Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Angel
You learn early in this life how to spot damage. Bent metal. Leakin’ oil. Blood on asphalt. The kind of hurt that shows itself loud and fast, demandin’ attention before it kills you.
You see it in the way a bike wobbles when the frame’s off, a man walks after he’s taken one too many hits, and a prospect flinches before a fight, he swears he ain’t scared of. Damage is usually obvious.
Stevie’s ain’t. It’s quiet, and that scares the fuck outta me.
She doesn’t cry anymore, doesn’t throw shit across the room or slam doors or break down in the shower where she thinks I can’t hear her.
That first miscarriage? She shattered. Second?
She sobbed into my chest like the world had ended.
This time…. she went still, not numb but focused, and that’s worse.
Focused means energy and direction, and she’s pointed that grief somewhere. And I’m not sure I like where.
She wakes up early now, before me, and slips outta bed like she doesn’t wanna disturb me, even though she used to crawl on top of me and steal my warmth like it was her birthright. Used to wake me up with kisses down my chest and a grin that made me forget I’d ever bled for anything.
Now, when I wake up, her side of the bed is cold, sheets smooth, and pillow undented.
I find her in the kitchen most mornings.
Already dressed, hair tied back tight with a tablet open, her phone in hand.
That little black notebook she keeps tucked in the junk drawer spread out like a war map.
Steam curls from a mug that ain’t coffee with the smoothie blender humming.
Vitamins lined up in her cupboard like ammo.
I stand in the doorway and watch her sometimes before she realizes I’m there.
Temp, cycle, ovulation, and supplements.
I catch the words upside down when she flips the notebook closed too slowly.
She eats differently now. No caffeine, no sugar, no bacon at the diner with the guys and me on Saturdays, and the late-night burgers when we don’t feel like cooking have stopped.
Just green shit that smells like dirt and discipline.
I try not to say anything, don’t wanna be the man who tells his woman how to grieve. But I don’t know how to help when grief turns into somethin’ sharp. We make love like it’s a job now. Scheduled. Timed. There’s a window. A fertile one. She knows the days down to the hour.
She climbs into my lap and kisses me like she means it, but there’s something behind her eyes that ain’t me. I try to lose myself in her, the feel of her skin, the way she used to moan my name like it was the only word that mattered, but now I feel like part of a process.
When it’s over, she rolls away too quickly and reaches for her phone. Taps something into an app before the sheets even cool. I lie there afterward, staring at the ceiling, wonderin’ when my bed turned into another battlefield.
The brothers notice, of course, they always do. You don’t run a club this long without learnin’ how to read the signs. I’m at the clubhouse, beers sweatin’ on the scarred wood table, noise hummin’ around us, cards slappin’, someone shoutin’ at a game on TV, and the low rumble of engines out back.
Joker watches me for a long second.
“You look like fucking shit.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter.
“That’s a concern, Road Captain.”
Wire leans back in his chair, glasses catching the light. “Stevie, okay?”
The question hits harder than it should.
“She’s… tryin’,” I say, which ain’t an answer.
Tank snorts. “That woman’s always tryin’. Question is, what’s it costin’ her?”
I bristle automatically. “She’s fine.”
Wire raises an eyebrow. “Angel.”
I drag a hand over my face. “We lost another one.”
Silence settles around the table and feels heavy. The kind only men who’ve buried shit together understand.
Tank’s jaw tightens. “Fuck.”
Joker nods once, slowly. “She didn’t tell Carrie.”
“No one’s sayin’ anything,” I add. “She didn’t want the club knowin’. Didn’t want pity.”
“She ever?” Wire murmurs.
Tank shifts forward, elbows on his knees. His usually smiling face is serious now. No smirk or easy grin.
“Brother, don’t let her isolate herself from the ol’ ladies. You know Carrie, Pandora, Tallulah, and April would all be there for her. Just like we are all here for you. No one is alone.”
I nod. But I ain’t got a reply in me. Because I know he’s right. And I know I’ve been lettin’ it happen anyway.
Carrie corners me two days later. Right there in the clubhouse kitchen. Polly’s on her hip. Beau’s at the table, homework spread out, pencil clenched between his teeth; she doesn’t waste time.
“What’s goin’ on with Stevie?”
I stiffen. “She’s busy.”
“Busy,” she repeats flatly. “She missed RJ’s birthday. She hasn’t been by the house in weeks. She won’t answer my texts.”
My chest tightens.
“She’s dealin’ with some stuff.”
Carrie’s eyes soften, but there’s steel underneath.
“Angel… I know what grief looks like. And I know what avoidance looks like, too.”
I swallow.
“She’s just focused on gettin’ healthy. Doctors said….”
“Angel.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Is she okay?”
That’s the question, ain’t it? And I don’t know the answer.
“She’s tryin’ so fucking hard,” I say quietly. “And I don’t know how to help without makin’ it worse.”
Carrie shifts Polly higher on her hip.
“You don’t fix this by lettin’ her disappear.”
“I’m not…”
“You are,” she cuts in gently. “You’re watchin’ her drown because you’re afraid of sayin’ the wrong thing.”
That one lands hard and right in my chest.
“Sometimes,” Carrie adds softly, “lovin’ someone means sittin’ in the mess with ‘em. Even when it’s ugly.”
She kisses Polly’s head and walks away, leaving me standin’ there with a knot in my chest and too many fuckin’ thoughts.
That night, I sit on the edge of the bed while Stevie showers. The water runs too long, and steam creeps under the door. I listen, not for crying but for silence. Because that’s what scares me now.
She comes out wrapped in a towel, hair damp, skin flushed from the heat. Her eyes go straight to her phone on the dresser.
“Can we talk?” I ask. She freezes, just for a second.
Then nods. “Sure.”
That scares me too because she used to argue, fight, and feel. Now she just agrees.
I pat the mattress beside me. She sits with the towel tucked tight, her body angled away like she’s bracin’ for impact.
“I’m worried about you,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” She stiffens.
“You’re disappearin’ right in front of me.”
Her jaw tightens. “I’m tryin’ to fix this.”
“This ain’t somethin’ you fix alone.”
She finally looks at me then, her eyes sharp.
“What’s the alternative, Angel? Give up?”
“No.”
“Then let me do this.”
“At what cost?”
Her lips press thin.
“I can’t talk about this right now.”
And just like that, she’s gone again, into the bathroom, and the door is closing softly.
I sit there for a long time. The bed is still warm where she was.
And I realize somethin’ that twists my gut raw.
She’s fightin’ her body like it’s the enemy.
And I don’t know how to stand between them without losin’ her altogether.
Because if I push too hard, she’ll see me as another obstacle, something she has to fight through. And if I stay quiet, she’ll disappear completely.
I’ve led men into gunfire. Negotiated peace between clubs that wanted blood. Buried brothers and kept my head clear enough to hold the line.
But this? This quiet war in my own house—I don’t know the right move. All I know is the woman I married used to laugh loudly, pull me into the shower with her, and lean across the table at the diner and steal fries off my plate like she owned the world.
Now she owns a notebook. An app. A schedule. And I’m startin’ to feel like I’m just a means to an end. That thought alone makes me feel like the worst kind of man. Because I know that ain’t her intention. But intention don’t stop impact.
I lie down beside her when she finally comes to bed, and she faces away from me. Phone glowing in her hand. I reach out anyway and wrap my arm around her waist. She goes still for a second and then lets me.
I press my face into her shoulder and breathe her in. Shampoo. Soap. That faint, sterile scent that still won’t leave.
“I love you,” I murmur.
“I know,” she whispers.
And that’s when it hits me hardest. She didn’t say it back. Not because she doesn’t. But because right now, love ain’t the fight she’s focused on winning.
And I’m standin’ on the sidelines of a war I don’t know how to stop.