Chapter 6
SIX
Ruin
TWO YEARS LATER
I look over beside me, Sarah draped under her sheets. She chooses not to come to the clubhouse. I can understand why. But the fact that my being a brother is a constant point of contention with her is fucking exhausting.
Which is why we’ve been on an on-and-off release cycle for the past year.
I met her again by accident less than a year ago.
When we got to talking, she said she’d give me another chance. But there was no part of me that was even remotely interested. I was naturally apprehensive—not wanting an immature girl who ran out on me without letting me explain, and then proceeded to ghost me.
It wasn’t worth the trouble for me to continue down that avenue.
But I hadn’t even been casually dating since her. Not just because of the circumstances around Charlotte’s disappearance. Or because Wolf and I were extremely busy changing the club’s bylaws rapidly. Effectively building a safer and better club.
But because—unlike many of my brothers—I was monogamous. And I had no interest putting myself out there when imbalanced was how I felt every single day. I’d never even gotten involved with any of the club girls, ever.
Something my father had ingrained in me since I learned how to jack off.
So when Sarah showed up, dressed as a convenient arrangement, I let it happen. But the woman still makes a face every time I mention the club.
I’ve tried. I’ve explained, had even gotten her to come to the club party once. But she kept eyeing the club girls with an unreasonable glare. I’ve told her I don’t fuck them, never have. But she doesn’t believe me.
Keeping Sarah in my life is becoming more and more difficult. She was supposed to be easy pussy, dammit. But she picks fights, ends whatever half-thing we’ve got going on, and apologizes in that sweet little way. Then we get a couple weeks of bliss before the damn cycle starts again.
Weirdly enough her fights coincide with me going away on club business. Sometimes I wonder if it’s because she knows I’m lying through my teeth.
It isn’t club business that takes me out of town every three or so weeks. It’s… her.
Charlotte Hayes.
She changed her last name from Wentley to Hayes, two months after leaving us. Wolf lost his shit when he found out. I don’t think that hurt has gone away. That he no longer shares a last name with his sister.
It was also about the same time she joined the Bachelor of Social Work program. And that’s how we learned that she’d been planning this all along.
Ryder was even able to grab her SAT scores that she’d tested for, a year after she graduated high school. Only to shock us all with the number.
1580.
Jesus Christ.
No wonder she was a sought-after educator for young teens. Something we were stupidly blind to.
She didn’t go far, though. Settling in Craven Ridge, two towns over. Probably because she thought no one cared to follow her. Wolf had tried, initially. As did I. To get her to talk. Maybe even try to fix things.
She never did talk with us. The first four months after she was gone were an awful—yet deserved—series of closed doors, blocked numbers, and a whole bunch of silence.
When Mama found out what Wolf and I were up to, she gave us a good bump to head with a skillet. She ordered us to stop harassing her. To give her time to heal. So we did, or at least we tried.
Charlotte’s absence was so much louder than the echoes of her laughter in the clubhouse that I broke my promise to Mama. But only partially. She never told us we couldn’t see Charlotte at all. If she doesn’t know I’m there, then I ain’t harassing her.
So I took the liberty of that, which began the strangest year and a half of my life. Chasing the girl who once chased me. Watching her from afar as I witnessed her become her true self.
She always introduced herself as Charlotte now. Never Charlie. And I know why.
I swallow hard, glancing at Sarah before quietly getting out of her bed. I can’t stay here when my mind is somewhere else—on someone else.
It wasn’t until last month I had finally admitted the truth to myself. About why I kept watching Charlotte. Why I clung to her routines like clockwork—classes, study group, tutoring, work, home.
Why I needed to see her thriving.
Because five weeks ago, she broke routine. She had vanished somewhere between work and home. No stop at the library. No light at her place.
She wasn’t even at her favorite campus terrace. A place she rarely skipped, watching sunsets while peacefully listening to something in her earphones.
I felt so incredibly close to her in those moments, yet so considerably blocked away from her at the same time.
But that night, I lost her trail, and I fucking panicked.
Then I found her. Sitting across from some slick-haired bastard in a dimly lit restaurant. Smiling. Laughing. On a fucking date.
My chest caved in. I told myself I was just making sure she was safe. The guy could’ve been a predator. A scammer. A murderer.
But I watched her. Watched her finish the damn date. Watched him drive her home. Watched him fucking kiss her for sixteen goddamn seconds. Then watched him leave a smiling Charlotte at her apartment entrance.
That night ruined the lie I’d been telling myself. This wasn’t guilt, not anymore. It hadn’t been guilt for a long time.
Truth was, I wanted Charlotte. I didn’t even know when the change happened. Or maybe it was simply buried somewhere under my rage.
But I could never deserve her. Not after what we did. What I did.
So instead, I let Sarah drag me through our toxic cycle one more time after I came back. Maybe I should make her my Ol’ Lady and shut her up for good. Maybe that’ll settle her paranoia. But I know I won’t, because Sarah isn’t it—isn’t her.
She’s an escape I created. A symptom of my own fallibility. The dull, bleak monotony born out of my guilt, in contrast with the golden glow of Charlotte’s face during those beautiful sunsets.
That isn’t mine to cherish. I could never be worthy of that. I never was.
I slip out of her apartment and ride back to the clubhouse.
After a quick shower in my room, I head to the club kitchen. My stomach growling.
It’s just past 4 a.m., so the dim light in Prez’s office surprises me. I creak the door open and Wolf looks up, shadows etched beneath his eyes. He looks hollow.
“Why are you up?” I ask quietly.
My voice has stayed soft since we lost Charlotte. But tonight, there’s more to it.
Yesterday, we buried Savage, his father. The bastard had somehow clung to life for five fucking years after his first stroke. But the second one, two weeks ago, took him out.
Good riddance.
Wolf thought Charlotte might come to the funeral, but she didn’t. Why would she? This club holds nothing but pain for her.
He clears his throat. “Just going over the will.” He frowns down at the papers, confusion flickering in his expression. He shakes his head like he’s trying to forget something. “Did you need something?” he asks, still not looking at me.
I walk over, sinking into the seat across from him. My fingers tap absently against the edge of his desk. “Has she responded?”
He doesn’t need clarification. We both know who I mean.
Every week, he writes Charlotte letters. She’s never replied. I’ve written to her, too. A couple times, and we know she gets them. We’ve been informed she picks them up from the hallway floor. But we don’t know if she reads them.
Wolf shakes his head, a weary sigh escaping him. We’d hoped the news of their father’s death might bring her back, even briefly. But then again, Savage was never really a father to her.
So, yeah. It tracks that she didn’t attend.
“You should get some sleep, Prez.”
Wolf nods absently, shuffling the papers like they might tell him something different if he stares long enough. He reads one, then rereads it. Again and again.
I’m about to stand and leave him to it when his phone pings. He frowns at the screen for half a second—then sits up straighter. Entire body locking like he’s been shot in the spine.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, already on alert.
He doesn’t answer. Just dials, fingers shaking.
The moment the call connects, his voice barks out, sharp and rough, “Ryder. When?”
The silence on the other end lasts all of two seconds before Ryder’s voice crackles through the line. “Two days ago. Glory’s parole went through. My contact didn’t get notified in time. They tried—she slipped through.”
My lungs empty out in a sharp exhale. Panic gripping my chest.
Glory can’t be out, can she? We had buried her in court. Five years, minimum. Slammed her with every charge we could dig up—fraud, theft, accomplice to assault. We had evidence. We created witnesses. How the fuck was she out in two?
“Where is she now?” Wolf demands, eyes flashing murder.
A long, heavy sigh seeps through the phone. “Take a seat, Prez. She’s… in Craven Ridge. I’m working on pinning down the exact location. Gimme an hour.”
Oh god. She’s in Craven Ridge? She’s in Charlotte’s town.
My stomach drops straight to my fucking boots.
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
I shoot out of my chair like a shot. “Fuck!” My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I don’t wait. Don’t speak. I don’t even breathe.
Before I know it, I’m running out of the clubhouse.