Page 7 of Diesel’s Second Chance

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you look like you haven't slept in a week. It means the whole town is talking about the Vipers targeting anyone connected to the club. It means there's a dangerous man out there somewhere who wants you and your brothers dead, and you're all acting like this is just... business as usual." My voice cracks slightly. "I already lost Tommy. I can't—"

I stop myself before I finish that sentence. Before I say *I can't lose you too* and make this into something it's not. Something it can't be.

He takes a step closer, and for a moment I think he's going to reach for me. But he stops himself, keeps his hands at his sides.

"You're not going to lose me," he whispers.

"You can't promise that."

"No. I can't." He runs a hand through his damp hair, frustrated. "But I can promise I'm not taking stupid risks. I'm not being reckless. I've got too much…" He stops, seems to reconsider whatever he was about to say. "I've got people depending on me. The club, customers, your dad's porch railing. I'm not checking out anytime soon."

It's meant to be reassuring, maybe even funny. But all I hear is *people depending on me*. Like he's a resource to be used. A tool in someone else's hand.

"What about what you want?" I ask.

Jackson looks at me like I've asked him to explain quantum physics. "What?"

"What do you want, Jackson? Not what the club needs, not what your customers need, not what I need or my father needs. What do you want?"

I can see him wrestling with how to answer. Can see a dozen different responses cross his face before he settles on the safest one.

"I want the Vipers gone. I want my brothers safe. I want this town to go back to normal." He pauses. "And I want you to stop worrying yourself sick over things you can't control."

It's a deflection and we both know it. But I don't push. I've already pushed too hard tonight, said too much, let too many feelings slip through the cracks I usually keep sealed tight.

I move away from the motorcycle, continuing my circuit of the garage. There's a calendar on the wall, still turned to last month. A row of coffee cans full of nuts and bolts sorted by size. A framed photo of Walt standing in front of the garage on opening day, younger than I ever knew him, proud.

"Your dad would be proud of you," I say. "You know that, right?"

"I don't know about that."

"I do." I move closer to the photo, study Walt's face. He was a good man. Quiet, steady, the kind of father who showed love through actions rather than words. Jackson is exactly like him in that way. "He'd be proud of how you've kept this place running. How you've taken care of people. How you—" I stop, swallow hard. "How you took care of me when Tommy died."

"June…"

"I never thanked you properly for that," I continue, still looking at the photo because it's easier than looking at Jackson. "For everything you did. The funeral arrangements, the paperwork, just... being there. I couldn't have gotten through it without you."

"You don't have to thank me."

"Yes, I do." I finally turn to face him. "You put your own grief aside to help me with mine. That's not nothing, Jackson."

"We both lost him. Just made sense to lean on each other."

But we didn't lean on each other. Not really. Jackson held me up while his own foundation crumbled, and I was too lost in my own grief to notice.

The rain suddenly intensifies, slamming the roof so hard it sounds like the building might collapse. I glance toward the windows and can barely see my car through the deluge.

"That's getting worse," I say.

Jackson moves to the window, peers out. "Yeah. Flash flood warning went out minutes ago. Roads are probably already starting to flood."

"I need to get home."

"Not in this." He's already shaking his head. "Water's coming down too hard. Even if the roads aren't flooded yet, visibility's near zero. You'd be driving blind."

"I can't just stay here."