Apollo went out on the front porch, closing the heavy door behind him. It was getting late in October, and the nip in the night air had gotten teeth. As the vapor of his breath curled around his head, he zipped up his hoodie and shoved his hands in his pockets.

His father sat at the end of the porch, in one of the old, straw-seat rockers, buttoned up into his worn flannel jacket, smoking his pipe and skimming his new book by the orangey glow of the porch light. Apollo had given him a copy of Moon Shot, by Alan Shepard, signed by Shepard and Neil Armstrong, who’d written the introduction. He’d found it online and paid a pretty penny for it. The book itself wasn’t that old, and his father already had a paperback of it that he’d read at least five times, but two famous astronauts had signed this first edition. Shepard had died in 1998, so his autograph was especially valuable now.

Apollo sat in the rocker beside him. “I’m glad you like it, Pop.”

“Of course I do. I feel guilty putting my hands on the pages. I think I’ll make a case for it, keep it nice and on display.” He closed the book and set it lovingly on the table between the rockers. “What are the womenfolk up to?”

“Ma’s got Jacinda buried in old photo albums.” Over pecan pie and butter pecan ice cream—his father didn’t like cake, so he got pie instead—Apollo and Jacinda had shown her ring and announced their plans to get married. His mother had squealed and clapped and laughed and cried, and hugged the shit out of them. His father had simply smiled and offered his congratulations.

His father smiled now and closed the book. “She’s been worried about you for a long time. You made her real happy tonight.”

“And you?”

“I wasn’t worried. I knew you’d find your way. But I’m glad for you. And I like your girl a lot. She looks at you like she sees forever when she does.”

Sometimes his father would throw out a phrase like that, turned on a lathe of poetry, and remind everybody how deep his mind and heart went. “Yeah. I’m a lucky son of a bitch.”

A lopsided grin sloped up his father’s cheek. “You got somethin’ else on your mind, though, right? You’ve been quieter than usual tonight.”

“I do, yeah.” Apollo stared out into the chilly dark. With the fields harvested and autumn aging, the farm seemed eerie and dead. It was hard to imagine a lush field of crops when all that was left was furrows of hard, tumbled earth and the straggling husks of dead plants.

Preparing himself for the possibility that his father would throw him out after hearing what he had to say, Apollo shored up his courage and spoke. “There’s something about me I’ve been keeping from you. For a long time. It’s not that I lied. I just didn’t say. But it’s a big part of me, and lately, it’s been feeling like I only bring half of me out here. I don’t like keeping the secret, and I don’t like knowing that if something happens to me, you might not know for too long. So I want to come clean, and I hope you’ll understand.”

He took his hands out of his pockets and crossed his arms instead. His father watched him, eyes narrow with interest.

“I’m a member of the Brazen Bulls MC.” Best to just blurt it out. “Since 1993. Prospected for a year, got my patch in ’94.”

His father said nothing. He didn’t move, maybe didn’t even blink.

“Pop?”

His father set his pipe down. A hand gnarled by years of hard, physical work reached out, palm up, and Apollo took it. His father pulled him closer, and with his other hand, he pushed Apollo’s sleeve up, showing his club ink. “I’ve known since you came home with this, son.”

That was right after his patch party. More than five years ago. “Really?”

“Yeah. You bought that big bike, and then you had that tattoo. And then you had a Bull painted on your bike, too. A couple years back, you started giving us expensive gifts. And then you paid off this place and the tractor and bought yourself a house, all in a few months. No mechanic makes that kind of money, and I can’t imagine you playing day trader. Neil, I’m not a stupid man. I’m offended you thought we didn’t know.”

“I’m sorry. Ma knows, too?”

“Your mother is not stupid, either, son. And I don’t keep things from her. She knows. She worries.”

Apollo’s world wobbled on its axis. His parents had known all this time? “Why didn’t you say something?”

“We decided to let you tell us in your own time. Neither of us thought it’d take you this long.”

“I’m sorry. I was afraid to say. I was afraid you’d be disappointed in me, and I don’t think I could stand that.” It was hard enough to live with the certainty that his father would be disappointed. Actually feeling that disappointment would have been a pain beyond bearing.

His father was still holding his hand; now he let go and stood up. He walked to the edge of the porch and leaned against a post, staring up at the clear, dark sky. “Are you happy, Neil? Do you live the life you want?”

The image that flashed into his mind at once was from that morning. Waking before the alarm, after a calm, deep sleep, seeing Jacinda’s bare shoulder glowing in the first beam of morning light.

“Yeah, I am. And I do. I fit with the club, and now, with Jacinda, I feel...I don’t know. Like I’m finished.”

“Then I’m not disappointed in you. I know you’re a good man. I trust in that. And I know that sometimes doing the thing that’s supposed to be right sits wrong on a man’s heart. I also know that too many people follow the rules and still treat the world like a garbage heap. I don’t care about rules. I care about honor.” He turned and faced his son. “That’s how you’d let me down, son. If you acted without honor. Even if you were following the rules.”

Apollo chuckled in wonder and rocked back in his chair. “All these years, I thought I had a huge secret eating away at me. Turns out I never did.”

His father grinned and sat back down. “A secret never does anybody any good. Least of all the one holdin’ on to it. I thought you knew better.”

The sad thing was, he had known better.

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

Deirdre looked up from her desktop screen, first with an innocuous look of professional curiosity and readiness to help, and then, seeing Apollo, that look collapsed into one of guarded suspicion.

“What do you want?”

He hadn’t seen her since that day Jacinda had seen them together. That had been months ago. He hadn’t needed information from her in that time, but he’d made a long practice of swinging by his secretarial honeys for a few minutes of face time, or a lunch, or something, to keep the line of cooperation clear. He hadn’t even called any of them since that last day.

This week, he’d been doing the rounds, seeing if there had been any cave-ins of his information pipelines, now that he was out of the sexual-favors business. None of his other contacts had ever been as needy as Deirdre, and they’d all been charmed back to friendly, harmless flirtation.

“Hey, Deirdre.” He opened the plastic sack he’d carried in and handed her a small box from the bakery she liked, with a pretty éclair, decorated with sugar flowers.

She took it and tossed it in the wastebasket beside her desk. Okey doke.

“If you’re here because you need something, you got a lot of fucking nerve.”

“I’m not. I’m here to tell you I’m sorry.”

“And what, exactly, are you sorry for?” She crossed her arms over her tits. Her nail polish was hot pink, matching her dress and lipstick, and her nails were long and slightly curved, like claws. They’d felt great raking his skin, but he’d always marveled that she could type with them.

“I’ve been ignoring you, and I’m sorry.”

“It’s that brunette, right? From the summer?”

That surprised him; she hadn’t let on that she’d noticed Jacinda that day. “Yeah. We’re together.”

“Well, that’s sweet. Now you can go ahead and fuck off. Find some other sap who’ll risk her job for you.” She went back to her keyboard.

“Deirdre...”

She picked up the handset of her desk phone. “This is where I call a uniform to throw your ass out in three...two...”

“I’m gone. And I am sorry.”

A single, bright pink claw rose up from her fist.

He got gone; he’d figure out a different way to get the intel she had access to.

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

Apollo eased the front door shut and turned the deadbolt. He flipped off the porch light, and hung his coat and kutte in the closet. Zoë mewed softly and coiled around his boot.

“Hey, pretty lady. You miss me?” He picked her up and she settled into her favorite position, both front paws on his shoulder, butt on his arm, purring. The house was dark, except for the light over the sink, and quiet except for the cat’s outboard-motor purr. He hadn’t expected otherwise; Jacinda was a heavy sleeper, and it was nearly three in the morning. On his first gun run back in the saddle, they’d gotten caught up in a wreck on their way back from Galveston and had been stuck near Dallas for most of the day. Eight Ball, Becker, and Ox were still there—Eight Ball because he’d laid his Fat Boy down and skidded for about twenty-five yards, until he’d left most of the meat of his left leg ground into the asphalt, Becker and Ox because they never left a man alone. They’d almost left Ox in a Dallas jail cell, because he’d dragged the guy who’d clipped Eight out of his car and beat him nearly unconscious, and Apollo and Caleb hadn’t been able to pull him off.

But it was motorcycle cops who’d been first on the scene, and they’d been sympathetic to Ox’s mental state.

They weren’t in any legal trouble—they’d been coming back from the drop-off and had been entirely law-abiding citizens, not lane-splitting or even speeding in Dallas traffic near rush hour—but Apollo was still feeling the lingering full-body clench an outlaw felt when he spent the day in the company of lawmen.

And he was worried about Eight Ball, who was fucked up and had still been in surgery when Apollo had escorted Caleb and the truck back home.

Shit, he was glad to be home. The thought of Eight Ball’s pain had his back blazing with phantom fire, and every muscle in his body was tight like a guitar string.

He carried Zoë into the kitchen and set her on the counter. Jacinda would flip if she knew he let the cat on the counter, but Zoë seemed to understand that it was their little secret. As was the fact that he let her lick from his spoon when he ate yogurt.

He hadn’t thought he cared that much about cats, but this one was really cool. She was quiet and did her own thing, not needing or wanting much attention. She didn’t like to be fussed over, but she wanted to be near the very few people she claimed as her own and was fiercely loyal to them. A lot like Jacinda. And, he guessed, himself, too.

She lifted up onto her back paws when he opened the fridge and mewed hopefully, but he was not in the mood for yogurt.

“Sorry, Zozo. How about cheese?” He got himself a beer and tore off a little bit of cheddar for the cat. He broke it into crumbles and scattered it on the counter, and she tucked in, nibbling daintily, purring all the while.

Apollo popped the tab and swallowed down about half the can at once, until he felt the cool splash up from his belly into his limbs. When he opened his eyes again, they fell on Jacinda’s wine-cork ‘art,’ now hanging near the back door. He grinned. What a ridiculous thing to collect: trash. But he loved it. Every time he saw it, he wanted to hug her.

And that wasn’t all—she had plastic boxes full of every magazine she’d every subscribed to. Years’ worth of National Geographic, Photography Today, Vogue, and several others. They lined two whole shelves in her office closet, and she said it wasn’t hoarding because they made those plastic boxes specifically for back-issue magazines.

He’d asked her if she’d ever read those magazines since she’d put them in their specifically-special plastic boxes—and had gotten a foul look for his impertinence.

Every room in this house had her touch now. Even his own office, where he had a photo on his desk of the two of them, standing in the empty U-Haul before they’d started filling it up. Until she’d filled the house with her girlie little touches and her silly collections—there was a rack full of thimbles, too, hanging on their bedroom wall, which was supposedly not crazy because they’d been her Gran’s—he’d never noticed how blank the house had been. He’d thought of it as comfortable.

Now, it was comfort.

And Jacinda was asleep in their bed, probably naked, or close enough to it.

He finished his beer and brushed the evidence of Zoë’s illicit snack into the sink.

––––––––

~oOo~

––––––––

In the dark bedroom, Apollo stripped as quietly as he could and eased, naked, between the sheets. Jacinda’s long hair lay over her pillow and his like a black river on the white bedding. She wasn’t naked; she wore one of his old, worn-out Bulls t-shirts. He almost liked that better.

He scooted up close behind her and put his arm over her hip. “Hey, baby,” he whispered at her ear. “You awake?”

Her moan had a positive lilt, so he took it for an answer and pushed his hand between her legs. She had panties on; that was unusual in bed.

She caught his hand and moved it up to her chest. “I got my period today.”

“Ah, baby. I’m sorry.” This was her second since they’d stopped using condoms completely. He kissed her shoulder. “It’s early yet. It’ll happen.”

“I know. I’m still bummed, though.” She rolled onto her back. “Is Eight okay?”

He’d called her from the hospital, to let her know what was going on. “He’s out of surgery. They have him in intensive care.”

It had been hard to get much information out of the medical staff, since they weren’t blood kin with Eight, who had no living blood kin. Delaney was his emergency contact and had his power of attorney, but Delaney had been coming back from Nebraska and hadn’t talked to the doctors until a couple of hours ago.

“We’re going to stay in Dallas in shifts until we can get him home. We’re meeting tomorrow to work that out. But I’ll be away a lot for a few weeks, at least. It might fuck up Thanksgiving.”

She nodded. “Whatever you need to do. He’s hurt pretty bad, I guess.”

There had been a lot of bone showing in the gory slop soaking into the tatters of his jeans. And he’d been lucky—none of them wore helmets, but all the damage Eight had taken above his waist had been minimal road rash of the strawberry variety. Even skidding at seventy miles an hour, he’d had the presence of mind to keep his head up. But his leg? “Yeah, it’s bad.”

She hugged him hard and pressed her face to his chest. “I’m a terrible person, because all I’ve been thinking since you called is how glad I am it wasn’t you.”

Five seconds earlier, and it would have been; Apollo had just passed the asshole who’d changed lanes into Eight. His first reaction upon pulling to the shoulder while Eight and his bike skidded down the road and the asshole’s Beemer crashed into the guardrail and a dozen other vehicles squealed to a stop? Overwhelming relief.

“You’re not a terrible person. Or I am, too. I’m sorry for Eight and worried about him, but I am very fucking glad I’m in this bed with you right now.” He rolled to his back and brought her with him, and she settled into her spot on his chest.

“Me too,” she sighed, rubbing her hand over his belly. “I love you.”

“God, J. I love you.” He kissed her head and closed his eyes. The warmth of her skin on him, the slight weight of her body, leached the tension out of his muscles in a steady wave. His heart slowed and his breath deepened.

Zoë jumped up on the bed and made herself into a snug coil on Jacinda’s pillow, and Apollo and his little family slept.