Chapter 3 Bones
BONES
“Good morning to you too, brother,” I say, shifting so I’m holding the phone between my shoulder and my ear.
“Don’t ‘brother’ me right now, Bones. Emma left a note saying she’s sorry about missing Christmas and went back to New York. You left before dawn. So I’ll ask again—where is my daughter?”
I lean against the brick wall of the rest stop, watching cars scream down the highway. “She’s safe. She’s with me.”
Silence. Then, “With you.”
“Yeah.”
“Where, exactly?”
“South Carolina. Rest stop outside Greenville.”
Another stretch of silence. Somehow worse than the yelling I expected.
“You’re taking her back to New York,” Stone says finally.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why?”
“Because she asked me to.”
“She asked you to,” Stone repeats, voice flat.
“Yes, sir.”
I hear him inhale slowly, probably trying not to reach through the phone and strangle me for leaving without clearing it with him first.
“Turn around. Bring her back to Stoneheart. She needs time to recover, and she can take that here, with her family—”
“No.”
The word lands like a brick.
“Excuse me?”
“I said no. She wants to go to New York. That’s where I’m taking her.” I keep my voice level, respectful, but firm. “She needs her normal life right now, Stone. Her routine. Her apartment. Her career. Not the clubhouse, where everyone’s gonna be looking at her like she’s broken.”
“She just got kidnapped—”
“I know. I’m the one who found her, remember?” My hand tightens on the phone. “But wrapping her in bubble wrap and keeping her in Stoneheart isn’t gonna help. It’s gonna make her feel like a prisoner.”
“And you know what’s best for my daughter?”
I bite my tongue. Because yeah, I know what’s best for her. Better than he ever has. But saying that out loud wouldn’t help Emma—and she’s the only one I’m thinking about. “I know what she asked for. And right now, that’s New York.”
“It doesn’t matter what she asked for. You bring her back here where she belongs.”
“With all due respect, Stone, I can’t do that.”
“You’re disobeying a direct order?”
“I’m following the same order I’ve had since I was sixteen—keep your daughter safe. This isn’t emotion. It’s the job.”
Stone is quiet for a long, long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is dangerously calm.
“You and I will be having a conversation when you get back. Understood?”
“Understood.”
I kill the call before I say something that gets me completely blacklisted from the only home I’ve ever had.
That’s the thing with Stone—he’s not just my club president, he’s the closest thing I’ve got to a father. I owe him everything. But even then, I still can’t choose what he wants over what Emma wants, over what she needs. Not anymore. And maybe not ever.
She needs New York right now. Needs to feel safe. So that’s where I’m taking her. It’s what I fucking do, what I’ve always done—what’s right for Emma. Even if it kills me to watch her walk away every time.
When I head back inside, Emma’s still trying to get through her coffee, wincing after every sip.
“How bad?” she asks, trying not to cough as I sit down.
“Scale of one to ten? Solid eight.”
“What would a ten be?”
“Him rolling up here to haul you home by your hood.”
She almost smiles. “Did you tell him I’m OK?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And he wants me to bring you back to Stoneheart immediately. I said no. Told me we’d be having a conversation when I get home.”
Now she does smile, just a little. “You’re going to be in so much trouble.”
“Yeah. I fuckin’ am.”
Her eyes meet mine, and something passes between us—something sharp, familiar, dangerous. The thing we keep pretending isn’t there.
“Why do you keep doing this?” she asks. Same question she’s asked a thousand times, different context.
“Swan—”
“I’m serious, Bones. Why risk pissing off Stone? Why ride fifteen hours for me? Why do any of this?” She leans forward. “When you patched into the MC, you swore to hold the club above everything else—that includes me.”
The last place I want to have this conversation is a knockoff Starbucks off I-85, with toddlers wailing and parents mainlining caffeine.
But there’s never a good time for talks like this.
And Emma’s eyes cut right through the noise—sharp, alert, all that road-weariness stripped away by curiosity and something darker under it.
I rest my elbows on the table and consider how honest I want to be. I could give her the normal MC answer—loyalty, brotherhood, code—but she’s heard all that before. Hell, she grew up in it. I could tell her the truth, that even brotherhood has its limits, and mine is the woman across from me.
“My patch is everything to me,” I say, because it’s still true. “But I swore to keep you safe first. I made that promise before I ever put on this cut, and I’m not about to break it now.”
She frowns like she thinks it’s a dodge, but I hold her gaze and let her see I mean it.
“The club is family. But so are you. And if I have to piss off Stone to take care of you, I will. Every time.”
I brace for the retort, the sass, the deflection she always uses when things get too real.
Instead, she just looks at me a long moment—eyes wet and alive despite the exhaustion—then nods.
“Fine. But the next time you stick a tracker in me without asking, I’m drawing dicks on your face while you’re sleeping.”
I smirk. “So you’re expecting we’ll be sleeping together again, huh?”
She wads up a napkin and throws it at me. “In your dreams, asshole.”
“Why dream when we both know reality’s way better?”
She flips me off, but her mouth twitches. For a second she looks almost like herself—the Emma who cracks wise, takes no shit, and refuses to let fear steer her. The girl who used to kiss random boys just to piss off her dad—and me—while treating curfew like a competitive sport.
I’m about to say something else when my phone buzzes.
Tank:
Boss is on the warpath. Whatever you did, fix it.
I don’t respond.
Another buzz.
Duck:
Heard you took the princess to NY. You’re either brave or stupid.
Me:
Both
As soon as I hit send, I shove my phone back into my pocket.
“We should get back on the road.”
“OK.” Emma downs the last of her terrible coffee and stands, stretching. “How much longer?”
“Another nine, maybe ten hours. Depending on traffic once we hit the northeast.”
“Jesus.” She looks exhausted just thinking about it.
“We’ll stop every few hours to refuel and rest. Without rushing, I can still have you home by tonight.”
“Not sure I’ll be able to feel my ass by then, but let’s go,” she groans, and I try not to smile as she grabs her helmet from the table and shoves it on her head. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
I follow her out to the parking lot, and we climb onto the Harley again. She settles behind me, her arms tight around my middle, her chin bumping the back of my shoulder pad as I gun it up the on-ramp. It’s colder now—overcast, like the Carolinas remembered what month it is and decided to catch up.
I keep my speed steady. She’s always hated when I go too fast, says she likes the way the world smears at the edges, but not when it gets blurry enough we start skipping details.
So I hold it at seventy, the throaty rumble of the big twin drowning out both our thoughts.
Hours pass like that.
Flat highway. Pines. Billboards advertising fireworks and pecan logs. A whole lot of nothing.
The sky darkens as we push north. What started as overcast turns mean—thick gray clouds rolling in, swollen with everything they’ve been holding back. The temperature drops again, and I feel Emma press closer, trying to chase my warmth.
We’re maybe an hour outside Charlotte when the first drops hit.
At first, just a few—fat, cold splats on my visor.
Then more.
Then a steady patter that becomes a full downpour in under thirty seconds.
Fuck.
Emma’s grip tightens around my waist as the rain starts hammering us. Visibility drops to fifty feet, maybe. The road turns slick. Every passing car kicks a wave of spray at us that feels like getting slapped with a bucket.
I ease off the throttle. Fifty. Forty-five.
The bike can handle this. I’ve ridden in worse.
But Emma’s already shaking. We’ll both be soaked through in minutes.
Lightning cracks across the sky. Thunder follows, so loud I feel it more than hear it.
Emma’s whole body tenses.
That decides it.
I work my way toward the right lane, scanning for an exit. Any exit. We need off this highway before shit gets worse.
A green sign punches through the rain: Charlotte - 15 miles.
Close enough.
I take the next ramp. Emma’s got her face pressed to my back now, trying to hide from the storm.
By the time I spot a motel—a generic roadside place with a flickering vacancy sign—the rain is coming down in sheets. I pull under the covered drop-off, kill the engine, and sit there a second while the storm hammers the awning overhead.
We’re drenched. Water’s pouring off my cut. Emma’s shaking even though she’s wearing my jacket.
She climbs off the bike slowly, pulling off her helmet. Her dark hair is plastered to her head, mascara smudged under her eyes. She looks at the motel, then at me, then at the wall of water just past the awning.
“So,” she says, deadpan. “I’m guessing we’re not making it to New York tonight.”
Fuck.
A motel.
With Emma.
Alone.
After last night.
This is either the best or worst thing that could happen. I’m not sure which.
Because last night was supposed to be it. One night of having her completely, then letting her go. That was the deal I made with myself.
But now we’re here, soaked through, and I’m about to get a room with her.
And after what happened last night—after her running this morning—I should be careful.
I should put distance between us.
But when have I ever played it safe with Emma?
“Yeah,” I say, slinging my leg off the bike. “Let’s get out of this rain.”