Chapter 17 Darla
Darla
The truck is a blend of oil, worn leather, and the unmistakable scent that clings to East. Something raw and unrefined, a mix of sweat and engine grease that feels oddly comforting.
It’s not cologne; it’s too real for that, too earthy.
It’s a familiarity I wish I could shake off, but it anchors me in this moment where I should feel safe, yet the lingering shadows of my past whisper otherwise.
I sit rigidly in the passenger seat of the Outsiders’ shop truck.
It’s a battered relic used for hauling parts and tools.
The vinyl seats are cracked and faded, a testament to years of hard use, but at least it’s not the back of a bike.
I can only imagine how the wind would whip against my bruised ribs, and the sharp, ugly memory of Trent's knee slamming into my side makes me flinch.
I should feel grateful for this small mercy, but a wave of humiliation washes over me.
What is my father doing right now? Is he calling the police? Dispatching his own people to hunt me down? The thought gnaws at my insides like a predator stalking its prey. Safety feels fragile, temporary—a thin veneer that could shatter at any moment.
East is being overly cautious, almost as if he thinks I’m made of glass.
He opens the door for me like I’m a delicate flower, his movements deliberate and slow.
His voice drops to a near whisper when he speaks, as if raising it might shatter something fragile between us.
A part of me bristles at the thought. I’m not breakable.
But maybe, just maybe, he’s right. Maybe I need this caution, this care… even if it feels like a different cage.
The silence envelops us as we drive away from the clubhouse, not uncomfortable or strained, but thick with unspoken words.
It feels like there’s a chasm between us, filled with everything we’re avoiding.
I risk a glance at him, watching the way his jaw tightens as he focuses on the road, and I wonder if he feels it too—this weight that clings to us like a second skin.
He taps the screen mounted on the dashboard, and I watch as he makes a call, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Sloane,” he says, his tone steady, betraying none of the turmoil swirling beneath the surface.
“What's up?” Sloane’s voice crackles through the speakers, sharp yet calm.
“Do you think you could swing by my place and check on Darla?” he asks, concern threading through his words. “She’s still hurting.”
I turn to him, surprised by his thoughtfulness. It’s a side of him I didn’t expect, and it catches me off guard. He doesn’t meet my eyes, staring straight ahead, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
Sloane hums thoughtfully. “We just made Trent’s stay a little more interesting. I’ll bring Knox. Be there soon.” There’s a pause before she adds, “Take care of her, East.”
With that, she hangs up, her voice fading into silence, leaving an echo of worry hanging in the air.
The silence returns, heavier this time. East finally risks a glance at me, and his eyes—usually so full of easy charm or cold fire—are raw.
For a split second, I don’t see the hardened club treasurer.
I see the boy from seven years ago, the one whose eyes held a galaxy of unspoken things right before the world fell apart.
The look is so intense, so full of a pain that mirrors my own, that I have to look away first, my heart hammering against my bruised ribs.
I can’t help but break the quiet. “You really care, don’t you?” My voice is softer than I intended, laced with curiosity.
East finally glances at me, his brow furrowing slightly. “I’ve always cared about you, Darla,” he says in a rough voice. He looks back at the road. “And now you’re one of us. That’s not going to change.”
“Even after everything?” I ask, the weight of my past pressing down on me.
His gaze sharpens, cutting to me for a brief, fierce moment. “Especially after everything.”
That simple statement ignites a flicker of hope in my chest, a warmth that spreads through the weighty silence between us.
For a fleeting moment, the heaviness feels a touch lighter.
Then my stomach churns. Not from nerves about Sloane’s impending arrival, but from the gnawing reminder that Trent and Winston are still out there, lurking like shadows in my mind.
I’m still trapped in this nightmare, and all I can think about is the gun—the recoil, the scent of smoke.
I shot a man. The visceral shock of that reality sends a shudder through me.
As we pull into East’s driveway, the crunch of gravel beneath the tires punctuates the quiet, each stone a reminder of the reality I can’t escape.
I brace myself for chaos behind that front door, picturing an untidy bachelor’s den filled with empty beer cans and discarded takeout boxes.
But when East opens the door, I’m met with an unexpected sight.
The porch light casts a warm glow, illuminating a welcome mat that is neither ironic nor grimy.
The house itself stands in stark contrast to my expectations—neat, intentional, as if every detail has been carefully curated.
“After you,” East says, stepping aside. His eyes are steady on mine, but as I pass, my arm brushes his chest, and the air crackles with a sudden charge.
His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second with a flicker of heat so quick I almost think I imagined it before he masters himself, and his expression settles back into one of careful concern.
I step inside, inhaling deeply. The scent of cedar mingles with fresh linen, a comforting aroma that feels like a breath of fresh air.
It’s not the harsh smell of bleach or the overpowering sweetness of air fresheners; it’s simply him.
The interior is bright and open, modern in its design.
Stainless steel appliances gleam under the soft lighting, black countertops contrasting with the rich wood floors.
A leather couch sits invitingly, devoid of throw pillows, and a bookshelf brims with actual books, their spines lined up neatly.
Next to the TV, an old record player stands proudly, vinyl records stacked beside it, waiting to be played.
There are no candles flickering, no lingering traces of perfume—just a sense of solitude that wraps around me like a warm blanket.
“It’s… quiet,” I murmur, glancing back at East.
He’s watching me with an intensity that’s more than just concern.
It's a raw, assessing look that seems to peel back every layer I'm hiding behind, seeing not just the victim from tonight, but the girl from all those years ago.
It makes my heart race with a feeling that's equal parts fear and a dangerous, forgotten flutter.
“Yeah, it’s my sanctuary,” he replies, his voice low. “A place to escape all the noise.”
I nod, feeling the weight of his words. “It’s nice,” I say, almost shyly, even as I grapple with the conflicting emotions roiling inside me. Yes, it’s safe here, but what does it mean to depend on someone else for that safety? Isn’t that just exchanging one cage for another?
“This way,” he gestures toward a hallway, his tone shifting to something more purposeful.
He leads me down the corridor, pausing at a door on the left.
“Guest room’s yours. Bathroom’s through that door,” he says, pointing to an adjoining door inside the room.
“My room’s just across the hall. If you need anything, just holler. ”
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, caught in the swell of emotions threatening to spill over.
He doesn’t linger, but he doesn’t leave right away either.
His gaze takes in the oversized shirt, the bruise darkening on my cheek, the slight tremor in my hands.
His expression is pained, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to reach out.
To brush a stray strand of hair from my face, or touch my bruised skin, something.
Instead, he clenches his hand into a fist at his side.
The internal battle is so clear on his face it makes my breath catch.
“You don’t have any of your stuff,” he says, the observation a statement of fact. His voice is rough. “You’re okay to wear my things for tonight, but… tomorrow, we can get Frankie to take you shopping. Or my mom. Whatever you want. We’ll get you anything you need.”
The simple, practical offer, the assumption that there is a tomorrow to plan for, makes my throat tighten. “Okay,” I whisper.
With a brief nod, East turns and strides away, leaving me rooted in the doorway, the quiet wrapping around me like a cocoon spun from soft silk.
Stepping into the room lets the door click shut behind me with a gentle finality.
I reach for the lock, but it’s just a hollow space where a mechanism should be—an absence that echoes my sense of vulnerability.
The room is simple yet inviting. Gray bedding is neatly arranged on the bed, and a wooden dresser stands proudly against the wall. A folded blanket lies casually over the chair, as if someone had just used it. Everything feels clean, orderly, and oddly comforting in its stillness.
I wander into the en-suite bathroom, flicking on the light.
My reflection catches me off guard, the harsh brightness illuminating the damage beneath my skin.
The swelling has intensified now that the adrenaline has faded, bruises blooming along my cheek and the bend of my arm in shades of purple and blue.
I lift the hem of the T-shirt and see darker shadows marring my ribs.
The skin along my jaw is taut and warm to the touch, a stark reminder of the chaos I’ve just escaped.
But it’s my eyes that draw me in. They’re too wide, too weary, as if they belong to a stranger trapped within my body.