Chapter Twelve #2
Bo’s voice went even smaller. “Do you remember when I came back to town about a year ago? I asked you if I could crash at your place, begged you not to tell my family?”
I nodded, couldn’t trust myself to talk.
“Because I thought maybe, if I could do what you wanted, you’d keep me. Not because you had to, or because I was yours to fuck with, but because you wanted to. Because it was a choice.”
He wiped his eyes, leaving black smears from the charcoal of the fire.
“That night, when I called you from the payphone? I was hiding. He’d passed out after a party, and I knew if I waited until morning, I’d never get out.
So I grabbed my keys, took what money I could find, and just left.
Didn’t even take my clothes. I drove all night, scared shitless, thinking he’d be right behind me. But he didn’t come. Not then.”
He looked at me for the first time, and the pain in his eyes was a living thing.
“I waited for you to be pissed. To send me packing. But you didn’t.
You just gave me a hot meal, a shower, and a place to sleep where I didn’t have to worry about someone beating me up or attacking me in the middle of the night. ”
The fire spit, and a log collapsed, sending a shower of sparks into the night. Bo stared at the embers, voice barely audible.
“He’s going to find me,” he said. “He’s not going to stop until he does.”
I shifted, pulled him closer, and let my hand settle at the back of his neck, thumb rubbing slow circles on the skin. “Not if I get to him first.”
He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “You think you can kill a guy like that?”
“If I have to,” I said. “You’re not going back. Ever.”
He laughed again, a hollow, broken sound. “I’m not worth the trouble.”
I squeezed the nape of his neck, made him look at me. “You’re worth whatever it takes. Understand?”
He nodded, but I wasn’t sure if he believed me.
There was a crunch of gravel behind us—Knox, back from his smoke break, leaning against the porch rail. I caught his eye, saw the question there, but he didn’t come closer.
Bo watched him, then turned back to the fire. “My brothers, they don’t know. About any of it. They just think I was too wild, that I couldn’t make it in the real world.”
“Want to tell them?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe never.”
I let him have that. Some wounds needed time to rot out before you could scrape the rest clean.
He leaned into me, body finally relaxing. “It’s funny,” he said, after a while. “He always said I’d never be good enough for anyone. But with you—”
He cut off, embarrassed.
I waited.
“With you, I feel like maybe I could be,” he finished, barely a whisper.
I kissed his temple, held him tighter.
The house was silent now, everyone gone to bed or giving us space. The fire had burned down to a bed of red glass, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and something sweeter—like the night was waiting for us to do something brave.
Bo’s breathing evened out, and for a long time, we just sat there, watching the last of the fire work itself down to nothing.
But I didn’t let go.
Not then.
Not ever.
The wind shifted again, bringing the last breath of wood-smoke across the circle. The logs in the firepit had burned down to a thick, glowing crust, the heat rippling off in waves that shimmered in the dark.
I thought it was just us and the quiet, but when I looked up, I saw the brothers had gathered at the edge of the light. They weren’t talking, just standing there, hands stuffed in pockets, boots spread wide like they were bracing for a flood.
Knox was in front, arms folded, the firelight turning the scars on his knuckles into railroad tracks. Ransom and Quiad flanked him, each holding a Solo cup but not drinking. Even Harlow had drifted back, hands dangling at his sides, mouth set in a line.
They’d heard every word.
Bo noticed, too. He straightened, wiped his face on his sleeve, and tried to look casual, but it was too late for that. The scars were out, the bones all on the table.
Knox stared at me first, then at Bo, then at the empty seat beside us. He didn’t move, didn’t say a thing for so long I thought maybe he’d just walk away.
Then he spoke, and the words hit with the same weight as a shotgun slug. “We’ll end this,” he said. His voice was low, steady, the kind that didn’t need to shout to be obeyed. “Nobody puts hands on a McKenzie and gets to walk away. He’s done.”
He meant Harley, but he also meant anyone who tried.
The others nodded, slow and grim, a silent agreement that made the air go thin.
Ransom rolled his shoulders, jaw ticking, and I could see the want in his eyes—the old, restless hunger for a problem he could punch in the mouth.
Quiad just watched, half-shadowed, hands loose but dangerous, the way I’d seen him before a fight.
Even Harlow, sweet and gentle, looked like he wanted to rip someone in half.
Bo sat there, blinking, like he couldn’t believe the war machine had lined up behind him. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccup, and he dropped his head again.
I wrapped both arms around his chest, pulling him into my lap, blanket and all. He fit there so easy it was like he’d been made for it.
“You’re safe,” I said, not caring who heard.
Bo shuddered, once. “I don’t feel safe,” he whispered.
I kissed the side of his head, just above his ear. “Doesn’t matter. You are. I’ve got you.”
Across the fire, the brothers watched, not saying anything. Knox broke the silence. “You want to see the plan?” he asked. “We’ll show you. Tomorrow morning.”
Bo shook his head, almost a flinch. “No. Just… don’t get killed. Okay?”
Knox snorted, a sound so dry it could have started a brushfire. “Please. The only thing that could kill us is each other.”
Ransom grinned, teeth white in the dark. “Or Ma, if we ruin her tomatoes again.”
That actually made Bo smile, for real this time. He looked at them, then at me, and I could see the armor starting to regrow, piece by piece.
The family moved closer, filling in the empty chairs around the pit.
Ransom sat on the end, propped his feet on a log, and started flicking pebbles into the coals.
Quiad just crouched, arms around his knees, scanning the yard like he was looking for threats.
Harlow hovered behind us, hands on my shoulders, big and gentle as a bear.
For a few minutes, nobody spoke. Just the fire, the wind, the slow hiss of wet grass under falling sparks.
Then Ma appeared, her apron still on, holding a plate of cookies like it was a shield. “Thought you boys might want something sweet,” she said, and set the plate on the bench beside me.
“Thanks, Ma,” I said.
She patted my arm, then Bo’s. When she touched his head, he closed his eyes, leaned into it. She left her hand there a second longer than usual, then walked away, the sound of her slippers fading into the dark.
The sky above was all stars and black velvet, the kind of night that made you believe in beginnings.
Bo shifted in my lap, wrapped the blanket tighter. “You really think it’s over?” he said, voice small.
I squeezed him, let my hands settle on his ribs. “I don’t think. I know.”
He craned his neck to look at me, brown eyes wet but defiant. “Promise?”
I held his gaze, let the words hang between us until they felt real. “I promise. You’re never going back. Not ever.”
He blinked, then nodded.
The fire died down, leaving only the heat and the glow and the family circled tight around it. I watched Bo’s breathing slow, the tension bleed out, and for the first time since the chase, I felt the old fear start to lift.
We stayed like that until the coals were nothing but memory and the night was all silence. One by one, the brothers drifted off, back to the house, to the warmth and the safety of home.
I carried Bo inside, cradled him like something precious, and when he fell asleep in the bed in his old bedroom, I lay beside him, arm across his chest, and kept watch until the sun came up.
He was mine now.
And nobody, not Harley, not anyone, was ever going to take him away.