Around them, guests pretended to reorganize their trunks or check their phones, careful not to make eye contact. I told myself the same thing they did — it’s not my business. That lie hung heavier with each second.
Evan knelt to gather his papers, brushing gravel dust off a resume draft with slow, embarrassed movements. One page fluttered away in the breeze and landed near a puddle, soaking through before he could reach it.
That was when the Harley’s engine rolled into the lot. It wasn’t loud in an aggressive way; it was controlled, steady, deliberate. The bike eased in from the access road, chrome catching the pale gold of the rising sun.
The rider parked diagonally near the confrontation and cut the engine without drama. He removed his helmet slowly, revealing a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard and eyes that carried the kind of stillness usually earned, not inherited.
He looked mid-forties. American. Broad through the shoulders but not bulky. A brown leather vest rested over a long-sleeve thermal shirt, the leather softened by time and weather. Patches marked him as a member of a motorcycle club called Iron Harbor Riders, a veterans’ group known more for charity runs than bar fights. His name patch read “T. Garrison.”
Travis Garrison took in the scene in one sweeping glance. Then he walked straight toward it. Too straight. Too unhurried. It looked, from a distance, like escalation.
“You can’t just dump him on the highway,” Travis said calmly as he reached conversational distance from Pike.
Pike turned, irritated at the interruption. “Watch me.” Several of us shifted our weight. A woman near the vending machine whispered, “This is about to get ugly.”
Read more on the next page ⬇️⬇️⬇️
