Chapter 7
Ripley
It's been a couple of days since I showed up at the clubhouse covered in blood.
Which also means it’s been a couple of days since Leviathan killed Cain.
Days since I woke up and felt something other than complete and utter fear.
I'm still not sure who I am without the fear.
For three years, it was the constant backdrop of my existence.
Every decision, every movement, every breath was filtered through the question: Will this make him angry?
I learned to anticipate his moods, to read the tension in his shoulders, to know when to speak and when to stay silent.
Fear was my compass. My guide. My reason for existing.
Now the fear is gone, and I'm lost.
I spend most of my time in the spare room they've given me—reading, sleeping, staring at the ceiling.
Tawny and Paige check on me regularly, bringing food and company and easy conversation that doesn't require anything from me.
Leviathan comes by when he can, which isn't as often as I'd like.
He's busy—dealing with the fallout from Cain's death, managing the threat from Chief Varro, running a club that seems to demand his attention every waking moment.
I understand. I don't resent it, but I miss him when he's gone.
That's a strange feeling too.
Missing someone. Wanting someone.
For so long, the only person in my life was Cain, and I never missed him.
I dreaded his return, counted the minutes until he'd leave again, fantasized about a life where he simply... disappeared.
Now he has. And I'm still here, trying to figure out what comes next.
The next morning, Tawny shows up at my door with a mission.
"Get dressed," she announces, pushing past me into the room. "We're going downstairs."
"I am dressed."
"You're wearing pajamas. That doesn't count." She throws open the small closet where Paige hung some borrowed clothes—jeans, t-shirts, a few flannels that smell like cigarettes and leather. "Put on real clothes. You've been hiding in this room long enough."
"I'm not hiding. I'm just..."
"Hiding." Tawny turns to face me, hands on her hips. "Look, I get it. The world feels scary right now. Everything's new and overwhelming and you don't know which way is up. But you can't spend the rest of your life in this room."
"It's only been four days."
"Four days is long enough, don’t you think?" Her voice softens, just a little. "You're safe here, Ripley. The club's got your back. Leviathan's got your back. But you've got to start living again sometime. Might as well be today."
I want to argue.
Want to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist.
But Tawny's right—I can't hide forever.
And honestly, the four walls of this room are starting to feel less like a sanctuary and more like a different kind of cage.
"Fine," I say. "Give me ten minutes."
The main room is different during the day.
Without the press of bodies, the haze of smoke, the pounding music, it's almost... homey.
Worn leather couches arranged around a battered coffee table.
A pool table in the corner, cues racked neatly on the wall.
A bar along one side, bottles gleaming in the afternoon light.
Photos on the walls—group shots of the club, some dating back decades, chronicling the history of the Saint's Outlaws.
Paige is already there, curled up on one of the couches with a cup of coffee.
She waves when she sees me, her smile warm and welcoming.
"You made it," she says. "I was starting to think Tawny would have to drag you down here by your hair."
"She threatened to." I settle onto the couch across from her, tucking my legs beneath me. "Is it always this quiet?"
"During the day, mostly. The brothers are usually out handling business. It picks up at night." Paige takes a sip of her coffee. "How are you feeling?"
"Better. I think." I pause, searching for the right words. "It's strange. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something bad to happen. And when it doesn't..."
"You don't know what to do with yourself," Tawny finishes, dropping onto the couch beside Paige. "Yeah. That's normal. When you've been living in survival mode for so long, peace feels wrong. Like you're forgetting something important."
"How do you know that?"
Tawny and Paige exchange a look.
"We've all got our stories," Tawny says finally. "Mine's not the same as yours. But it's similar enough." She shrugs, picking at a thread on the couch cushion. "The club... it's not perfect. But it's safe. The brothers look out for us. And the girls look out for each other."
"Even though we're just..." I hesitate, not wanting to use the word.
"Clubwhores?" Tawny laughs, but there's no bitterness in it.
"Yeah, even then. Look, I know what people think of women like us.
We fuck bikers, we hang around hoping to land an ol' lady spot, we're trash.
Whatever." She waves a dismissive hand. "But this is family.
Fucked up, dysfunctional family, sure. But family. And family takes care of its own."
The words settle into me, warm and unexpected. Family.
I haven't felt like I belonged to a family in a long time.
My mother loves me, but I pushed her away to protect her from Cain.
My father exists somewhere on the periphery, more concept than reality.
And Cain's version of family was a prison cell with bars made of fists and cruel words.
This is different. This feels... real.
"Thank you," I say quietly. "For being kind to me. You didn't have to."
"Yeah, well." Tawny's voice is gruff, but her eyes are soft. "Us girls gotta stick together. No one else is gonna do it for us."
An hour later, I meet Loretta.
I'm in the kitchen, helping Paige wash dishes—a simple task, mindless and soothing—when an older woman walks in.
She's maybe sixty, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical bun and a face that's weathered but handsome.
She moves with the confidence of someone who's spent decades in this world and survived every bit of it.
"So," she says, her eyes finding me immediately. "You're the one causing all the fuss."
I freeze, dish towel in hand. "I'm sorry?"
"Don't be." She crosses to the coffee pot, pours herself a cup, and leans against the counter to study me. "I'm Loretta. Salvo's ol' lady. Michael, if you're using real names."
Salvo. The former President.
The man who founded the club, who brought Leviathan in, who shaped everything this place has become.
"I'm Ripley," I say, even though she clearly already knows.
"I know who you are." She takes a long sip of coffee, never breaking eye contact. "I know what you've been through. And I know what our President did for you."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know if she's judging me, approving of me, or something else entirely.
"He didn't have to," I manage.
"No. He didn't." Loretta sets down her coffee cup.
"Levi's a hard man. Closed off. He's been that way since Michael brought him into the club—all ice and control and walls a mile thick.
I've watched him run this organization for years, and I've never once seen him break protocol.
Never seen him let emotion guide his decisions. "
"Until now."
"Until you." Her gaze sharpens. "You understand what that means? A man like Levi doesn't break his own rules for just anyone. Whatever he sees in you, it's got him sideways. And a President who's sideways is a President who makes mistakes."
The words hit me like a slap. Is she warning me? Blaming me?
"I didn't ask him to—"
"I know you didn't." Loretta's voice softens, just slightly. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying he sees something in you that matters. And that means you've got power here, whether you want it or not."
"I don't want power."
"Then what do you want?"
The question catches me off guard. I open my mouth, close it, try again.
What do I want?
For three years, I wanted only one thing: to survive.
Everything else—dreams, ambitions, desires—got stripped away, crushed under Cain's heel until I forgot they ever existed.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't know who I am anymore. I don't know what I want."
Loretta nods, like this is exactly the answer she expected. "You survived. That's no small thing. But survival isn't the same as living." She pushes off from the counter, pausing beside me on her way out. "You've got a chance to figure out who you are without him. Without the fear. Don't waste it."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me standing in the kitchen with soapy hands and too many thoughts spinning through my head.
That afternoon, I call my mother.
I've been putting it off for days, finding excuses—I'm too tired, I don't know what to say, she'll hear something wrong in my voice.
But I can't avoid her forever.
She's probably worried sick.
I sit on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, staring at her contact photo.
It's from a few years ago—us at Heinz Field, cheering the Steelers, both of us bundled up against the November cold.
She's grinning at the camera with that huge, gap-toothed smile that I've always loved. I'm laughing at something she said, looking happier than I've felt in years.
That was before Cain, before everything went wrong.
I hit the call button before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the second ring. "Ripley? Oh my god, sweetheart, I've been so worried—"
"I'm okay, Mom." The words come out thick. Just hearing her voice makes my throat tighten. "I'm sorry I haven't called."
"Where are you? I tried to reach you at the apartment, but the number's disconnected. And when I drove by, there was a moving truck—"
"I'm not there anymore." I take a breath, trying to keep my voice steady. "Cain and I... we broke up."
Silence on the other end for a moment. "What happened?"
I close my eyes.
I've rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in my head, trying to find the right words.
The words that tell her enough without telling her everything.
The words that won't make her blame herself.
"He wasn't good to me, Mom. He... hurt me. For a long time."