Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Bloodhound
The silence is the worst part.
It's been three days since I dropped Vanna off at the facility, and I haven't heard a word.
No phone calls. No updates.
Nothing but the endless, suffocating quiet of my room at the clubhouse and the thoughts I can't escape no matter how hard I try.
They told me this would happen.
The intake counselor explained it all—no outside contact during the first phase of detox.
It's supposed to help the residents focus on themselves, on their recovery, without the distraction of the outside world.
It makes sense.
I understand it.
That doesn't make it any easier.
I'm lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as cars pass by on the road outside.
The sheets still smell like her—faintly, barely there, but enough to make my chest ache.
I haven't washed them.
I can't bring myself to wash away the last physical trace of her presence.
My phone sits on the nightstand, silent and dark.
I've checked it a hundred times today, even though I know she can't call.
Even though I know the screen won't light up with her name.
It's a compulsion I can't control, like picking at a wound that won't heal.
Is she okay? Is she suffering?
Is she lying in some sterile room, shaking and sweating and crying for a fix that won't come?
The questions circle in my head like vultures, and I have no answers for any of them.
I get up because I can't stand to lie there anymore.
The clock says it's a little after two in the morning, but sleep isn't coming anyway.
It hasn't come since I got back from Pennsylvania, and I've stopped expecting it to.
The clubhouse is quiet at this hour.
Most of the brothers are either home with their families or passed out in their rooms after a night of drinking.
I move through the hallways like a ghost, my footsteps echoing off the concrete floors, until I reach the one place that's ever been able to silence the noise in my head.
The garage.
It's cold in here, the November chill seeping through the metal walls, but I don't bother turning on the heat.
I just flip on the work lights and stand there for a moment, looking at the bike I've been rebuilding for the past six months.
A 1972 Harley Shovelhead, all chrome and potential.
I found it rusting in a barn outside of Fairmont and paid the old farmer five hundred bucks to haul it away.
It's almost done now.
New engine. New pipes. Fresh paint in a deep midnight blue that Vanna picked out before everything went to hell.
I grab a wrench and get to work.
There's something meditative about working on bikes.
The focus required to tighten a bolt to the exact right torque.
The satisfaction of fitting pieces together, of taking something broken and making it whole again.
When I'm elbow-deep in an engine, I don't have to think about anything else.
The world shrinks down to metal and oil and the steady rhythm of my hands.
But tonight, even that isn't enough.
I keep seeing her face.
The way she looked when she walked through those doors—terrified and determined and so fucking fragile I was afraid she'd shatter before she made it to the other side.
The way she kissed me goodbye, her lips trembling against mine.
Wait for me?
Always.
I tighten a bolt too hard, and the wrench slips, scraping my knuckles against the engine block.
Blood wells up immediately, dark and warm, but I barely feel it.
The pain is nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.
Three days.
It's only been three days.
She has eleven weeks and four days left.
I don't know how I'm going to survive this.
The first week passes in a blur of sleepless nights and mechanical work.
I spend every waking hour in the garage, tearing apart engines and putting them back together.
The other brothers give me space, mostly.
They know better than to push when I'm like this—closed off and silent, a storm cloud in human form.
But they check on me anyway, in their own ways.
Maddox is the first.
He shows up on day four, a paper bag in his hand and a look on his face that says he's not leaving until I eat something.
He doesn't say a word—that's not Maddox's style—just sets the bag on my workbench and pulls up a stool.
I open the bag and find a burger from the diner down the street.
Still warm. Extra pickles, the way I like it.
"Thanks," I mutter.
Maddox nods. That's it. That's the whole conversation.
But he stays.
For three hours, he just sits there, watching me work, his massive frame somehow making the garage feel less empty.
He doesn't try to talk.
Doesn't offer advice or platitudes.
He just... exists.
A solid, silent presence that reminds me I'm not completely alone.
When he finally leaves, he claps me on the shoulder once.
His hand is heavy and warm, and the gesture says more than words ever could.
I'm here, brother. Whatever you need.
Ruger comes by on day six.
Unlike Maddox, Ruger has never been one for silence.
He's a talker, our president—the kind of man who leads with words as much as actions.
He finds me under the Shovelhead, adjusting the chain tension, and crouches down so we're at eye level.
"You look like shit," he says.
"Thanks." I don't stop working. "Anything else?"
"Yeah." He reaches out and grabs my wrist, stilling my hands. "Look at me, Bloodhound."
I don't want to.
Looking at Ruger means seeing the concern in his eyes, and I'm not sure I can handle that right now.
But he's my president, and more than that, he's my brother.
So I meet his gaze.
"She's gonna make it," he says. His voice is low, certain. The voice of a man who's seen too much to offer false hope. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now. I know you're going crazy not knowing what's happening. But she's strong, and she's got something to fight for."
"What if she doesn't make it?" The words come out before I can stop them, raw and broken. "What if she—"
"Then we'll carry you through that too." Ruger's grip on my wrist tightens. "That's what brothers do. We don't let each other drown."
I want to believe him.
I want to believe that there's a version of this story where Vanna comes home healthy and whole, where we get to build the life we always dreamed of.
But I've been burned too many times.
Hope feels like a trap now, a pit I can't afford to fall into.
"I can't stop thinking about her," I admit. "Every second, I'm wondering if she's okay. If she's suffering. If she's—" I can't finish the sentence.
"I know." Ruger releases my wrist and sits back on his heels. "I've been there, brother. The waiting. The not knowing. It's torture"
"How did you get through it?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering the question. "I didn't, not really. I just... survived. One day at a time, until one day it got easier." He stands, brushing off his jeans. "That's all any of us can do, brother. Survive until it gets easier."
He leaves me with those words echoing in my head, and I go back to work on the bike, trying not to think about how many days I have left to survive.
Ounce finds me on day eight.
Our VP is a hard man to read.
He's been with the club for as long as me and Ruger, and in all that time, I've never quite figured out what goes on behind those dark eyes.
He's got secrets—we all do—but Ounce's seem heavier than most.
He doesn't announce himself.
Just appears in the garage doorway like a shadow, watching me work with an expression I can't decipher.
"Heard you've been living in here," he says.
"Beats the alternative."
"Which is?"
I don't answer.
We both know the alternative is lying in my room, staring at the ceiling, driving myself insane with worry.
Ounce moves into the garage, his footsteps silent on the concrete floor.
He studies the Shovelhead for a moment, nodding in appreciation. "Nice work. She's gonna be a beauty when she's done."
"Yeah." I wipe my hands on a rag, grateful for the distraction. "Should be ready to ride by spring."
"Vanna pick that color?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. How'd you know?"
"She always did have good taste." Ounce leans against the workbench, arms crossed over his chest. "How you holding up?"
"Fine."
He snorts. "Bullshit. But I get it. You don't want to talk about it."
"Not much to say."
"Maybe not." He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer. Almost gentle. "Detox is the hardest part, you know. The body fighting against itself. It's like being unmade and remade at the same time."
I look up at him, surprised by the specificity of his words. "You sound like you know something about it."
Something flickers in his eyes—pain, maybe, or memory—and then it's gone.
"I know a lot of things, Bloodhound. Most of them I wish I didn't." He pushes off the workbench, heading for the door.
"She's gonna be okay. The ones who really want it, who really fight for it—they make it through. And your girl? She's a fighter. The other times she wasn’t. Wasn’t ready, none of it, but I think this time shit has changed. "
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the growing suspicion that Ounce knows more about addiction than he's ever let on.
By day ten, I'm starting to crack.
The garage isn't working anymore.
The bike is as done as it can be without a few parts I've ordered, and there's only so many times I can reorganize my tools before I start to go genuinely insane.
The silence in my head has been replaced by a constant, low-level hum of anxiety that nothing seems to quiet.
I'm standing in the middle of my room, staring at the bed I can't sleep in, when it hits me.
She might not make it.
The thought has been lurking in the back of my mind since I dropped her off, but I've been pushing it away.
Denying it.
Focusing on the bike and the work and anything else that keeps me from facing the truth.
But I can't push it away anymore.
She might not make it.
She might be lying in that facility right now, giving up.
Walking out the door.