Chapter Twenty-Nine
Mac
Everyday is a new day
I'm reminded of my past
Every time there's another storm
I know that it won't last
Every moment I'm filled with hope 'cause I get another chance
But I will try
Got nothing left to hide
I'm beautifully broken
And I don't mind if you know it
‘Beautifully Broken’ - Ashlee Simpson
The clubhouse smells like leather, whiskey, and motor oil, same as always, but tonight it hums with something different. Something sharper, heavier.
Respect.
The kind you don’t earn with words. The kind you bleed for. The kind you claw back from the edge of hell when the world tried to strip it from you.
The room is packed, but it’s not loud. Not like on a party night where laughter and music echo through the rafters.
Tonight, the energy is lower, more solemn, charged with a gravity that sinks into my bones.
The brothers are out back, giving us this space.
Tonight is for the women. The ones with the patches on their backs, the steel in their veins, the scars hidden beneath leather and lace.
I stand near the long wooden bar, heart pounding like I am about to go twelve rounds in the ring. The air feels thick, heavy, pressing against my chest. But I do not shake. Not this time.
I am done shaking.
Shaina’s the one who called the meeting, her voice steady when she told me it was time.
That I was ready. That the women deserved to hear it.
And maybe, more importantly, that I deserved to speak it.
She was right, though the thought of saying the words out loud still feels like holding fire in my bare hands.
They are all here. Old Ladies who have held the line for decades. Mothers who raised kids in the chaos of this life. Lifers who have lived through storms I can only imagine. Even a few who do not wear patches but have earned their place in this family ten times over.
They make a circle around me, and for a second, that old voice slithers back in.
What if they see you as broken?
What if they think you’re weak?
What if speaking it makes it real all over again?
But then I lift my head. I meet their eyes, one by one, every gaze steady and strong. And I don’t see pity. I don’t see judgment. I see fire. I see power reflected back at me like mirrors, reminding me that broken does not mean beaten.
I take a breath, slow and deep, and speak.
“What happened to me could’ve killed me,” I begin, my voice clear, steadier than I expected. “It almost did. Not just my body, but my trust. My spirit. My sense of safety. My sense of self.”
The room stays silent. Listening. Holding space. Even the air seems to pause, waiting.
“A man tried to take something from me. Not just control. Not just my body. He tried to take my voice.”
I stop, letting the weight of that truth settle. It lands in the silence like a stone in water, sending ripples I can almost feel across the circle.
“And for a while, he did. I stopped talking. I stopped looking people in the eye. I stopped riding. I stopped living.”
The words scrape my throat raw, but I let them out. I swallow the lump pressing high and tight and push through it.
“But that ends tonight.”
Shaina steps closer, behind me now. I don’t look back, but I feel her presence, solid and unyielding. Hands crossed, chin up like a warrior. Like a sister. Like a shield.
“I’m not here to tell you how to heal. I don’t have all the answers. But I am here to say this…what was done to me doesn’t define me. My choice to keep standing does.”
A murmur of agreement ripples through the circle. Not loud, not wild, but reverent, like the rumble of thunder rolling low across the horizon.
“I’m Logan’s old lady, yeah. But before that, I was Mac. I fought for everything I have. And no man, no trauma, no fear gets to take that from me.”
Someone claps. Then another. Then all of them.
Not wild cheers. Not drunken hoots. But the kind of applause that carries weight. The kind that means something. That says: We see you. We believe you. You are one of us.
I feel it like fire in my chest, spreading warmth through the cracks I thought would never close.
When it quiets, another woman steps forward. Wren, a quiet widow from another chapter, her eyes lined with both sorrow and strength. She clears her throat, and her voice shakes but holds. “What you said… it gives the rest of us permission. To stop hiding. To start healing.”
The words strike me deeper than I expect. Permission. That’s what I have been fighting for without realizing it. Not just for me, but for every woman who carries a scar in silence.
I nod, my heart so full it aches. “I’m not healed,” I admit, voice rough. “Not completely. But I’m healing. And I’m not doing it alone.”
I look around the room, at these women who have stood through wars, who have buried husbands, who have raised children while carrying their own bruises. Fighters. Lovers. Survivors. Queens.
“No one else gets to write our stories.”
And tonight, in this room, surrounded by fire-forged sisters, I finally feel whole again.
Not because I went back to who I was before. That version of me is gone.
But because I chose to become who I am now.
Stronger. Louder.
Free.