
“They don’t hear the arguments.”
“They don’t hear people leave.”
“They don’t hear marriages end because somebody spends every weekend on the road.”
“They don’t hear the stupid things we’ve done.”
Cassie looked at him.
“Then tell me.”
Derek laughed.
“You think I trust you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He took a bite of his burger.
Cassie closed her notebook.
“That’s okay.”
Derek looked surprised.
She continued.
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said.”
Maria shouted from another booth:
“She’s seventeen, Derek.”
“You’re losing an argument with a child.”
He ignored her.
Cassie opened the notebook again.
Derek groaned.
“I just said no.”
“I’m not writing about you.”
“What are you writing?”
“Maria called you old.”
Derek stared.
Hank laughed.
The wall between them did not disappear.
But a crack formed.
Over the next six weeks, Cassie kept showing up.
Not every meeting.
Not every ride.
Only what the club allowed.
She washed mugs after Thursday meetings.
Helped Maria organize old photographs.
Learned not to ask questions when people were clearly not ready.
She interviewed members individually.
A retired electrician.
A former firefighter.
A nurse.
A mechanic.
Two veterans.
One teacher.
A widower.
A woman who joined after her brother died.
A younger member who had never served in the military but found the club after getting sober.
The more Cassie listened, the less useful her original thesis became.
She had begun wanting to explain biker culture.
Now she realized there was no single culture to explain.
The club itself had changed repeatedly.
In 1971, the Iron Wolves were mostly veterans.
By the 1980s, family members and friends had joined.
In the 1990s, they organized toy drives.
After 2001, younger veterans began appearing.
Then came the argument everyone avoided.
Tommy Reed.
Cassie first heard his name from an old photograph.
She and Maria were sorting boxes in the clubhouse office.
Cassie held up a photo from 1998.
Graham.
Hank.
Maria.
A younger man with a dark beard stood beside them.
“Who’s that?”
Maria stopped.
“Tommy.”
“Tommy who?”
“Reed.”
Cassie turned the photograph.
No notes.
“Is he still a member?”
Maria folded a leather patch.
“No.”
“What happened?”
Maria looked at her.
“Ask your father.”
Cassie did.
Graham refused.
“Not ready.”
That answer made her more curious.
Then one Thursday, the phone call came.
Cassie sat on the clubhouse couch transcribing Hank’s interview.
Graham stepped outside to answer his phone.
Through the window, Cassie watched his posture change.
He stopped pacing.
Stood completely still.
When he returned, Hank looked up.
“That who I think?”
Graham nodded.
“Tommy.”
Maria lowered her coffee.
“After fifteen years?”
“Yeah.”
Derek entered from the garage at exactly the wrong moment.