"Yeah, I don't think so." I give her the old you think you're gonna pull that shit with me? look. "We're stopping. I need to get actual rest, and I won't be able to sleep properly if I have to keep my eye on you the whole time."

She doesn’t react to my rejection of her offer—it was clearly expected. Instead, she asks something out of the blue. "Why did you kill off your accent?"

"I didn’t kill it off. My father did. He didn’t believe a regional dialect was gonna help me through life. Had it trained out of me when I was a kid."

"That’s...practical?"

"An obsession of his. He tried to make my mother 'speak properly' too, but it never stuck."

"So she still speaks with a Southern accent?"

"Nope. She's dead." I wait for the awkward silence, but it never comes. Sophia makes a soft humming sound.

"Oh."

"You not gonna tell me you're sorry for my loss?"

"Do you want me to?"

"Not particularly."

"Then I won't tell you I'm sorry."

I grip my hands around the steering wheel, cracking my neck. I shouldn’t have mentioned my mother. My whole body feels tight as fuck now. I like that she didn’t dive right in with the placations, though. I fucking hate when people say shit like that. It's such a fucking lie. At least Sophia was true to herself. She's in a shitty position and I'm the reason why. I could have let her go back home by now a thousand times but I haven't. I've kept her locked up and refused her requests to leave. She could probably give a shit if my whole family died right in front of us right now.

"Where are we staying?" she asks.

"At a friend's place."

"Another MC clubhouse?" I can hear the worry in her voice. She must have heard about the shit that goes down in places like the Widow Makers’ clubhouse. The drinking. The drug taking. The fucking and fighting. She doesn’t want to get caught up in any of that.

"No, somewhere else. A motel."

"And...we'll be sharing a room?" She says it carefully, slowly, testing the words on her tongue.

"Yes, we'll be sharing a room. You got a problem with that?"

"You really expect me to say no here? Of course I have a problem with that."

"Well it's tough fucking luck, sugar. Unless you want us both to sleep in the car instead, this is happening. Don't worry—I fully intend on keeping my hands to myself."

I'm getting to know her reactions. I know she's looking at me, pulling that face she pulls when she's pissed. I don’t bother turning to check; I just keep on driving into the night. Our sleeping arrangements are non-negotiable. She can’t change that by acting like a princess.

"Okay. Fine," she says.

"Okay, fine?"

"Yeah. We get a room with two beds, you stay in yours and I stay in mine and all is right with the world."

If only she knew how many women had begged me to climb up into their beds with them. Begged. Sophia’s lack of interest in me only makes me want her even more, which is fucked.

We make it to the Motel 6 around seven. Not just any Motel 6; this is a specific motel run by a specific person. The place looks like any other cheap dive establishment might look, but it's not. It's a kind of safe house for people like me. Alex Draper, a regular guy well into his late fifties, owed pretty much every bookie in America money. I helped him clear a few of those debts with my fists, and I helped him clear the rest of them with a few careful words whispered into the right ears. Ever since then, Alex has been in my pocket. A Widower ever needs a place to keep his head down for a couple of days, he gets sent out to Texas on an enforced vacation.

There's an ancient-looking ’78 Honda CX500 leaning on a stand by the entranceway to the lobby. When I see it, my heart gives a kick in my chest. Its royal blue tank has been touched up, I see. In fact, the whole bike looks like it's had minor improvements made here and there. The old girl's been getting some love. I pull up beside it and park the truck, staring out of the window at a motorcycle I'd recognize anywhere, regardless of how many parts got replaced or fixed up.

"What's the matter?" Sophia asks. "You know the person who owns that bike?"

"I do. I knew the guy it belonged to before him better, though. That's my grandfather's old motorcycle."

"Your grandfather? Your father, the governor for Alabama, was raised by a guy who rode motorcycles? A guy like you?"

Her tone is very suggestive. I hate the way she says that: a guy like you. She's right—I'm a criminal and an all-round fuck-up these days—but, still, the more time I spend with this girl, the more I don't want her to think of me that way. "He was my grandfather on my mother's side. And no, he wasn't like me. He was just a guy who loved motorcycles. Building them. Racing them. He taught me to ride as soon I was old enough."

"Does he still live in Alabama, too?"

"Nope. Also dead." I climb out of the Hummer, slamming the door behind me. The ghosts of the past seem intent on screwing with me today. I don’t have fucking time for it. Or the energy, for that matter. I lock the truck behind me before Sophia can follow me. I head inside the motel, and Alex is sitting behind the counter, eating beans on toast from a chipped plate in front of him. Jeopardy! is playing on a small, decrepit-looking TV that's mounted to the wall. Alex Trebek flashes his pearly whites at the contestants, and Alex Draper catches sight of me and nearly chokes on his dinner.