Chapter 14
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— Dutch —
Two weeks after I’d slid that envelope into Indira’s mailbox, her response hit my inbox.
I’d been back in Millfield for over a week by then, trying not to wonder if she’d thrown my letter away without reading it. My hand froze on the mouse when I saw her name.
I read the message fifty times before I could process what it actually said. She wanted to talk. On her terms, with her boundaries.
After months of silence, Indira was giving me a chance.
Don’t fuck this up.
Indira,
I agree to all your conditions. Thank you for being willing to talk.
I know I don’t deserve your time or attention, but I’m grateful for both.
Jacob
Short. Respectful. No pressure. I hit send before I could second-guess myself.
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The next few weeks fell into a careful rhythm.
Indira would email me every few days—nothing personal at first, just questions about my letter. What had made me realize I was wrong? How did I know I’d really changed? What made me think she should believe anything I said?
Fair questions. All of them.
I answered as honestly as I could. Told her about my visit to King and my mother.
About watching their marriage with new eyes and realizing what I’d been raised to think was normal.
About the burned mattress and the cuts sitting in my safe.
I didn’t go into detail, just told her there were two.
Figured she’d ask if she wanted more, but she didn’t, so I left it at that.
She never responded immediately. Sometimes three days would pass. Sometimes four. Each silence felt like a test I wasn’t sure I was passing.
On the third day after one email, I found myself in Glitch’s office doorway.
“I need a favor.”
He looked up from his laptop, expression wary. “Go on.”
“Indira’s email. Her phone. Can you—” I stopped myself, hearing how it sounded. “I just want to know if she’s read my messages. If she’s talking to anyone about me.”
Glitch leaned back in his chair, studying me with those sharp eyes that never missed anything. “You ordering me or asking me?”
The question hung in the air. Not that long ago, I wouldn’t have understood the difference. President gives an order, brothers follow it. Simple.
But I knew what he was really asking. Was I the same man who’d treated Indira like property? Or had I actually learned something?
“Asking,” I said finally.
Glitch smirked. “Then no.”
“No?”
“She’s got boundaries, Dutch. You agreed to them. That means trusting her to respond when she’s ready, not spying on her to make yourself feel better.” He turned back to his laptop. “You want to prove you’ve changed? Start by not being a controlling asshole.”
I stood there for a moment, irritation flickering through me. Then I laughed—actually laughed. “Fair enough, brother.”
“Go run your club,” Glitch said without looking up. “Let the woman think.”
So I ran my club.
The Montana expansion was moving ahead smoothly. The new warehouse outside Whitefish was operational, and the gun routes were running cleaner than they had in years. Holden had the day-to-day locked down tight, freeing me up to focus on the bigger picture.
Colt came back from a scouting trip to Kentucky with promising news.
“Louisville’s got potential,” he said, spreading a map across my desk. “Good territory, minimal competition. Found a bar that could work as a clubhouse—owner’s looking to sell, might be open to the right offer.”
“What about local law enforcement?”
“Manageable. Sheriff’s more interested in meth labs than MCs. As long as we keep our shit clean, we shouldn’t have problems.”
I studied the map, marking potential routes and territories. This was what I was good at—strategy, expansion, building something that would outlast me. It felt good to have my head in the game again.
“Start the paperwork,” I said. “Let’s see what a serious offer looks like.”
Colt nodded, gathering his notes. At the door, he paused. “Heard anything from Nashville?”
“We’re talking. Emails.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It’s something.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Don’t overthink it, brother. Women can smell desperation.”
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Three days later, there was still no response to my last email.
I was in the clubhouse bar, nursing a beer and pretending to watch the game, when Handful dropped into the seat beside me.
“You see the new girl? Brandy?” He let out a low whistle.
“Tits like you wouldn’t believe, brother.
I’m talking—” He made a cupping gesture, the same gesture that had earned him his road name years ago when he’d greeted a club girl by announcing she was “a perfect handful.” The name had stuck.
So had the gesture. “Well, two generous handfuls.”
I shook my head. “You’re a poet, Handful.”
“I’m a connoisseur.” He flagged down the prospect behind the bar for another drink. “You’ve been weirdly absent from the party lately. Everything okay with your dick?”
“My dick’s fine.”
“Could’ve fooled me. Brandy was asking about you earlier. Said she’d heard the president had certain... appetites.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Wanted to know if the rumors were true.”
“Tell her the rumors were exaggerated.”
Handful stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “Brother, have you seen her? I’m not saying she’s the hottest piece of ass in the county, but I’m definitely saying she’s top three.”
“Not interested.”
“Not—” He sputtered into his beer. “Okay, what the hell is going on with you? First you disappear for three months, then you come back acting like a monk, now you’re turning down women who look like they walked out of a wet dream. Did you join a cult? Find Jesus? Lose your balls?”
“None of the above.”
“Then what?”
I took a long pull of my beer, considering how much to say. Handful wasn’t exactly known for his emotional intelligence, but he was my brother. He deserved some version of the truth even if he wouldn’t understand it.
“I’m trying to be someone worth a damn,” I said finally. “Turns out that means not sticking my dick in everything that moves.”
Handful was quiet for a moment—possibly the longest I’d ever seen him go without talking.
“This is about Indira,” he said. Not a question.
“Yeah.”
“You think she’s coming back?”
“I don’t know. But if she does, I want to be someone she can actually trust. And if she doesn’t...” I shrugged. “Then at least I’ll be an improved version of myself.”
Handful nodded slowly, something almost like respect in his expression. “Not stupid.”
“High praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” He clapped me on the shoulder and stood up. “But hey, if you change your mind about Brandy, let me know. For now, I’ll take one for the team.”
“Your sacrifice is noted.”
After he left, I pulled out my phone before I could stop myself—the same motion I’d made probably fifty times that day, thumb swiping to email before my brain caught up. Still nothing from Indira.
I set the phone face-down on the bar. Picked it up again. Shoved it in my pocket where I couldn’t see the screen. My jaw ached from clenching it.
Glitch was right. I had to give her space. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done.
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On day eight, her email finally arrived.
Why should I believe this isn’t just temporary? What happens when the novelty of being “reformed” wears off and you go back to your old ways?
I stared at the words, feeling the weight of them. She wasn’t making this easy. She shouldn’t make it easy.
I can’t prove it won’t happen, I wrote back. All I can tell you is that going back would mean forgetting what it feels like to lose something that matters. And I never want to feel that again.
Her response came two days later.
What about the club? Are you expecting me to believe an entire culture changed just because you had an epiphany?
No. The club is still the club. But I’m not the same president I was before. I don’t participate in the same shit I used to. My brothers think I’ve lost my mind, but they respect the results.
What results?
The club is more profitable now than it’s ever been. Turns out I make better decisions when I’m not drunk or distracted.
I worried that was too flippant. But she responded the next day with something that might have been approval.
At least you’re honest about your motivations.
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The emails continued. Weeks of questions and answers, of careful honesty and slowly dissolving walls.
She asked about my childhood, about King’s influence, about the culture that had shaped me.
I told her things I’d never told anyone—about watching my father dismiss my mother, about learning that women existed to serve men’s needs, about the slow realization that everything I’d been taught was wrong.
She told me about Nashville. About her job, her friends, the apartment she loved. About rebuilding her life from scratch and discovering she was stronger than she’d ever known.
We didn’t talk about getting back together. Didn’t make promises or declarations. We just... talked. Like two people who used to know each other and were trying to figure out if they still could.
A month in, her email arrived at two in the morning.
I was awake—hadn’t been sleeping well since this whole thing started—and I saw it come through on my phone, the screen lighting up the dark bedroom. I sat up against the headboard, heart already beating faster than it should.
I’ve been thinking about forgiveness lately. Not whether you deserve it, but whether I’m ready to give it. Those are two different things.
I read it three times. Then I got out of bed and went to my office, because this deserved more than a phone screen. I sat at my desk in the dark, the glow of the monitor the only light, and typed my response with fingers that weren’t quite steady.
What’s the difference?
I hit send and sat there, knowing she wouldn’t respond tonight. She never responded immediately. But I couldn’t make myself go back to bed, so I poured a whiskey and watched the cursor blink.
Her reply came the next evening, while I was in a meeting with Colt about the Kentucky expansion. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket and lost the thread of whatever he was saying.
“Dutch? You good?”
“Yeah. Keep going.” But I wasn’t listening. My hand was in my pocket, wrapped around the phone like it might disappear if I let go.
The second he left, I pulled it out.
Deserving forgiveness is about you and what you’ve done to earn it. Being ready to forgive is about me and what I need to let go of the anger.
Something in my chest loosened and tightened at the same time. She was actually thinking about this. About forgiving me. I’d hoped, but hoping and knowing are different things.
Are you? I wrote back, my throat tight even though I was just typing. Ready, I mean.
I think so. But forgiveness doesn’t mean going back to how things were. It means accepting what happened and choosing not to let it define my future.
I stared at those words for a long time. Forgiveness didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean. It didn’t mean she was coming back. It meant she was letting go of me in a different way—a healthier way, maybe, but still letting go.
My hands hovered over the keyboard. I typed and deleted four different responses before settling on the only question that mattered.
Does that future include me at all?
Three days passed before she answered. Three days of checking my phone constantly, of barely tasting food, of lying awake at night running through every possible response she might send. The waiting settled into my bones like an ache.
When her email finally came, I was in the garage, pretending to work on my bike while really just waiting. The notification sound made my whole body go still.
I don’t know yet. But I’m willing to keep talking and find out.
I read it twice. Then I set down my wrench and sat on the concrete floor, my back against the workbench, and let myself breathe for what felt like the first time in days.
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Two weeks later, she surprised me.
Would you be interested in a phone call? I think I’m ready to hear your voice.
I stared at that email for ten minutes, afraid to believe what I was reading. A phone call. After weeks of careful, measured correspondence, she wanted to hear my voice.
Yes, I wrote back. Whenever you’re ready.
Sunday evening. Seven o’clock your time. I’ll call you.
Five days away. Five days of checking my phone like a nervous kid, of finding excuses to keep it charged and close, of catching myself smiling at nothing and having to school my face before my brothers noticed.
I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t focus on club business without my mind wandering. Caught myself doing things I hadn’t done in months—going to the gym twice a day, cleaning my already-clean house, reorganizing the garage just to have something to do with my hands.
Sleep was a joke. I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, running through what I might say to her. What she might say to me. Whether I’d be able to keep it together when I heard her voice for the first time in months.
I’d spent so long learning patience. Learning that I couldn’t force Indira to forgive me, couldn’t demand her trust, couldn’t charm my way back into her life. I’d written letters and answered questions and resisted the urge to spy on her when the silence got too heavy.
But this—a phone call, because she wanted to hear my voice—felt like the first real sign that maybe I hadn’t destroyed us completely.
Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.