Chapter 17
CECE
I'm tiptoeing behind Brayden, the floor beneath my bare feet cold enough to make me wince.
My head is pounding with the special kind of regret that only comes from tequila shots and bad decisions, and I'm desperately trying not to make eye contact with the half-naked woman passed out on the pool table.
“Almost there,” Brayden whispers, his massive hand wrapped around mine as he guides me through the wreckage of last night’s party. Empty bottles, discarded clothing, and at least three unconscious bodies are scattered across the clubhouse floor, casualties of their own terrible decisions.
“Did I really challenge Big to a drinking contest?” I whisper, flashes of the night hitting me in a disjointed reel of chaos.
Brayden’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter. “You did. And you held your own until the fifth round.”
“Oh God.” I press a hand to my temple, where a construction crew appears to be operating heavy machinery. “No wonder I feel as though I’ve been run over.”
“Shh,” he warns as we approach a snoring prospect sprawled in the hallway. Brayden steps over him with ease, then turns to guide me around the obstacle. I tug on Brayden’s hand, forcing him to stop.
“Remind me why we’re sneaking out,” I whisper. “It’s morning. We could just walk out the front door.”
Brayden looks back at me, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Trust me, princess. I’m sparing you from the chorus of vomiting that’s about to kick off once these degenerates wake up. And the hangover complaints? Absolute torture.”
I wince at the mental image. “Fair point.”
“Besides,” he adds, “after the way you danced on that table last night, you might want a head start before anyone remembers.”
“I did what?” My stomach drops so fast I'm surprised it doesn't crash through the floor. “Please tell me you're joking.”
His grin widens, and I can't tell if he's messing with me or not. “Come on, lightweight. Let's get you home before the walking dead rise.”
We finally reach the front door, and Brayden eases it open. The morning sunlight hits me like a physical assault, and I groan, shielding my eyes.
“Oh god, turn it off,” I mutter, which earns me another low chuckle from Brayden.
“Not sure I have that ability, but I can try.”
Brayden keeps a steady arm around my waist as we cross the gravel lot. The stones attack my bare feet with zero mercy, and it suddenly occurs to me—in true walk-of-shame fashion—that my shoes have vanished into the void.
“Um, Brayden? My shoes...”
“In my hand,” he says, holding up my sandals that I hadn't even noticed him carrying. “You insisted they were 'torture devices designed by the patriarchy' around midnight.”
“Oh God,” I groan, mortification heating my cheeks. “Please tell me I didn't actually dance on a table.”
His silence is answer enough.
“Kill me now,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my face. The movement makes my head spin, and I stumble slightly.
“Easy there,” Brayden says, tightening his grip on my waist. “Let's get you home and into bed.”
The thought of climbing onto his motorcycle makes my stomach turn. The vibration, the noise, the motion—every part of it feels destined to end in spectacular embarrassment.
“I don’t think I can handle your bike right now,” I admit, swallowing against the nausea climbing up my throat. “My head feels ready to burst.”
Brayden studies my face, then nods. “I figured as much. Don't worry, I've got us covered.”
He guides me toward a beat-up black truck parked at the edge of the lot.
“Whose is this?” I ask as he opens the passenger door for me.
“Hammer's. He loaned me the keys last night when he saw how wasted you were getting.” Brayden helps me into the seat with surprising gentleness.
The fact that these intimidating bikers were looking out for me, planning for my inevitable hangover, does something warm to my chest, or maybe that's just the tequila still burning through my system.
“That was...surprisingly thoughtful,” I manage as Brayden shuts my door and circles around to the driver's side.
“Club takes care of its own,” he says simply as he slides behind the wheel.
Its own. The phrase settles over me like a blanket. Is that what I am now? One of them? The thought should terrify me, but in my current state, it just feels oddly comforting.
“What about your bike?”
“One of the prospects will bring it down later when he comes after Hammer’s truck.”
Brayden turns the key and the truck rumbles to life. Even that gentle vibration is enough to make my stomach perform an uncomfortable flip. I close my eyes and lean my head against the cool window glass.
“I've never been this hungover in my life,” I mumble. “I don't even remember how many shots I had.”
“Seven,” Brayden says, pulling out of the parking lot. “Plus, whatever Tasha kept slipping you when I wasn't looking.”
“She was trying to get me drunk?”
He chuckles. “Not maliciously. She said something about you needing to loosen the church girl shackles.”
“Well, mission accomplished,” I groan. “I think I've loosened them right into the next county.”
The truck hits a pothole and I moan dramatically, clutching my stomach. “Please tell me I didn't embarrass myself too badly.”
Brayden reaches over and places his warm hand on my thigh. The touch is comforting, grounding.
“You were fine. Actually, you impressed a lot of people.”
I crack one eye open to look at him skeptically. “By dancing on a table?”
“By holding your own. Most of the guys’ old ladies won’t even set foot in parties like that, much less end up in the middle of everything.”
“I’m not sure ‘jump’ is the right word. More ‘dragged’—courtesy of Tasha and Dom. I’m honestly shocked I still have any dignity left,” I admit, glancing down at my clothes. At least I’m still fully dressed, which feels like a small miracle after what I witnessed in that clubhouse.
“I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, princess. And for the record… it was good seeing you cut loose.”
“It certainly doesn’t feel nice right now,” I fire back.
Brayden's lips quirk into that half-smile that somehow makes my stomach flutter despite the nausea. “Lie down,” he says, patting his thigh. “Bench seat's big enough. Best cure for a hangover is to sleep it off anyway.”
I hesitate for just a second before the pounding in my head convinces me. “If I throw up on you, remember this was your idea,” I warn, unbuckling my seatbelt.
“I've survived worse,” he chuckles as I awkwardly maneuver myself down, resting my head on his muscular thigh.
His hand comes to rest on my hair, fingers gently stroking through the tangled strands. It feels impossibly good.
“This is nice,” I murmur, my eyelids already growing heavy. The steady rumble of the truck’s engine, the warmth of his body, the rhythmic motion of his fingers in my hair.
“Sleep, princess,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”
Those words follow me down into darkness.
I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep when I wake with a start, disoriented by the unfamiliar softness beneath me. This isn’t the truck.
I’m in Brayden’s bed.
As I blink into the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. My mouth tastes like something died in it, and my head still pounds, but the violent nausea seems to have passed.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Brayden's voice rumbles from somewhere nearby.
I turn my head carefully, wincing as the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my temples.
He's sitting in a chair by the bed, shirtless, a mug of something steaming in his hands.
His hair is damp from a shower, and he's watching me with an amused expression that makes me want to crawl under the covers and die.
“How long was I out?”
“About four hours.” He sets his mug down and leans forward, elbows on his knees. “How's the head?”
“Still attached, unfortunately.” I push myself up to sitting position and realize I'm wearing one of his t-shirts instead of my clothes from last night. “Did you change me?”
“You insisted on it when I carried you in from the truck.”
I groan, covering my face with my hands. “I don't remember that part.”
“Not surprised. You were pretty far gone.” He reaches for something on the nightstand. “Water and painkillers,” he explains, holding out two white pills and a glass of water. “Best I can offer until we can get some real food in you.”
I take them gratefully, swallowing them down with several large gulps of water. I hadn't realized how desperately thirsty I was until the cool liquid hits my parched throat.
“Thank you,” I manage, my voice still rough from sleep and too many tequila shots. “I'm sorry for being such a mess.”
Brayden shakes his head, that half-smile playing at his lips. “You don't need to apologize. Everyone's entitled to let loose sometimes. You hungry? I can make you something.”
My stomach lurches at the mere mention of food. “God no,” I mumble, pressing a hand against my queasy middle. “The thought of eating anything right now might actually kill me.”
He nods, understanding without judgment. Then, instead of heading to the kitchen, he moves toward the bed, lifting the covers.
“Scoot over,” he says softly.
I shift to make room, and he slides in beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. With gentle hands, he guides me onto his chest, one arm wrapping securely around me. His skin is warm against my cheek, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much,” I whisper, relaxing against him. His chest hair tickles my cheek.
Brayden reaches for the remote on the nightstand and clicks on the flat screen mounted to the wall opposite the bed. The TV flickers to life, and he starts scrolling through channels, then suddenly stops.
“Christmas Vacation. Haven't seen this in years.”
“You like Christmas movies?”
“Don’t be so shocked.”
“I didn't expect you to be the kind of guy who enjoys watching Chevy Chase fall off a ladder,” I say, trying to adjust my position without jostling my throbbing head.
“There are a lot of things about me you don't know yet, princess.” His fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm. “Besides, everyone likes watching Chevy Chase fall off a ladder. It's practically an American tradition.”
I snuggle closer, breathing in his scent. The combination is oddly comforting.
“I used to watch this with my mom every Christmas,” I admit quietly. “She'd make hot chocolate with these tiny peppermint marshmallows she could only find at this one store in Carlsbad. We'd wait until Dad was at a church meeting and make a whole night of it.”
Brayden's hand pauses momentarily in its gentle stroking. “You don't talk about her much.”
“It's still hard sometimes.” I focus on the TV, where Clark Griswold is struggling with Christmas lights. “She was the buffer between my father and me. After she died, everything got...stricter.”
“How old were you?”
“Twenty. Breast cancer. It was quick—diagnosed in February, gone by October.” I swallow against the familiar ache that rises whenever I talk about her. “My dad threw himself into the church.”
“And you threw yourself into your marriage.”
“It seemed like the sensible thing to do at the time. I thought maybe if I did that one thing right, it would fill the hole she left.”
Brayden's fingers resume their gentle patterns on my skin. “Did it?”
“Not even close.” I close my eyes, the movie forgotten. “It just made a different kind of emptiness. One I didn't recognize until it was too late.”
“That’s all in the past now, princess. You can be whoever, whatever you want to be. Maybe steer away from table dancing, though.”
I smack his arm hard. “Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“Hush,” I tell him, pressing a finger to his lips. “It's getting to my favorite part.”
On screen, Aunt Bethany stands with her hands folded, ready to say grace over the family's Christmas dinner. I find myself mouthing the words along with her as she launches into the Pledge of Allegiance instead of a prayer.
Brayden's chest rumbles with silent laughter beneath my cheek, but he doesn't interrupt. His fingers resume their gentle stroking through my hair, each touch somehow easing the persistent throbbing in my temples.
I smile against his skin as the Griswold family awkwardly joins in Aunt Bethany's misguided patriotism.
There's something deeply comforting about this scene—the family's chaotic love for each other despite all their dysfunction.
Maybe that's why I've always loved this movie.
It reminds me that families come in all shapes and sizes, messy and imperfect, but still bound together.
“My mom would laugh so hard at this part,” I mutter, not really expecting a response. “She had this ridiculous snorting laugh that used to embarrass me as a teenager, but now…I'd give anything to hear it again.”
Brayden’s hand pauses momentarily in my hair before continuing its soothing rhythm. He doesn’t offer platitudes or try to fix my grief. He just holds me a little tighter. And somehow, that’s exactly what I need.
We finish the movie in silence. It’s not until the credits begin to roll, soft music filling the quiet room, that I notice his hand has finally stilled.
When I glance up, his head is tilted back slightly, breathing slow and even. He’s fallen asleep.
A small smile tugs at my lips. “She would’ve liked you,” I whisper to the quiet room.
The screen fades to black, and before I can think too much about it, my own eyes drift shut, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pulling me under.