Chapter Fifteen #2
Harley looked past me, past Jo, and grinned wider. "You see this, Bo? This is what happens when you leave. People get hurt. Things get... messy." He let his hand hover over his belt, where I knew he kept a switchblade.
Jo moved then, stepping forward, blocking Harley's view of me. "He doesn't belong to you," he said, voice loud enough to bounce off the porch columns. "He belongs to no one but himself."
Harley's face darkened. "That's not what he told me when he was begging on his knees." He snapped the switchblade open, the sound loud and sharp in the cold air.
I didn't wait for Jo to react. I lunged, feet barely touching the steps, and drove my blade at the biker’s knife hand.
Metal on metal shrieked as the knives collided.
The impact sent shock up my arm, but I didn't let go.
I slammed my forearm into the inside of his wrist and twisted, just like the brothers taught me.
He screamed, dropped Ma, and tried to pivot, but I was already inside his guard. I caught his arm, rolled my shoulder, and slammed him face-first into the porch rail. He went limp, sliding down in a spray of blood and splinters.
Ma staggered free, clutching her neck. She stared at me, eyes wide, and I almost missed the swing of the cast-iron skillet until it was too late.
She brained the next biker in the temple so hard I heard the pan ring. He dropped instantly, legs folding like a card table.
“Sorry, baby,” she said, spitting blood, “but that’s for bringing this mess to my door.”
I grinned, because what else could you do?
Then Jo let out a roar. Two bikers had managed to tackle him together, driving him back across the steps. He barely staggered, but they hung on, clawing at his shirt, going for the eyes.
He shrugged one off with a twist, then buried his fist in the second’s stomach. The sound was wet and final; the biker puked and went down, clutching his gut.
The first one came at Jo again, this time with a length of chain. He swung it, aiming for Jo’s head, but Jo ducked, caught the chain mid-swing, and yanked. The biker flew forward and Jo kneed him in the face, breaking his nose with a sick crunch.
"Learned that from you, Bo," Jo called over his shoulder, grinning through a mask of blood.
I was too busy to reply. Harley had circled behind, coming at me with the switchblade drawn, eyes wild.
“You think you’re a big man now?” he spat. “All grown up, with a new master and a pack of lapdogs?”
I felt the old fear rising, the one he used to carve into my bones. But it was different now. It was a fuel, not a leash.
He slashed at my face, fast and low. I caught his wrist, twisted, and drove my knee into his ribs. He grunted, but didn’t drop the blade. He came back, elbowing me in the temple, hard enough to see stars.
Then his arm wrapped around my neck, pulling me off balance. I thrashed, digging my heels in, but he was strong—stronger than I remembered, or maybe I was just tired.
He hissed in my ear, “Told you I’d always find you, Bodean. You’re never getting free.”
I bit down, hard, on his forearm. He yelped, loosened his grip, and I used the moment to whip my head back, catching him right on the bridge of his nose.
He reeled, blood streaming from his nostrils, but the switchblade never wavered. He raised it, ready to end the fight.
That’s when Jo tackled him from the side, a freight train of muscle and rage. They went down together, but Harley rolled with it, coming up on top. He buried the knife in Jo’s shoulder, twisting it.
Jo didn’t scream. He just grabbed Harley’s wrist, wrenched the knife free, and drove his head into Harley’s face, again and again, until Harley’s grip faltered.
I scrambled for the knife, found it on the ground, and came up with the point at Harley’s throat. Jo pinned him, one huge hand on his chest, the other holding his broken arm behind his back.
Harley gasped, blood pouring from his mouth, but even then he wouldn’t shut up. “See?” he coughed, “This is what you wanted all along. You wanted someone to hurt you. You wanted someone to make you—”
I pressed the blade until he gurgled, cutting off the words.
“Never again,” I said, not sure if I was talking to him or myself.
The world went quiet for a second. Just heavy breathing, the sound of blood dripping on the porch, and Ma’s skillet landing with a dull thunk on the last standing biker’s head.
Knox stalked up, gun still drawn, and leveled it at Harley’s temple. Ransom and Quiad flanked him, both bruised but upright.
Jo looked at me, eyes softer than I’d ever seen. “You okay?”
I nodded, though my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
He let Harley go, and Harley slumped to the deck, coughing and sobbing. “You’re done here,” Jo said. “If you come near him again, there won’t be anything left for the cops to find.”
Harley curled up, all the fight gone.
The family gathered up, Ma at the center, holding her skillet like a trophy. Knox holstered his gun and put an arm around her shoulders.
She glanced at the blood on my face, then at the knife in my hand, and smiled. “Well, at least now we know you boys can handle yourselves.”
Ransom laughed, then immediately winced and clutched his ribs. “Next time, warn me before you start a bar fight in the front yard, Ma.”
Harlow checked the pulse on the biker he’d choked out, then shrugged. “He’ll live.”
Quiad just started dragging the bodies into a neat pile at the end of the driveway.
I looked at the mess—the porch, the yard, the way the lights flickered off the broken glass and splattered blood. It felt like the aftermath of every dream I’d ever had, only this time I was awake and it was over and nobody was dead.
I let go of the knife. Jo caught my hand, squeezed it tight.
“It's done,” he said.
I nodded, dizzy, but I believed him.
The sirens finally arrived, wailing up the long drive. The house and the world spun in blue and red, but for the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid of what came next.
I was just glad I was alive to see it.
And that, for once, I wasn't running.
I’d heard before that fights never end when you think they do. They just spiral, losing energy with every turn, until someone gets tired enough or dead enough to quit.
I’d thought Harley was done. I’d thought I was free.
But when the sirens hit the drive and the blue lights washed the world clean, Harley surged up from the deck like a revenant, teeth bared, knife still in his hand.
He moved fast—faster than I remembered, faster than I was ready for. The blade caught me high on the forearm, slicing clean and cold, and I saw the blood before I felt the pain.
Jo roared, tried to wrench Harley off me, but one of the bikers still left standing wrapped both arms around Jo’s waist and hauled him back, feet scraping trenches in the porch boards.
Harley locked his arm around my neck, hauling me upright, and pressed the edge of the blade flat against my throat. "One more step and I’ll open him up," he hissed, the words almost tender.
I froze, and the whole world froze with me.
The other McKenzies went rigid. Knox had his gun up, but the angle was bad—one twitch and I’d get the buckshot first. Ransom and Quiad stood tense at the bottom of the porch steps, hands empty but ready.
Harlow hovered near Ma, battered and pale but still big enough to be a shield if she needed one.
Behind us, the sheriff’s cruisers screeched to a stop, doors flying open. Sheriff Floyd Hardesty and one of his deputies spilled out, guns drawn, but nobody wanted to fire into this knot of bodies.
The world spun. Harley’s hot breath was in my ear. "You’re never gonna belong," he whispered. "Not with them. Not with anybody. You’re mine. You’re always gonna be mine."
I looked for Jo, but he was tangled up with the biker, arms locked around each other like a nightmare embrace. Jo’s face was purple with rage, spit flying from his lips as he fought to break free.
But I saw the moment his eyes found mine. Everything slowed down. I felt his focus, as if we were the only people left on the planet. I remembered what he’d said, a hundred times: Don’t fight it. Flow with it.
So I went limp.
Harley laughed, thinking I’d given up. His grip loosened just enough for me to snap my head back, catching him on the cheekbone. He howled and shifted, the knife slipping for a split second.
It was all I needed.
I drove my elbow into his solar plexus, hard and sharp. He folded, air whooshing out of him, but he didn’t drop the knife. He swung it down, aiming for my gut, but I caught his wrist and twisted, letting the edge bite into my own palm if that’s what it took.
He was strong, but I was meaner. And I had something to fight for.
Across the porch, Jo finally broke free, booted the last biker in the knee so hard I heard the joint pop. He hit the ground running, feet pounding, and for a second all I saw was that big, beautiful bastard coming at me like an oncoming storm.
Harley realized it too late. He tried to use me as a shield, but I dug my heels in and threw my weight back, slamming him against the rail.
The knife slipped. Jo was there in an instant, hand closing around Harley’s wrist, squeezing until the bones ground together. Harley shrieked and dropped the blade.
With his other hand, Jo grabbed the collar of Harley’s jacket, spun him around, and planted a fist so hard in Harley’s face that I heard the jaw break. Harley went down, finally, limp as a sack of feed.
Jo caught me before I could follow. He wrapped both arms around me, holding me up, and for a second I could only breath, the pain in my arm and neck drowned out by the solid pressure of his chest.
"You with me, baby boy?" he said, voice wild and raw.
"Yeah," I managed, and then the pain hit, sharp and blooming, as the blood ran down my hand and dripped onto the porch.
Knox appeared at my side, shotgun in one hand, bandana in the other. He wrapped the bandana around my arm, cinched it tight, and gave me a look that was part pride and part annoyance.
"You did good," he said, voice rough. "But maybe next time, let us soften ‘em up first."
Ransom and Quiad were herding the remaining bikers into a pile at the bottom of the porch, where the deputies zip-tied their wrists and read them their rights. Harlow was sitting on the steps, breathing heavy, Ma next to him with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his skull.
Harley didn’t get up.
Jo held me so tight I thought he’d crack my ribs, but I didn’t want to let go, either.
The deputies dragged Harley upright, his face a ruin, and started reading him his rights. Floyd paused, looked at me, and nodded, as if to say: We got it from here.
But I didn’t care about any of that. All I cared about was Jo, his hand at the back of my neck, his breath on my cheek, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"You’re bleeding," he said, concern under the roughness.
"So are you," I replied, gesturing to the cut on his jaw.
He grinned, then kissed me, hard and fierce, right there on the porch in front of God and everyone.
And it wasn’t just a quick peck, either. It was a claiming—an answer to every taunt, every wound, every old shame that had ever told me I didn’t belong.
I kissed him back, teeth and blood and all.
The world spun on, the sirens faded, and I realized I was home.
* * * *
Later, after the ambulances left and the bikers were hauled off in squad cars, we sat on the porch steps. My arm was wrapped in gauze, Jo’s shoulder had a butterfly bandage holding the skin together, and Ma was in the kitchen making coffee like nothing had happened.
Knox and the others were out in the yard, cleaning up the mess, talking in low voices about what would need replacing: the railing, the porch light, the piece of siding where Harlow had caved in a guy’s skull.
Jo put his arm around me, holding me close, thumb rubbing circles on my side. He was quieter now, like the fight had bled something out of him.
"You scared me," he admitted, voice low. "You scared the shit out of me."
"Sorry," I said, not meaning it. "Didn’t want you to do all the work."
He laughed, kissed my head, and pulled me closer. "You’re mine, you know that?" he said, and there was no threat in it, only a promise.
I nodded, not trusting myself to talk.
My other hand drifted up to the collar at my throat. The brass ring gleamed in the porch light, shiny with sweat and blood.
"You really want to wear that?" Jo asked, watching me.
"Yeah," I said, voice steady. "I do."
He smiled, soft and private. "Good."
Knox came over, sat next to us, and nudged me with his boot. "Ma wants you in the kitchen. Says if you’re gonna keep getting blood on her floors, you can at least mop it up yourself."
I rolled my eyes, but stood up. Jo rose with me, hand never leaving my shoulder.
Knox lingered a second, then looked at me, real serious. "You did good," he said again. "You belong here. Never let anyone tell you different."
I didn’t know how to answer, so I just nodded and went inside.
Ma was at the stove, stirring a pot of coffee. She looked at me, at the bandage on my arm, and shook her head. "You boys and your pride," she muttered, but her voice was warm.
I hugged her, awkward and tight, and she hugged me back.
"You’re safe," she whispered.
"For now," I said.
She laughed, the sound shaky, and patted my cheek. "You always were the stubborn one."
I went back to the porch, where Jo was waiting.
We stood together, watching the sky go from purple to black, the stars pricking through one by one. The house was quiet again, the world finally at peace.
Jo’s hand found mine. He squeezed it, then let go, but only because he wanted to see the collar on my neck, the way it caught the light, the way it marked me as his.
I wasn’t running anymore.
I belonged.
And nothing—nobody—was ever going to take that away.