The neon flashing sign on Motel Corral cast a red glow over the parking lot onto the five motorcycles parked across from the front door of the office. Rich spit a stream of tobacco to the side of him. He'd received all the details of the missing teenage girl before Notus Motorcycle Club filled his gas tank half full.

Half full.

Assholes.

Sixteen-year-old Hannah Brando left her house that morning before eight o'clock. By two-thirty that afternoon, her mother became concerned when the text message she'd sent her daughter wasn't answered. The two had texted at the same time every day to check in with each other after school for the last six months.

After the police questioned Hannah's friends, they discovered she'd met a 'boy' online who planned to meet with her. Somehow, Notus found out the 'boy' was a thirty-six-year-old man named Michael Monroe.

Notus found out Monroe spent the night before at the motel, and they were counting on him returning tonight with Hannah.

Meanwhile, the police were on the streets searching for the make and model of the suspect's car.

Rich rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared down at his gas tank. He had enough to take the Fremont Bridge into Portland, find a bar stool, and hope someone took pity on him and bought him a drink.

He needed to forget Gracie waited at her house for him to return. That she expected a man who'd slip into her life, and her dreams would become his, and vice versa. The hope in her expression over him going out on a search with Notus killed him. She wanted him to fit into her family.

His family.

Fuck.

He couldn't do that.

The guys acted as if he could walk back into the club and the past would be forgotten. They acted as if they weren't all middle-aged men, but twelve-year-old boys who fought, got over it, and plotted their next adventure the same day.

They had no understanding that he'd changed.

But, it was the things that remained the same that weakened him. He patted his pocket, missing his cell phone. Everything he'd accumulated—basically another duffle bag worth of shit—remained in Klamath at the Komoon clubhouse.

"Detective Gomez texted. One of his officers is checking out a vehicle that matches Monroe's car." Wayne handed the phone to Thad. "Text him back and let him know we're staying on post."

Rich followed the conversation, learning how deeply involved they were with the St. John's Police Department. He looked to Glen who watched it all intently, his upper lip spasming. To Wayne, who looked out over the parking lot frowning. To Chuck, who fidgeted next to him, ready to beat the shit out of Monroe and save the girl. To Thad, who finished texting and rubbed his hand over his whiskered jaw.

Being with them all, it felt a lot like the night twenty-five years ago when Thalia was kidnapped. Except, the police had questioned him.

The questions.

The accusations.

The news articles.

The rumors and talk around town.

He'd faced it head on because all he wanted was Thalia to return safe and sound.

"Did anyone get the background on this Monroe character." Glen opened the duffle on his motorcycle and removed a bag of sunflower seeds.

"He's clean. The cops in Arizona won't have a search warrant to go through his computer until tomorrow night if they can get ahold of the judge. If not, on Monday morning." Chuck took a cigar out of his vest pocket and snipped off the end. "I gave Gomez the information off Hannah's computer. If they can I.D. him through the chats, give him motive, they can fast forward everything to Arizona, and get a search warrant tonight. It all depends on how hard they're going to work to find the truth."

"I thought there was a twenty-four hour wait time to report someone missing like it was with..." Rich shut his mouth.

Thad sat his motorcycle. "Hannah's a minor. Thalia was nineteen years old and legally an adult. Because of Hannah's friends talking with the police, they can classify her as endangered and skip the time requirements for the alerts."

Disgusted by the situation, he pushed down the tobacco under his lip. "Bullshit situation," he muttered.

"It usually is when someone goes missing," said Thad. "We went through the same shit and hit a dead end when you went missing and had no idea what happened to you."

"I left, which was my God damn right." He spit and wiped his mouth with his forearm, not wanting to talk about that time in his life. "Every fucking one of you knew nothing happened to me. I took my Harley, my duffle, and I left every single dollar I'd saved and put it in an envelope for my mom. I only took enough money with me to get the hell out of St. John's."

The men watched him from their motorcycles. He took out the wad of chew and put fresh in. They had to get it through their heads that he wasn't tied to them. That they weren't going to go back in time and be the brothers who swore their loyalty to the club and each other.

"Why Klamath? Why Komoon MC?" asked Wayne.

He shrugged. "It's where I stopped my Harley and asked for a drink. I had nothing, but my bike. They were recruiting. I put my year in prospecting, then swore my loyalty to them."

"Were you?" Chuck leaned forward and braced his forearms on the handlebar. "Loyal to them?"

"No." He planted his feet on the asphalt and stood, stretching his legs.

"Did you stay loyal to us, besides disbanding?" asked Thad.

"Isn't that obvious by the black fucking square on my leg?" He sat back down and swept his hair off his face. Losing his tattoo — he tried not to think about it.

He gave Notus what they wanted to hear. When he left again, they could forget about him and go on.

"What the hell did you do for twenty-five years?" asked Glen.

"Drank." He laughed harshly. "I'd be drinking right now, but you guys decided to tie me down, put me in the house with Gracie, took my transportation away from me. The money I had, apparently is sitting back in my old room in the Komoon clubhouse. I've got nothing."

Thad got off his Harley and stepped away.

None of them understood the kind of power drinking had over him. He knew. He'd watched his mom put the bottle first. He thought about taking a drink every minute of the day. There were few moments when he could say he enjoyed living in the moment sober.

He swallowed. Gracie was that moment for him, but there were still times when he wasn't cock deep inside of her that the only thing he wanted was a swig of whiskey.

Thad came back to the circle. "Did losing Thalia do that to you?"

His next breath failed to happen, and he forced himself to keep breathing through a painful spasm in his chest. The loss of Thalia seemed a lifetime ago when away from Notus. There were days he could forget and times he could face the days leading up to and after her abduction in an almost detached way as if he viewed that time period as a stranger.

He couldn't remember when it hit him how selfish he'd been wrapped up in his grief to fail to recognize that Thad lost a sister and Mr. and Mrs. B lost a daughter. Back then, his world was wrapped up in two things.

Notus Motorcycle Club.

Thalia.

"Losing her pushed me off the edge." He kept eye contact with Thad. "Like it did for all of us. But, Thalia was not the reason why I started drinking. I'd never try and forget her. Knowing I'd lost her, I wanted to hurt because when I hurt, I was close to her."

The times he could forget about what happened turned to guilt when he remembered Thalia was gone. At the time, he felt like he was betraying the love he'd felt.

Thad studied him and finally said, "I get that."

He dipped his chin, acknowledging the bond they shared. The one that time couldn't erase.

If he'd had the maturity to talk about what happened back then, they wouldn't be having this discussion. But, he couldn't go back and change what happened.

"Does your leaving have anything to do with our fight?"

He gazed at Chuck. "Fight?"

"We beat the shit out of each other the night before you left." Chuck held perfectly still.

One fight meshed with another. They'd grown up exchanging blows, wrestling, and popping off on each other. It was part of their life together. He couldn't remember fighting with Chuck before he'd left, though he had no doubts that it was true.

Like Gracie in her panic, he'd lost big chunks of time.

"I don't remember fighting with you," he said quietly.

Chuck rubbed the frown off his face. "Then, what the hell made you leave us?"

His pulse throbbed. Even if he'd been in his right frame of mind, he never would've thought to turn to them. They'd all been twenty years old. Too young. Too devastated over losing Thalia.

They were lucky to find their dick in the morning at that age, much less deal with Thalia being murdered and having all fingers pointed at him.

"I..." He grimaced. "I became a different person. All the anger I had, that we all had, changed me in a way I needed to leave."

"Does this have anything to do with you backing out of killing the Komoon member?" Wayne's hands landed in his lap, and he put his foot on the peg of the bike.

The urge to spill everything, take their judgment, lose them, no longer seemed to matter because he was tired of loving and losing. He nodded. That's all he could do.

He was tired of being alone.

He was tired of living with himself.

He was tired.

"I need a fucking drink." He got off his motorcycle and walked away.

Halfway to the entrance to the motel, he turned back and rejoined the others. The adrenaline rush too much, his stomach rebelled, and the taste of vomit filled his throat. He swallowed it down, looking at the men who'd proven time and again to stand by him, who had never forgotten him. Who had killed a man to make sure he could stay in St. John's, knowing nothing about him or what he'd done.

He looked to Wayne, straining for him to understand. He couldn't do this alone.

The president of Notus made it to him in three steps and grabbed him. The thumps on his back crushed him. He handed it over. He handed it all over.

Every fact.

Every truth.

Every fear.