Angel (Sons Of Havoc MC Texas Chapter #7)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Stevie

The road home from the hospital feels longer every time.

Same stretch of highway with cracked asphalt and faded billboard for a lawyer who promises justice like it’s something you can order through a drive-thru window.

The radio station Angel forgets to turn off because it’s always been background noise in our lives.

But somehow, every mile weighs heavier than the last. Like the universe is stretching the distance just to punish me a little more. Like it wants me to sit in it longer. The sky is gray and low, threatening rain but never committing. It matches the inside of my chest.

The seatbelt digs into my collarbone, too tight and sharp.

I adjust it, then adjust it again, like maybe discomfort is something I can fix.

The smell of antiseptic still clings to my skin, even though I scrubbed my hands raw in the hospital bathroom before we left.

I can still see the sink. The industrial soap dispenser.

The paper towels that shredded under my grip.

I keep flexing my fingers now, in the truck. Over and over. Like I might shake the feeling loose. It doesn’t work; nothing does.

Angel’s driving. Both hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched. Eyes fixed straight ahead, like if he looks at me too long, he might break, or I might. His vest is folded on the back seat. He didn’t wear it inside; he never does for this. He says hospitals don’t need patches.

I study the side of his face. The scar along his jaw from a fight years ago. The faint crease between his brows that only shows when he’s trying not to feel something. Neither of us speaks. We’ve gotten good at this silence. Too good.

The doctor’s words replay in my head on a loop, calm and clinical and devastating all at once.

I’m sorry. There’s nothing you did wrong. These things happen.

They always say that. They never say how many times they’re supposed to happen before it stops hurting quite so much. Before your heart learns not to hope and your body stops feeling like a traitor.

I press my palm flat against my stomach, just under my ribs, like maybe I can feel the ghost of something that was never meant to stay.

It was there, I know it was. I saw the faint line.

I felt the flutter of possibility. I let myself imagine for a second.

Just one second. Angel standing in the kitchen holding a tiny bundle.

The clubhouse cheering. Carrie crying. Tank pretending not to. And now it’s gone, once again.

I swallow hard and stare out the window. The trees blur past. A gas station sign flickers. Life goes on as if nothing happened. I won’t cry. Not here, it's not the time. Not with Angel gripping the wheel like he’s barely holding himself together.

He’s trying, I know he is. Trying to be strong and steady. To be the Road Captain who doesn’t crack. But I don’t need him to be strong. I need him to be present.

I open my mouth, then close it again.

What am I supposed to say?

Sorry, my body keeps failing us.

Sorry, I got my hopes up again.

Sorry, I can’t give you the one thing I know you’d be an incredible father at?

The words get stuck somewhere between my chest and my throat. Heavy. Sharp. Unmovable. Angel clears his throat.

“You want me to stop anywhere? Get you something?”

His voice is careful. Like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

I shake my head. “No.”

My voice sounds wrong. Flat. Hollow. Like it belongs to someone else. He nods once and reaches to turn the radio down another notch. The soft guitar riff fades into almost nothing. Like silence at a lower volume won’t still crush us.

I remember when drives like this used to be different. When we’d sing along to old rock songs, badly and loudly.

When his hand would rest on my thigh at red lights.

When I’d lean my head against his shoulder and feel like the world could do whatever it wanted because we had each other.

When the future felt wide open.

Now the future feels like a wall I keep slamming into. And I’m the only one bleeding.

The truck turns onto our road. Gravel crunches under the tires. The house comes into view, the porch light still on from this morning when we left in a rush, thinking maybe this time would be different. By the time we pull into the driveway, I feel hollowed out.

Angel kills the engine. But he doesn’t move. His hands are still on the wheel, his knuckles are white, and I can see the vein in his neck pulsing. He looks like he wants to say something. Like there’s a war happening behind his eyes. I can’t handle a war right now.

“I’m gonna shower,” I say, already reaching for the door handle.

“Stevie,” he starts.

I pause but don’t look at him. I don’t trust myself if I do.

“I just need a minute.”

Silence stretches.

“Yeah,” he says finally.

Okay, but his voice sounds… smaller. Defeated. And I hate that I’m the reason for it.

Inside, the house feels too quiet and still. Like it knows. The kitchen clock ticks louder than usual. The fridge hums. Everything is normal. Which feels offensive.

I head straight to the bathroom, closing the door, I strip mechanically and step into the shower and crank the water as hot as it’ll go. Steam fills the room fast, fogging the mirror until I don’t have to see myself anymore.

The blood came fast this time. That’s what the nurse said. Like it was a small mercy and meant I wouldn’t have to wait and wonder.

I brace my hands against the tile and let the water pound over my shoulders.

It’s almost painful, grounding. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. No scream comes or sob that racks my body.

Just a slow leak. Tears mix with steam and water and disappear down the drain like everything else has.

I don’t know how long I sit there. Long enough for the water to cool and the ache to settle deeper instead of sharper. When I finally step out, my skin is red, and my eyes are dry again.

Angel is sitting on the edge of the bed when I walk into the bedroom. Elbows on his knees. Hands clasped. He looks up at me, and the question is there, written across his face.

Are you okay?

I nod before he can ask it. He stands, crosses the room in two steps, and pulls me into his chest. I go, and I let him embrace me. His arms are tight around me. Protective. Like, he can physically shield me from what just happened.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair. The words hit wrong.

“Don’t,” I say quietly.

“I just….”

“It’s not your fault.”

He exhales hard. “I know that. I just hate seein’ you hurt.”

I rest my cheek against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Steady, strong, and reliable.

“Me too,” I whisper.

He kisses the top of my head, and we climb into bed even though it’s barely evening. We don’t turn on the TV. We don’t talk about it; we just lie there together. His arm draped over my waist, guarding me.

He falls asleep before I do; he always does. Angel sleeps like he stands watch. Deep. Solid. Ready. I stare at the ceiling and feel something changing inside me. Not grief. Grief is soft and heavy. This is sharper.

I reach for my phone. The glow lights up the dark room, and I angle it away, so it doesn’t wake him. Search after search after search.

How to prevent miscarriage.

Best supplements for fertility.

Foods to boost progesterone.

What causes recurrent loss?

How to increase implantation success.

Article after article. Forum after forum.

Women who tried longer, who tried harder, and cut out caffeine, sugar, dairy, and gluten. Those who swore by pineapple cores, warm socks, and not standing up too fast.

Control. That’s what this is about. If I can control my body, maybe it won’t betray me again. I downloaded an app. Then another. Cycle tracking. Basal body temperature monitoring. Ovulation prediction.

I order vitamins I’ve never heard of but swear by anyway.

Magnesium

CoQ10.

Folate.

Iron.

Vitamin D.

If there’s something I can do, I’ll do it. I prop myself up carefully and take my temperature, recording it in the app. Same time every night. Same position. Same method.

Routine.

Data.

Proof.

Angel shifts beside me.

“You okay, baby?” he mumbles, half asleep.

“Yeah,” I whisper quickly. “Just tired.”

He hums softly and pulls me closer, his hand settling possessively at my hip. I lie there stiff in his arms, staring at the glow of my phone screen. Already planning meals. Cutting out caffeine. Sugar. Alcohol. Anything that might make this my fault again.

I don’t tell him about the apps. About the supplements.

About the circled dates already forming in my head.

Because if I say it out loud, it becomes real.

And if it becomes real, then failing again will hurt even worse.

So, I keep it to myself. And somewhere between the steam and the silence and the glowing screen in the dark…

Something inside me shifts. I stop grieving and start trying. Obsessively. Desperately. Like if I just want it badly enough, control every variable, and become disciplined enough, then my body will finally listen.

And this time… It won’t let go.