Chapter Five: Smoke and Silence

The clubhouse was quieter than I'd ever known it. No music, no shouting over pool cues or clinking bottles. Just the faint hum of the TV in the corner and the low murmur of prospects dozing off mid-shift. It smelled the same, though—beer left too long in open bottles, oil carried in on leather cuts, cigarette smoke sunk so deep into the wood it would never leave.

And thank God for the quiet, because I didn't have it in me to face a crowd.

That's when I spotted him. Piney Winston. Sitting at the bar like a fixture that had been there since the walls went up. Oxygen tank hissing soft beside him, hand curled around a glass. He didn't look surprised to see me—not really. Just amused, in that Piney way that always made me feel like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't.

"Would you look at that," he rumbled, voice gravel and smoke. His head lifted, and when his eyes landed on me, a low chuckle slipped free. "Thought I was seein' things. But it's really you."

I couldn't help myself—I crossed the room faster than I meant to, wrapping my arms around him. He smelled the same as always: whiskey, smoke, and something earthy, like pine sap clinging to flannel. His arms came around me slow, deliberate, and for a second I felt ten years old again, running into the bar I wasn't supposed to be in.

"Damn, girl," he muttered, holding me tighter before pulling back. His eyes searched my face like he was taking inventory of all the years between then and now. "It's been too long."

"Yeah," I said softly. "It has."

He let me go, settling back onto his stool with a groan, motioning for me to sit. "Sorry about your old man. He wasn't one of us, but he had grit. I remember him bringin' you around when you were little. Sat you up on the hood of that Chevy like it was your throne while he and I argued politics like a couple of idiots."

The laugh slipped out before I could stop it. "That sounds about right."

"You were always trouble," Piney said, eyes glinting. "Didn't matter how many times your old man told you to sit still, you had that wild streak. Guess some things don't change."

I smirked. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"Supposed to," he grunted, reaching for the bottle and pouring another glass. Without asking, he slid one my way. "Sit. Drink. Tell me what the hell you're doin' back in Charming."

I hesitated, but the house I'd left behind—the silence, the shadows of my father everywhere—felt heavier than this moment ever could. I sat, fingers curling around the glass. "Loose ends," I said simply. "Starting with the Chevelle."

He studied me for a long beat, the silence saying more than his words ever could. Then, with that slow, knowing smirk, he leaned back. "Loose ends, huh? You keep drinkin' with me, maybe I'll believe that."

We talked. For hours, it felt like. About my dad, about growing up, about the town that never seemed to change. Piney told stories in that rambling way he had, with detours that didn't matter but made the picture richer anyway. He painted my father as stubborn and sharp-tongued, but loyal, and in every memory I was there somehow—running barefoot in the lot, sneaking sips of soda, laughing too loud when I should've been quiet.

Time blurred. I didn't even notice how late it was until the bottle dipped low and Piney poured me another drink without asking.

"You shouldn't let me overstay my welcome," I teased, though my voice was quieter now, weighted.

"Don't reckon you wanna head home just yet," he said, pushing the glass closer.

He wasn't wrong. The thought of that empty house, the ghosts waiting in the walls, made my stomach twist. And maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he kept me here, talking, filling the silence I was running from. Or maybe it was more than that. The way his eyes lingered on me, measuring, told me he had something else in mind.

I took a sip, setting the glass down slow. "Piney?"

"Mm?" He didn't look at me right away, just tipped back his drink.

"What about Opie? He still—"

The question hung in the air, unfinished, but I saw the shift in him. His jaw tightened. His mouth opened, like he was going to answer—

The door creaked open, sharp in the stillness. Boots hit the floor heavy, confident.

"Woah."

My head snapped toward the sound, and there he was. Jax Teller. Standing in the doorway like he'd been carved out of the night, hair falling into his eyes, leather cut hanging off his shoulders like it was made for him.

His blue eyes landed on me instantly, sharp and unwavering, and that grin tugged slow at his mouth.

"Trouble," he drawled, voice low and easy, like he hadn't just ripped the air straight out of my chest. "What the hell are you still doin' here?"

The room went still. The prospects stirred faintly, but Piney was the only one who spoke, lips twitching like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"She didn't wanna go home," he said, almost casual, almost pointed. "Reckon you oughta give her a ride."

The words dropped like stones in water, sending ripples I couldn't stop.

And just like that, the night wasn't mine anymore.