Chapter 5 Cece
CECE
I've never been good at following directions, but gripping Brayden's waist feels like the most natural thing in the world.
The motorcycle rumbles to life beneath us, vibrating through my entire body in a way that makes me acutely aware of every nerve ending I possess. My arms tighten around his torso involuntarily, and I can feel the solid muscle beneath his leather cut, the steady rhythm of his breathing.
“You good?” he calls over his shoulder, his words muffled by the engine noise.
“Ask me that after you start moving,” I call back, echoing his earlier words. The irony isn't lost on me—twenty minutes ago I was buying coffee like any other Tuesday morning, and now I'm pressed against the back of a man who probably has a rap sheet longer than my grocery list.
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest and into my arms. “Hold on, Cece.”
And then we're moving.
The first few seconds are terrifying—the ground rushing past, the wind whipping at the exposed skin around my helmet, the complete lack of walls or seatbelts or anything resembling safety between me and the asphalt.
But as we turn onto Main Street, something shifts.
The fear transforms into something else entirely.
Something that feels dangerously close to freedom.
We cruise through downtown San Salona at a speed that would be reasonable in a car but feels like flying on the back of a bike.
I catch glimpses of familiar faces on the sidewalks.
Mrs. Henderson pauses mid-sidewalk sweep to gawk at us, her mouth falling open so wide I'm surprised a bird doesn't nest in it. I resist the urge to wave. Let her run to her phone and start the gossip chain. After my verbal altercation with my ex-father-in-law this morning, it’s likely already running rampant.
Brayden takes a left onto Maple Street, and I realize he's heading toward the outskirts of town, away from the manicured lawns and judgment-filled windows. The houses grow smaller, farther apart, until we're cruising past farmland and patches of woods that I'd forgotten existed.
“Where are we going?” I shout over the wind.
“Somewhere quiet,” he calls back. “Figured you might need a break from the audience.”
He's right. For the first time in weeks, I'm not performing for anyone. Not playing the role of the gracious divorcée, the dutiful daughter, or the victim everyone expects me to be. I'm just Cece, arms wrapped around a man who smells like leather and bad decisions.
We turn down a gravel road I don't recognize, trees closing in on both sides until we emerge into a clearing beside a small lake. Brayden kills the engine, and the sudden silence is almost as jarring as the initial roar had been.
“You can let go now,” he chuckles.
I realize I'm still clinging to him like a koala. Embarrassment heats my face as I quickly unwrap my arms from his waist, fumbling with the helmet strap.
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to disguise how flustered I am. “Not used to dismounting gracefully.”
“I don't mind.” There's that hint of a smile again as he swings his leg over the bike and reaches to help me with my helmet. His fingers brush against my jaw, sending a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the motorcycle ride.
When the helmet comes off, my hair tumbles down in a tangled mess. I try to smooth it with my fingers, suddenly self-conscious about how I must look after being wind whipped.
“Don't,” Brayden declares quickly. “It looks good like that.”
I drop my hands, unsure what to do with this version of Brayden Cole.
The sullen teenager I vaguely remember from high school has been replaced by a man who radiates confidence and danger in equal measure.
But there’s something familiar in his gaze—the same steady intensity that always seemed to see right through me.
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around at the secluded clearing. The lake stretches out before us, its surface rippling gently in the winter breeze. Bare trees frame the water, their skeletal branches reaching toward the sky.
“Old swimming hole,” he says, walking toward a fallen log near the shore. “Used to come here when I was a kid. Before my aunt dragged me to San Salona.” He sits on the log, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Not many people remember it’s here.”
I look around with fresh perspective, trying to picture a younger Brayden swimming in these waters before life carved those scars into his skin and that guarded edge into his expression. It’s hard to reconcile the man before me with anyone’s past.
“It's beautiful.” The lake is small but picturesque. “How'd you find it?”
“Followed some older kids here once. They tried to drown me.” He says this so casually that it takes me a moment to process. “I came back anyway. Figured if I was gonna drown, it might as well be somewhere pretty.”
I sit beside him on the log, leaving enough space between us that it doesn't feel presumptuous but close enough that I can still catch the scent of him—leather and something spicy, like cinnamon or cloves.
“That's...a very specific outlook on drowning.”
He shrugs. “I've got specific outlooks on lots of ways to die.” Then he glances at me, that almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry. Not the kind of small talk you're used to, I bet.”
“I don't know. Ethan's country club friends had some pretty morbid discussions about their stock portfolios.”
Brayden lets out a short laugh, the sound rougher around the edges than I expected. “Yeah, I bet losing money hurts just as much as a knife to the gut.”
“You'd be surprised how dramatically they react to both.” I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. “Though I suppose you'd know more about the knife part than I would.”
He turns to look at me, studying my face like he's trying to figure out if I'm serious or making fun of him. “You really want to know about that?”
“I don't know,” I admit. “Maybe? I've spent my whole life in a bubble where the worst thing that happens is someone using the wrong fork at dinner. Part of me is curious about what exists outside of it.”
“Trust me, princess. You don't want to know what's outside your bubble.”
The nickname should annoy me—it's probably meant to—but instead it sends a little thrill through my chest. “Don't call me princess.”
“Why not? That's what you are, isn't it? Preacher's daughter, married to the mayor's wealthy son. I bet you had the biggest house on the block.”
“That big house belongs to my ex-husband now. Along with half of everything else I thought was mine.”
Brayden's expression shifts slightly, something that might be sympathy flickering across his face.
“It's funny how quickly things can change, isn't it? One day you're someone's wife, the next you're the town pariah.”
“I wasn't expecting the divorce to be quite so...public.” I dig the toe of my boot into the dirt, watching the small indentation it makes. “In Boulder, I was just another woman with a cheating husband. Here, I'm a cautionary tale.”
“Small towns,” Brayden nods. “They love to build you up just so they can tear you down.”
“Is that why you left?” I ask, genuinely curious about what transformed the skinny, troubled teen into this imposing man beside me.
He's quiet for a moment, staring out at the water. “I left because there was nothing here for me. My mom took off when I was sixteen, dumped me on my aunt. San Salona made it pretty clear I wasn't welcome.”
“I remember you in school,” I admit. “You were always in the back of the classroom, when you showed up at all.”
A sardonic smile twists his lips. “Surprised you noticed me at all, princess.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
“And yet I’m going to keep doing it.” There’s a challenge in his gaze that makes my pulse quicken. “What are you gonna do about it?”
The air between us shifts, charged with something I can’t quite name. I should move away, put some distance between us, but instead I find myself leaning closer. “I could push you in the lake.”
He laughs—a real laugh this time—and the sound does something to my insides. “You could try.”
Our gazes lock, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. There’s something magnetic about him, something that makes the space between us feel charged. It’s been so long since I felt this kind of attraction—immediate, overwhelming, and entirely inappropriate.
“So,” I say, breaking the tension before I do something stupid like touch him. “Heaven’s Rejects. That’s your...club?”
“MC,” he says. “Motorcycle Club. And yeah, that’s us.”
“What exactly does a motorcycle club do?”
His mouth quirks up at one corner. “We ride. We look out for each other. Sometimes we look out for people who need looking out for…”
“And sometimes?”
“Sometimes we do things that good church girls like you don’t need to know about.”
I bristle at that. “I’m not that good.”
“No?” His gaze drifts over me in a way that makes heat bloom across my skin. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done, Cece? Forget to put money in the collection plate? Say ‘damn’ in front of your daddy?”
“I married Ethan,” I reply without hesitation. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.”
Brayden’s expression shifts, the teasing glint replaced by something more serious. “That bad, huh?”
I pick up a small stone from the ground beside the log, turning it over in my palm. “You know what's funny? Everyone in town thinks I'm the victim. Poor Cece, married to a serial cheater. But the truth is, I knew. Maybe not about all of them, but I knew something was wrong, and I stayed anyway.”
“Why?”
I toss the stone into the lake, watching the ripples spread across the surface.
“Because leaving meant admitting I'd made a mistake. Because it meant disappointing my father, who performed our wedding ceremony and told everyone what a perfect match we were. Because it meant giving up the life I thought I wanted.”
“What kind of life was that?”