Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Angel
The clubhouse is loud in that good way, the end-of-day kind of noise.
Cards slap the table in the corner like someone’s trying to win a war with poker chips.
Someone’s arguing about engine timing by the bar, voices rising and falling like it’s life or death.
The music hums low through the speakers, bass vibrating in the walls.
The air smells like beer, sweat, leather, and grilled meat.
Home. I’m leaning against the counter, half listening to Wrench talk about a stubborn bolt on a Harley build, half watching the door like my body knows something my brain hasn’t caught up to yet. It’s not paranoia. It’s instinct.
It’s the same thing that makes me check mirrors on a run, clock the way someone walks into a room, note the way a brother’s shoulders sit when something’s off. And something’s off. Not bad. Not danger. Just… a shift in the air.
My phone’s in my pocket, but I can feel it like a heartbeat.
I’ve checked it twice already without a reason, thumb hovering over Stevie’s name like touching it might bring luck.
She went for a laydown, she was tired. Said her back was killing her.
Said the babies were using her ribs as a damn jungle gym.
She’d kissed me on the mouth and told me to stop looking at her like she might disappear.
And I’d promised I would. I’m trying. But promises don’t do shit against fear you’ve lived through. Wrench is still talking, hands moving like he’s shaping the story in the air. “I’m tellin’ you, man, if he would’ve just listened the first time instead of...”
The doors slam open. Tank bursts in at a dead run. Which would be impressive, if he didn’t immediately catch his boot on a stray chair leg and go airborne. Full extension. Arms windmilling. A sound like a bowling ball hitting a beer-soaked floor.
He crashes hard enough to rattle the walls.
For half a second, the entire clubhouse goes dead silent.
Even the music seems to hesitate. Joker blinks slowly from the table, like he’s trying to decide if he’s pissed or amused.
Wire freezes mid-sip of his drink. Wrench stops mid-word. Tank groans from the floor.
“I’m fine,” he says, voice muffled because his face is still pressed into the wood.
Joker exhales. “Jesus Christ.”
Someone snorts. Someone else laughs, then tries to turn it into a cough when Joker shoots them a look.
“You good?” I call, already pushing off the counter.
Tank rolls onto his back like a flipped turtle, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
“You always enter a room like a fuckin’ grenade?” Sarg mutters.
Tank lifts a hand. “It was tactical.”
Wrench deadpans. “It was gravity.”
Joker rubs his forehead. “That man is a liability.”
Then Pandora appears in the doorway behind Tank. Hands on her hips. Eyes sharp. Expression like she’s about to execute someone but might kiss them first. She looks down at Tank like he’s a disobedient puppy.
“You are idiot,” she says fondly. “A large, loud idiot.”
Tank grins from the floor. “Missed you too, baby.”
Pandora doesn’t even bend. She just hooks her fingers into the back of his vest and hauls him upright like he weighs nothing.
Tank stumbles, startled more by the ease of it than the impact.
I’m watching the scene, half amused, half ready to tell Tank to quit running indoors like a toddler and then Stevie walks in behind them.
My amusement dies instantly. She’s pale.
Not sick pale, focused pale. The kind of pale that comes from pain being handled with discipline.
One hand braced on the doorframe. The other cradling her stomach like she’s holding the world together by sheer will.
Her hair is pulled back, messy, and she’s got that look in her eyes that tells me she’s had to talk herself down from panic already.
She takes one step inside and stops, eyes flicking to Tank, still dusting himself off.
“Oh,” she says dryly. “Perfect. Dramatic entrance ruined.”
My heart drops into my boots. I’m across the room in two strides.
“Baby.”
She exhales through clenched teeth. “Okay. So. Don’t panic.”
That’s never a good sign. “I’m panicking,” I tell her honestly, hands already on her hips, steadying her.
She rolls her eyes, actually rolls them, then winces, breath catching. Her hand tightens against her belly.
“I’m in labor,” she says.
The clubhouse explodes.
“WHAT?”
“NOW?”
“CALL DOC!”
“GET THE TRUCK!”
“NO, THE BIKE!”
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
“WHO’S GOT A TOWEL?”
“WHY WOULD YOU NEED A TOWEL?”
Tank’s mouth falls open. “Wait like… real labor?”
Pandora smacks his arm. “Yes. Real. Not fake.”
Joker is already standing, voice sharp, barking orders. “Phones out. Doc…where the fuck is Doc? Someone call him. Angel”
“I’ve got her,” I cut in, voice steady even as my insides riot.
Stevie grips my arm, breath shaky but controlled. “We practiced this.”
“We did,” I say. She swallows, eyes pinched.
“And I’m not doing it in here,” she adds, glancing around at the men suddenly moving like headless chickens.
Tank lifts both hands. “I can clear a path!”
Pandora glares. “You will not run. You will walk like an adult.”
Tank mutters, “I am an adult.”
Pandora’s eyes narrow. “You fell.” That gets a laugh despite the tension.
Stevie huffs, then jerks as another contraction hits, fingers digging into my bicep.
“Okay,” she pants. “Okay. That one was… real.”
Everything inside me sharpens. The world snaps into focus like a switch got flipped. Doc appears like he teleported, shoving through bodies.
“How far apart?” he asks immediately, already looking at Stevie like she’s a patient and not the woman I’d burn the world down for.
Stevie closes her eyes, counts under her breath. “About… five minutes.”
Doc nods once, crisp. “Hospital. Now.”
Joker points. “Truck. Angel drives.”
Stevie snaps her eyes open. “No. Absolutely not.”
My head whips to her. “Excuse me?”
She glares through pain. “You drive like a man possessed when you’re stressed.”
“I do not.”
Carrie’s voice cuts in from behind us. “You do.”
I turn my head and there she is. Carrie, eyes bright and fierce, Polly on her hip and Beau at her side. Like she sensed this before it happened.
“You were at the clubhouse?” Stevie gasps between breaths.
Carrie smirks. “I had a feeling.” Of course she did. Carrie has that sixth sense for her people.
Stevie points at me with a shaky hand. “See? Even she knows you drive like an idiot.”
“I don’t—”
Carrie interrupts sweetly. “You do.”
Joker barks a laugh. “She’s outnumbered you, brother.”
I grit my teeth and hold Stevie tighter. “Fine. I’ll drive calm.”
Stevie arches a brow. “You swear?”
I lean in close. “On my patch.”
Her expression softens just a fraction. “Okay.”
Doc snaps, “Move. Now.”
The room turns into organized chaos. Chairs scraped aside. Doors thrown open. Someone kills the music. Someone else grabs Stevie’s bag from behind the bar because of course the old ladies packed one and left it there like this was inevitable.
Pandora is already moving with lethal efficiency, shoving Tank toward the door.
“Move,” she orders.
Tank stumbles. “I’m moving, I’m moving.”
“Faster,” Pandora snaps.
“Woman, I’ve got long legs.”
Pandora points at him. “And yet you trip.”
Tank shuts up and hustles. Outside, engines roar to life. The sun is dipping low, painting the sky orange and violent. Headlights cut through the dusk. Bikes roll into position without being told because this is what we do. When one of ours needs something, the whole damn club moves.
I guide Stevie down the steps carefully. She stops, jaw clenched, breathing hard.
“You, okay?” I ask, voice low. Just for her.
She nods, eyes squeezed shut. “I hate you.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
She opens her eyes and glares. “Not you. My body. I hate my body right now.”
That hits me right in the chest. I cup her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
She swallows, pain flickering. “It hurts.”
“I know,” I say. “But your body ain’t the enemy.”
Her eyes glisten. She doesn’t speak. Just nods once, tight.
I kiss her forehead. “You’re doing it. You hear me? You’re doing the damn thing.”
Her mouth trembles, then she lets out a shaky laugh. “You sound like Tank.”
“Don’t insult me,” I mutter.
She snorts, then hisses as another wave hits.
“Okay,” she pants. “Okay, go. Go now.”
I get her into the truck carefully, hands steady even though my heart’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs. I buckle her in. She grabs my wrist before I can close the door.
“Angel,” she says, voice low and serious, eyes locked on mine. “No matter what happens…”
“Hey,” I interrupt softly, leaning in until my forehead rests against hers. “We’re doing this. Together. Remember?”
She breathes through her nose, eyes shining.
“Yeah,” she whispers. “Together.”
Another contraction hits. She sucks in a breath, nails biting into my arm like she’s holding on to the only solid thing in the world. I grin like a lunatic because I don’t know what else to do with the surge of love and fear in my chest.
“That’s my girl.”
Pandora leans in from the other side, brushing Stevie’s hair back.
“You are strong,” she says, voice firm. “And if you break him, I will forgive you.”
Stevie laughs through the pain. “Deal.”
Tank slams the passenger door shut and points down the road like he’s directing a military convoy.
“Go,” he orders. “We’ll follow.”
Joker’s already on his bike, Beau watching wide-eyed from the clubhouse steps with Carrie’s hand on his shoulder. I slide into the driver’s seat. Hands on the wheel.
Breathe.
Slow.
Steady.
I start the engine, and the rumble feels like a promise.
As we pull out, bikes fall in behind us, headlights blazing, brothers flanking us like a moving wall. It’s ridiculous. Over the top. And it’s exactly right. Stevie grips my hand with a death hold, breathing through another wave.
“This is it,” she whispers.
I squeeze back, voice rough and sure. “Yeah, baby. It is.”
We tear down the road toward the hospital, the convoy behind us like a heartbeat on asphalt. Stevie groans as another contraction rolls through her, head tipping back against the seat.
“Fuck,” she breathes.
“You’re allowed to swear,” I say, eyes flicking to her. “In fact, I encourage it.”
She shoots me a look that’s equal parts murderous and amused. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m hilarious,” I argue. Another wave hits her. She squeezes my hand so hard I swear my bones shift.
“Okay,” she pants. “Okay… it’s…”
“Breathe,” I say softly. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Just like we practiced.”
She glares. “I hate practice.”
I swallow a laugh. “Too bad.”
She breathes. She does it. And I watch her, this woman who once fell apart in grief, who once disappeared into fear, sit here now in the middle of chaos and pain and do the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Angel,” she whispers suddenly, eyes glossy.
“Yeah?”
“If I say something mean.”
“You can,” I cut in. “Say whatever you need.”
She laughs weakly. “I might call you names.”
“I’ve been called worse,” I mutter.
“Like what?” she gasps.
I glance at her. “Tank once called me ‘romantic’ as an insult.”
Stevie lets out a strangled laugh that turns into a groan. “Okay…. okay…. don’t…don’t make me laugh.”
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “But I’m right here. You hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”
Her fingers tighten around mine. “I know,” she whispers.
And that, that right there, that’s the fucking miracle. Not just the babies. Not just labor. Not just the fact we made it to this point. It’s that she believes me. We hit a bump in the road and she curses.
I grit my teeth. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” she pants. “Just… hurry.”
“I’m going as fast as I can without getting pulled over,” I say.
She looks at me like she might bite me. “I swear to God, Angel.”
“Okay,” I bark, then soften immediately. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’m going.”
Her breathing changes again. I know it now. I know her rhythms, her cues, the way she holds herself when she’s about to be pulled under. I tighten my grip on her hand.
“You’re doing it,” I tell her again. “You’re so fucking strong.”
“Don’t,” she whispers.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t look at me like you’re proud,” she says through gritted teeth. “It makes me want to cry.” My throat tightens.
“I am proud,” I say anyway. “Deal with it.”
She makes a noise that is half sob, half laugh. Then another contraction hits and she mutters, “I hate you.”
I smirk. “You love me.”
“Not right now.”
“Yes, right now,” I insist.
“Angel”
“Stevie,” I cut in softly. “Listen. Whatever happens in there. Whatever happens—”
Her eyes widen. “Don’t.”
I swallow hard and nod. “Okay. I won’t.”
I don’t speak the fear out loud.
I don’t give it shape.
I just keep driving.
Keep breathing.
Keep holding her hand like it’s the only thing keeping the world from splitting in half.
The hospital sign appears ahead. Stevie exhales a shaky breath that sounds like relief and terror all tangled up.
“We’re here,” I say, voice rough. “We’re here.”
And as I pull into the emergency entrance and the brothers’ bikes roll in behind us like a damn cavalry, I realize something wild and steady all at once.
All the waiting, the fear and the almosts.
They brought us here. And I’ve never been more ready for chaos in my life.
Because this time, this time, I’m not just surviving.
I’m here. I’m present. And we’re about to meet the future face to face together.