Epilogue
Garret
Fox held the scissors up and the crowd cheered before he even cut the ribbon. When the blades closed and the red fabric fell away from the new front doors of the Black Anvil, fifty Gravehounds and twice as many friends and family surged forward and the noise was deafening.
A year ago, this building was ash and char.
Now the bar stood rebuilt from the foundation up with new brick and fresh paint and a sign above the door that Fox had commissioned himself—a steel anvil with flames rising off it, welded by hand in the shop where I'd spent the last nearly ten years of my life turning wrenches.
Sara squeezed my hand as we walked through the doors.
The inside was packed already. The bar was lined three deep with patched members and their families, the jukebox cranking, and someone had strung a banner across the back wall that read CONGRATULATIONS GARRET & SARA in blocky handwriting that looked like Butch's.
Tonight was two celebrations in one. Grand opening of the Anvil, and the reception we'd never had.
Sara and I had eloped three months back at the courthouse in Jefferson City.
It was what she wanted—no fuss or fanfare.
Though, Anne protested how Sara would regret it, but deep down, I knew she had what she wanted the minute I told her I loved her.
The feud with the Black Locusts had died when Tony disappeared from Grove Hill. Without him fanning the flames, there was nothing left to burn, and six months of us not retaliating left things a hell of a lot more peaceful than before. Both clubs kept their distance and that was fine by everyone.
Rusty appeared with a bottle of Jaeger and a tray of shot glasses. He poured a line of them across the bar and the boys gathered around, and when he slid one toward Sara, she held up her hand.
"None for me tonight." She hugged her arms around my bicep and rested her head on my shoulder.
"Come on," I said, picking up my glass. "Danny and Tiffany have the boy. You can loosen up a little." I did love it when she got a little loose with her liquor. We had a lot of fun on those nights.
"No, it's okay. I'm good." Her smile stayed plastered to her face while she continued to protest.
"One shot, Sara. It's our party."
She turned to face me and her hand pressed flat against my chest. "Listen to me," she whispered. "Kip's gonna be a big brother, Garret. So I'm the sober mom tonight."
I stood there trying to understand what she meant for a few seconds as all the guys downed their shots. Then it hit me what she was telling me.
"You're pregnant?"
"About eight weeks."
Every head in the building turned when a roar came out of me. My arms scooped her off her feet, and I spun her around and then set her down and kissed her so hard, she had to push me back to breathe.
"I'm gonna be a dad again!" My voice carried over the music and the crowd noise and the jukebox, and everyone around us cheered. Fox raised his glass from across the room.
Sara laughed and hugged me as I downed my shot and whooped and hollered. A year ago, I was a broken man standing in an empty parking lot watching everything burn. Now the bar was rebuilt, the club was whole, and the woman I loved was carrying my child.
Life has a funny way of paying you back for the years it takes. Sometimes it takes a while, and it doesn't always turn out the way you think. But if you wait long enough, it comes around.
It always comes around.