Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Angel
The door slams harder than it needs to. Not because she’s angry, but because she’s done holding it together.
I stand in the middle of the living room with the echo still ringing in my ears, watching the space where she was, like I might see her again if I stare hard enough.
The keys jangle once as she tosses them on the side table on her way out, then nothing.
Just the low hum of the fridge. The quiet tick of the clock and the sound of my own breathing, too loud in a house that suddenly feels way too fuckin’ big.
She didn’t take a bag. Didn’t grab clothes or makeup or the damn vitamins lined up on the counter like a shrine. Just her jacket. Her phone. And whatever piece of herself she’s been trying to protect by not looking at me anymore.
“Fuck,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand down my face.
Every instinct in my body screams to chase her. Grab her wrist and pull her back. Make her sit down and talk until we fix it. But I know that look in her eyes.
I’ve seen it on brothers right before they ride into something they ain’t sure they’ll come back from. That faraway focus. That hard-set jaw. The way they go still because if they let themselves feel, they’ll lose their nerve.
You push them, you make it worse, and you corner them, and they bolt.
So, I let her go. And it might be the worst mistake I’ve ever made.
The house smells like the hospital again.
Antiseptic and grief, and that faint metallic note that doesn’t belong anywhere near a home.
It’s like it seeped into our walls, into the bedding, and into her hair.
Like the place is holding onto every loss even if we pretend, we ain’t.
I grab a dishcloth off the counter and wipe down a spotless surface just to have something to do.
My hands shake. Not from booze. Not from adrenaline.
From helplessness. That’s the part I can’t stand.
I can handle anger. I can handle violence.
Give me a problem with edges. Give me a threat with a face.
Don’t give me this slow bleed in my kitchen while I stand here like a man who’s forgotten how to move.
I rinse the cloth and wipe again. Then again. The counter gleams like it’s mocking me. She’s not here. Nothing I scrub is gonna change that. My gaze catches on the junk drawer. The one she thinks I don’t know about, but I know. Of course, I know. I’m not blind.
She’s been sliding it shut too quickly. Standing with her back angled, blocking my view. Acting as if she keeps it secret, I can’t see how deep this runs. I shouldn’t open it. I know I shouldn’t. But my fingers pull it out anyway.
Inside are batteries, spare keys, a lighter, some pens, a random screwdriver… and the notebook. Black cover with dog-eared pages. Her handwriting tight and sharp on the first page. I flip it open, and my chest tightens immediately.
Temperatures. Charts. Lines rising and dipping. Dates circled. Dates crossed out. Notes in the margins in her neat, frantic scrawl.
Don’t miss this window.
Cut caffeine completely.
Research progesterone again.
Ask doctor about supplements.
No hot baths.
No lifting heavy things.
Pineapple core??
Try legs elevated after sex.
It’s like reading someone’s private prayer.
Only this one’s written in fear. My throat works as I swallow hard.
This ain’t healing. This is punishment. This is her turning her own body into an enemy and deciding she can win the war if she just fights hard enough.
I flip another page. There’s a list that makes my stomach drop.
Things I did wrong last time:
Coffee.
Stress.
Crying.
Lifting grocery bags.
Sex too rough?
Didn’t take enough folate.
Didn’t rest enough.
Didn’t deserve it.
My vision blurs for a second.
“Jesus,” I whisper, voice rough.
Stevie, baby… no. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t deserve this.
I slam the notebook shut like it burned me and shove it back into the drawer, pushing it closed too hard. My chest feels like it’s caving in.
She’s not just grieving. She’s blaming herself in ink. And I didn’t stop it. I watched it happen because I was scared of saying the wrong thing. Now she’s out there alone with that madness in her head. And I’m standing in my kitchen like a man who’s lost control of his own home.
I grab my vest and keys. I need noise, movement, just something that isn’t this suffocating quiet.
The clubhouse is loud tonight. Too loud. Music pounding. Laughter spilling out from the bar. Glass clinking. Pool balls cracking. The world moving on like mine didn’t just tilt off its axis.
The neon sign hums like a swarm of bees. I step inside, and the smell hits me: beer, fried food, smoke from the back patio, sweat, and leather. Normally, it calms me. Tonight, it just makes me feel hollow. Tank spots me the second I walk in.
“You look like hell,” he says, already sliding a beer across the bar.
I don’t bother denying it. I down half the bottle in one go and feel nothing but cold.
“Stevie, okay?” he asks, quieter now.
I shake my head once. “She walked.”
Tank’s jaw tightens. “Where?”
“Didn’t say.”
Sarg leans in from the end of the bar, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “That bad?”
I let out a breath that feels like it’s been trapped in my lungs for weeks.
“She’s spiralin’,” I say. “Obsessed. Tryin’ to fix somethin’ that ain’t broken.”
Tank’s gaze hardens. “Her?”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
Sarg’s voice stays calm. “And you?”
I laugh, bitter and sharp. “Apparently watchin’ her do it.”
Tank sets his beer down hard enough that foam sloshes.
“You can’t let her drown just because you’re afraid of rockin’ the boat.”
“I have been tryin’,” I snap before I can stop myself. “Every word I say just pushes her further away.”
“Then maybe it ain’t about words,” Tank says. “Maybe it’s about callin’ in backup.”
My spine stiffens.
“She doesn’t want the club in this.”
“No,” Tank agrees. “But she might need it anyway.”
Sarg nods slowly. “Carrie’s already worried.”
“That’s the problem,” I growl. “Everyone’s worried. Everyone watches her like she’s glass. She can feel it. It makes her shut down more.”
“Then don’t watch her,” Tank says. “Stand with her.”
I grip the bottle so hard my knuckles ache.
Joker appears beside us like he’s been listening the whole time. Probably has.
“Where’d she go?” he asks, voice low.
“I don’t know.”
Joker studies me, eyes steady. “That don’t fucking sit right.”
“It don’t,” I admit quietly.
He nods once. “You call her?”
I hesitate. “I was gonna.”
Joker’s gaze is unblinking. “Go outside. Call her.”
I bristle instinctively at the order, then the feeling drains away because he’s right. I’m Road Captain, but Joker’s President. And right now, I’m a man who needs a shove to do the thing I’m scared of doing.
I step outside into the cool night air, phone heavy in my hand. The screen lights up with her name.
Stevie ??
My thumb hovers. I hit call. It rings. Once.
Twice. Three times. No answer, her voicemail kicks in.
I hang up before it can record my breathing.
My chest tightens. Where the hell is she?
I call again. Same thing. No answer. I stare at the phone until my eyes burn.
This is the part I can’t handle. The unknown. The waiting.
I lean my head back against the brick wall and let the cold air hit my face. Carrie finds me in the parking lot not long after. Carrie looks tired. Worried. Like she’s been carrying this for a while.
“She gone?” she asks softly.
I nod.
“She didn’t answer my texts,” Carrie says. “I figured.”
I lean against my bike, the metal cold through my shirt.
“I don’t know what to do anymore.”
Carrie’s eyes soften, but her voice stays steady. “You stop lettin’ her hurt alone.”
“She won’t talk to me.”
“Then listen when she does,” Carrie says. “And stop pretendin’ you can fix this by standin’ back.”
I swallow hard.
“She thinks if she just tries hard enough, it’ll all work out.”
“And you think watchin’ her bleed out is better?” she counters.
I don’t answer because she’s right. And I hate that I didn’t see it sooner.
“Angel,” she says gently, “I’ve been where she is. Tryin’ to control the pain. Tryin’ to make my body behave so I didn’t have to feel helpless.”
I look up at her then.
“And?” I ask quietly.
“And it damn near broke me,” Carrie says. “What saved me wasn’t a plan. It was someone sittin’ in the mess with me until I remembered how to breathe.”
The words settle deep. I think of Stevie’s notebook. That's the list of things she thinks she did wrong. That line…. didn’t deserve it. My throat tightens until it hurts.
“She’s gonna hate me,” I whisper.
Carrie shakes her head. “She might get mad. But that ain’t the same as hate. Don’t confuse her pain with rejection.”
I exhale hard.
“What if she doesn’t come back?” I ask, voice barely there.
Carrie’s gaze turns fierce. “Then you fight. Not with words that push her. With presence. With patience. With showing up even when she don’t make it easy.”
She pauses. “But I don’t think she’s leavin’ you, Angel. I think she’s runnin’ from herself.”
That sounds too true. I ride home alone. The road blurs under my tires, the wind slapping my face like it’s trying to knock sense into me. When I pull into the driveway, the house is dark and still. No porch light or movement behind the curtains.
Empty.
I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, hands resting on the grips, listening to the metal tick as it cools.
This is what I’m good at: war, roads, violence, and order out of chaos.
But this? This is watchin’ the woman I love slip through my fingers while I stand here afraid of sayin’ the wrong damn thing.
I walk inside, and the quiet hits like a punch. I move through the house without turning on lights, letting shadows swallow me. In the bedroom, her side of the bed is rumpled from where she got up, but it’s already cold.
I sit on the edge of it, elbows on my knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. For a long time, I don’t do anything. Just breathe and listen, feeling the weight of the house pressing down.
My phone buzzes. My heart jumps hard enough that it hurts. I grab it. A text. Not from Stevie. From Joker.
Find her?
I stare at the screen and feel something like panic claw at my ribs again. I type back.
No. She ain’t answering.
Joker responds almost instantly.
You want us to ride?
My jaw tightens. Part of me wants to say no. She doesn’t want the club in it. She’ll feel hunted. Cornered. But another part of me sees the notebook. Sees that list. Sees her walking out without a bag, like she didn’t trust herself to stay.
I text back.
Not yet. Give me an hour.
I stand and pace the bedroom, the hallway, and then the kitchen. The counter is still spotless from where I scrubbed it like a man possessed. I go to the junk drawer. Open it and pull out the notebook again. My hands shake as I flip to the page with the list.
Didn’t deserve it.
“No,” I whisper, voice rough. “No. No, baby.”
I close it and set it on the counter like a weapon I finally decided to look at. Then I pull my phone out and stare at her name again.
Stevie ??
I type. Delete. Type again. Delete.
Please come home.
Delete.
I’m sorry.
Delete.
I love you.
That one stays.
Then I add more because Carrie was right. Words won’t fix this. But silence will kill it.
I love you. I’m not mad. I’m scared. Please just tell me you’re safe.
I hit send before I can overthink it. Then I sit at the kitchen table and wait. Heart pounding like it’s the first time I ever rode into a fight I couldn’t see my way out of. Minutes pass. Ten. Twenty. My knee bounces under the table. I open and close my hands, check the door, and check my phone.
And then… finally… three dots appear. My breath catches. The message comes through:
I’m safe. I just needed air.
I exhale so hard my chest aches. Then I type back, hands shaking.
Where are you? I’ll come get you.
No dots. No reply. The silence stretches. My jaw clenches. I force myself to breathe. Respect her space, I remind myself. But that vow I made inside my bones doesn’t bend. I won’t let her do this alone anymore. Even if it scares her. Even if it scares me.
Because loving her means stepping into the fire with her. Not watching from the edge while she burns. I grab my keys and stand. If she won’t tell me where she is, I’ll start where I can.
Her sister.
Carrie.
Pandora.
The places Stevie runs when she doesn’t want to be found. Because tonight, I’m done being afraid of saying the wrong thing. Tonight, I’m choosing her….out loud. And if I have to ride through hell to bring her back to herself… Then Hell better get out of my way.