The suburbs hate the sound of my bike.
To them, the roar of a 120-cubic-inch V-Twin engine sounds like trouble. It sounds like broken laws and bad decisions.
But to me? It sounds like freedom. And today, it sounded like redemption.
Three years.
That’s how long I’d been away. “State-sponsored vacation,” they call it inside. Manslaughter charges dropped to aggravated assault, good behavior, the whole dance. I kept my mouth shut, did my time, and protected the club. That’s the code.
I didn’t go straight to the clubhouse. I didn’t go to the bar to see my brothers.
I rode straight to Oak Creek Middle School.
