Chapter 19 Melissa
Melissa
I’d heard that when people knew they were about to die, their world got small.
Not big and dramatic—just small, every little detail crowding in on itself until all that was left was the scrape of a pen, the clatter of a zipper, the way your own heart made your ribs tick like a bomb.
That’s how it was in Augustine’s room the night before the Stone Lake fight.
The walls pressed in, every muffled shout from the war council below landing like a hammer behind my eyes, a reminder that every bastard in the clubhouse was planning for a tomorrow I wasn’t sure I’d see.
I sat cross-legged on the floor, a battered duffel in front of me.
It still had his old Army patch on the strap, edges curling, the name faded out by years of weather and blood and whatever else it was that turned men into legends.
I packed slow. Careful. I laid in a change of clothes—jeans, black tank, socks with the toes already going thin.
Next was my toothbrush, a travel tube of Crest swiped from a gas station, the cheap plastic comb Augustine always stole from motels.
I added a small wad of cash, maybe seventy bucks all told, rubber-banded together and tucked inside my sock.
I wanted to leave the rest of his shit untouched, like I was just visiting and would be back after a long weekend.
Like I wasn’t about to ghost on the only person who’d ever bled for me.
My hands shook so bad I almost dropped the Gatorade bottle I’d filled from the bar sink.
I took a slow breath, held it, counted to five.
It helped, but not enough. I kept thinking about the things I should say, the way goodbye tasted when you bit down hard enough to keep from screaming.
But the only words that came were the old ones, the ones I’d used up years ago.
I dug a notebook out of the duffel’s side pocket—a battered spiral with half the pages torn out. The first blank leaf was stained with something black, probably motor oil or coffee. It didn’t matter. I uncapped the pen and started writing.
Augie—
I’m sorry. I know this is the worst way to go, but I can’t let you die for me.
I can’t watch you go up against Saint and pretend it’s for the club, when I know it’s just for me.
I should’ve run days ago. Maybe you’ll hate me for this, maybe you won’t.
I hope not. But I’d rather disappear forever than see you in a box.
You were right—I don’t get happy endings.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t try to save someone else’s.
I love you. I always did, even when I pretended not to.
- M
It wasn’t Shakespeare, but it would have to do.
I folded the note into a tiny square and set it dead center on the pillow, like a flag.
The sheet still smelled like his sweat and whatever body spray he borrowed from the last prospect who tried to impress him.
I pressed my fingers into the mattress, just once, trying to memorize the feeling.
A shadow drifted under the door. I froze, heart stuttering, but it passed on. War council, round two. It was now or never.
I slung the duffel over my shoulder and crept to the door, putting my ear flat against the battered wood. The hallway was quiet, just the distant thump of boots and the occasional cough. I twisted the knob slow, slow, praying the click wouldn’t wake the dead.
It opened clean. I slipped out, closing it soft behind me.
The second floor of the clubhouse was a maze—painted cinderblock and threadbare carpet, the kind of place you could get lost in even if you’d been living there for years.
Most of the rooms were dark. I moved fast past the open doors, counting sleeping bodies as I went.
Carl Dalton’s arm was slung up in a makeshift cast, his mouth open, dead to the world.
Two prospects were curled together in a dogpile near the top of the stairs, snoring through the crash of their own sinuses.
One of them had a hand still wrapped around a beer can, knuckles white.
Down the hall, near the balcony, I heard the faint sound of arguing—Seneca’s voice, sharp as a razor, and Damron’s reply, lower and more dangerous. They didn’t know I was out here. Nobody did. If I played it right, I could be gone before sunrise and nobody would be the wiser.
I tiptoed past church, where the map still glowed under the shitty fluorescent light.
Nobody inside. I pressed on, following the layout in my head: left past the armory, right through the busted double doors, then down the stairs to the loading dock and out the side.
The back door had a trick to it—push in while lifting the handle, and it didn’t squeal like a stuck pig.
I’d watched Augustine do it a hundred times.
I did it now, careful, and stepped out into the night.
The air was cold enough to make my teeth ache.
I kept my head down, moving through the rows of silent bikes.
The moon was half-up, painting everything silver and blue, every shadow stretched thin and hungry across the concrete.
I kept to the edge of the lot, ducking behind the blacked-out Chevy that doubled as the club’s rolling storage locker.
Ten more feet, and I’d be past the gate. Then it was just the open road, and whatever scraps of freedom I could claw together before Cutler or the Scythes or the fucking Feds put me back in the ground.
I put my hand on the gate latch, heart hammering, and that’s when I heard it.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
His voice was a gunshot, echoing off the chain link and the cold. I turned, slow, and saw him—Augustine, boots spread, arms crossed, his whole body blocking the gap in the fence. He looked bigger than usual, more real. His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the line of muscle from here.
I didn’t let go of the duffel. Didn’t back down.
“I’m leaving,” I said, steady. “Don’t try to stop me.”
He just stared, eyes gone dark and bottomless. For a second, I thought he might lunge, but he stayed still, a statue carved out of regret.
“You think I’d let you do that?” he said, quieter this time.
I looked away, blinking back the stupid tears. “It’s not about what you’d let me do. It’s about what I have to do.”
He stepped closer, boots scraping the concrete. “And what’s that, exactly?”
I wanted to scream, or hit him, or both. Instead, I said, “I’m saving your life, you dumb shit. If I’m not here, you don’t have to fight Saint. The club gets their peace, and you get to keep all your teeth.”
He was five feet away now, his hands loose at his sides. “You really think I give a fuck about my teeth?”
I laughed, sharp and ugly. “No, I think you care about being the hero. I think you want to die for something because it’s easier than living with me.”
He closed the rest of the distance, slow and deliberate. “You don’t get to decide who I fight for.”
I matched his stare, pulse loud in my ears. “You don’t get to die for me. Not when I can stop it.”
He looked at the duffel, then at my face, then at the clubhouse behind us. “If you walk out that gate, you’re not coming back,” he said.
I set my jaw. “I know.”
He nodded, once, like he’d already written this scene and just wanted to see if I’d change the script.
“Then run,” he said, voice flat. “But don’t think for a second that I’m going to stop fighting. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
I hesitated, just for a second. “I love you,” I said. It came out small, weak.
He didn’t answer, not with words. Just stared a hole through me, as if maybe that would keep me rooted to this shit-pile of a town forever.
I turned, swung the duffel over my shoulder, and pushed through the gate.
But I could feel his eyes on me, the whole way down the road.
***
It’s true what they say about running—doesn’t matter how fast you are, your ghosts always keep pace.
I’d made it maybe half a block past the compound when the sound of boots came up behind me, steady and pissed off, crushing gravel like vertebrae.
For a second, I thought about picking up speed, but it was no use.
Augustine always found me, even when I didn’t want to be found.
He grabbed my shoulder, hard, spinning me around so fast the duffel nearly flew off my back.
He didn’t say a word, just marched me back through the dark, up the loading ramp, past the line of silent bikes, and into the half-lit corridor by the garage.
The air inside was stale with cigarette smoke and Lysol, and the linoleum stuck to my boots with every step.
He didn’t stop until he’d backed me against the cinderblock wall, the duffel pressed between us like a bomb.
“Want to try that again?” he said. His voice was a razor, but his eyes were on fire. “Tell me what the fuck you’re thinking, Mel.”
I tried to wrench away, but he had both arms caging me in, big as they were. The veins in his forearms stood out, pale blue against the bruises and tattooed names of men who’d died for less. I pushed at his chest with the heel of my hand, but it was like trying to move a statue.
“Let go,” I snapped. “This isn’t your problem.”
He laughed, a single breath with no humor in it. “Bullshit. Everything about you is my problem.”
I could smell the bourbon on his breath, the sweat in his shirt, the iron tang of blood from the cuts he’d barely bothered to bandage. “If you care, you’ll let me go. I’m giving you a free pass. You can walk away from this.”
His face did a slow twist, like he was chewing through every stupid decision that led him here. “You think I want a pass?”
I looked away, not trusting my voice. “I think you deserve one.”
He reached up, snatched the duffel out of my grip, and chucked it across the hall. It hit the wall with a thud and tumbled to the floor, spilling a pair of socks and the notebook I’d written his goodbye in. I made a move to grab it, but he stepped in, closing the gap, his body hot against mine.