And hearing his father’s grunts and groans coming faster, as well as the pained cries and, “Jeff, hold on a second, honey,” he decided he didn’t need this shit either.

So to make a quick getaway, he grabbed what he did need, opened his window, climbed out, and took off.

Carson Steele walked a lot since his father got shitty for some reason, tossed Carson’s bike in the Dumpster, and beat the snot out of him so he knew not to go out and retrieve it.

Now Carson had a job. He was saving up for a car. He didn’t care how beat up it was. The minute he could afford one, he was going to buy one.

First step to freedom.

He’d fix it up too. Linus was a mechanic, and sometimes when Carson was over at Linus’s house he helped Linus in his garage, getting Linus tools as Linus tinkered with an old Trans Am he was fixing up to sell. He watched, Linus showed him things, let him do things, he learned.

Which was why Carson went where he went. Moving through the residential streets of Englewood, Colorado, he found Broadway and walked north. Block after block. He saw it from a distance: his destination. The American flag on the flagpole on top. The white flag under it with its insignia, the words around it, Wind, Fire, Ride, and Free.

His place, even if it wasn’t his. It still was.

The only place he felt right, even standing outside the fence.

So he walked right to it and stopped when he hit the end of the fence.

He stood there. His body on one side, he craned his neck around and looked into the forecourt of Ride. It was an auto supply store up front on the street but they had a garage at the back.

And the day got better even as it threw Carson right into a yawning pit of hell.

That was because the cool guy with the dark hair and kickass goatee was working in one of the bays.

And he was doing it with his son right by his side.

The best.

And the worst.

Since Carson spent a lot of time watching, he’d seen that guy—and others, all members of the Chaos Motorcycle Club—around Ride, the store and the custom car and bike shop at the back, all of which they owned and ran.

The best and worst times were watching the goatee guy with his boy.

His kid had to be Carson’s age. Looked just like his old man, like Carson looked like his.

But Carson would bet the three hundred fifty-eight dollars he’d saved that the kid he was watching was proud of that fact, where Carson absolutely was not.