Chapter 11
ELEVEN
REV
I linger near the doorway longer than I probably should, pretending I’m listening to Switch talk about something I don’t actually care about while my eyes keep drifting back to Brooke curled up on the couch between her sisters, a paper plate balanced on her knee, fingers shiny with sauce as she laughs at something Bella just said.
It’s not forced. Not brittle. It’s the real laugh I’ve seen before, the one that creases the corners of her eyes and softens her whole face like the world hasn’t just taken a swing at her.
She looks… normal.
A little tired, sure. A faint shadow under her eyes. But she’s smiling. Eating. Leaning into her sisters like she always does. Breathing easy for a moment instead of holding herself tight like she has been since the attack.
Yeah. She’s going to be okay.
The thought settles something deep in my chest, steady and grounding, especially knowing we took care of the fuckhead who did this to her. Knowing he’s not walking around breathing the same air she is anymore makes the night feel just a little safer, a little quieter inside my head.
Switch chooses that moment to walk over and toss me my keys. “I brought your bike.”
I catch them and nod. “Thanks, man.”
The weight of the metal sits familiar and solid in my palm, anchoring me back in my body after the last few hours of low-grade adrenaline and watchful tension. Switch tips his head toward the back door and starts moving, Blade falling in step beside me as we head out into the night.
The cooler air hits as soon as the door shuts behind us, carrying the faint bite of oil, dust, and distant rain, the shop settling into quiet around us.
My bike waits near the fence line, chrome catching the glow of the security lights like it’s been standing guard in its own way.
My eyes automatically sweep the lot, clocking shadows, angles, exits.
Old habits don’t power down just because the immediate threat is gone.
“How’s she really doing?” Blade asks once we’re far enough from the door that the noise inside fades into background hum.
I roll my shoulders, easing some of the tightness loose. “She’s still pretty shook up by the whole thing. Sleeping in short stretches. Jumps when the house creaks. But she’s eating. Drinking water. Even laughed earlier. That felt like a win.”
Blade’s mouth tips slightly at the corner, relief flashing there before he locks it back down. “Good. She’s tougher than people give her credit for.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “She is.”
A short stretch of silence settles in, the kind that only happens when everyone’s thinking the same thing but nobody feels the need to say it out loud.
Switch glances back at me. “Riot’s been keeping an eye on that motherfucker. He hasn’t notified the police and he already hightailed it out of town. Riot’s tracking him and has alerts set up if he steps foot in Jackson again or tries contacting her.”
“Good,” I mutter. “I don’t think he’ll be that stupid.”
“No, we don’t either,” Switch says.
I shift my weight, fingers brushing the cool seat of the bike without thinking, my gaze drifting back toward the building where Brooke’s light still glows.
“Any updates with the Russians? They’ve been quiet since we got Bri back.
I know this shit isn’t over. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. ”
“Nothing yet,” Blade answers.
I glance at him. “You still think something’s up with Lucky?”
Blade shrugs. “I don’t know. He doesn’t exactly scream biker, you know.
There’s just something about him. Maybe it’s because he’s not as fucked up as the rest of us and he’s so damn normal.
Then there’s the fact that he only patched in about a year ago.
Knowing we’ve been dealing with this Russian fallout for a few years has me second-guessing everything.
I think someone’s feeding the Russians information. I’m just not sure who.”
I rub the back of my neck, the unease settling heavy and familiar. “Yeah. Something feels off.”
I push off the wall and head back inside toward the living room.
Cutting through the noise and laughter, my eyes go straight to Brooke without meaning to.
She’s on the couch between her sisters, a paper plate balanced on her knee, smiling and laughing like I’ve seen her do a hundred times before.
Like nothing’s broken. Like the world didn’t just try to chew her up and spit her out.
Good. That settles something in my chest.
She looks up and catches me staring, her smile softening when our eyes meet.
“I’m gonna head out,” I tell her.
She watches me for a second, then sets the plate down and stands, closing the few steps between us.
My shoulders tighten automatically the closer she gets.
She smells like food and clean skin and something familiar I can’t name, and suddenly she’s close enough that I have to keep my hands to myself on purpose.
“Okay,” she says. “I figured you couldn’t stay forever.”
“Yeah.” I nod once. “I’ll check in tomorrow. If you need anything though, you call me. Doesn’t matter what time.”
Her mouth curves up. “I know.”
There’s a pause. One of those quiet ones where neither of us seems in a hurry to move.
Then Brooke steps in without warning and wraps her arms around me.
It catches me off guard enough that my body stiffens for half a second before instinct kicks in.
Her forehead presses against my chest, her arms solid and sure around my ribs, like she’s anchoring herself there instead of asking permission.
She’s warm. Real. The kind of contact that hits deeper than it has any right to.
My hands hover awkwardly in the air for a beat before settling on her back, careful at first, then a little firmer when I realize she’s not letting go anytime soon. Her breath pushes warm through my shirt, slow and steady, and something tightens low in my chest that I don’t have a name for.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice muffled against me.
“Always,” I answer without thinking.
We stay like that for a few seconds too long for it to be casual and not long enough for either of us to get brave about it, until Bella clears her throat behind us like she’s calling bullshit on the whole moment.
Brooke lets out a quiet laugh and eases back, her hands lingering on my sides for half a heartbeat before she drops them.
“Get home safe,” she says.
I start backing toward the door. “You too.”
She shakes her head at me, smiling, and I turn before I say something else stupid.
I step out into the afternoon sun and let the door swing shut behind me, the muted thump of it closing sounding heavier than it should.
The air’s warm, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and hot pavement, kids’ voices drifting from somewhere down the block, a lawn mower humming in the distance.
Normal life keeps rolling like nothing bad ever happens here.
Her arms are still on me. Not physically, but the memory of the way she wrapped herself around me like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she didn’t hesitate for even half a second before trusting me with that much space.
My hands flex at my sides like they’re still deciding what to do with the leftover heat of her.
I shake it off and head for my bike.
The sun glints off the chrome as I swing a leg over and settle into the seat, the leather warm from sitting in the light, the familiar weight and balance grounding me back into my body.
I thumb the ignition and the engine kicks over with a low rumble that vibrates up through my arms and into my chest.
Good. Noise. Motion. Things that make sense.
I ease out of the driveway and onto the road, the breeze cutting across my face as I pick up speed, the neighborhood sliding past in neat houses, parked cars, and people going about their day.
A woman pushes a stroller on the corner.
A dog barks from behind a fence. Somewhere a screen door slams shut.
And all I can think about is the way Brooke leaned into me like I wasn’t just the guy who shows up when things go sideways.
I don’t do comfort.
I don’t do close.
At least, I didn’t think I did.
The steady hum of the engine settles some of the restless energy still buzzing under my skin, but it doesn’t quiet the weight sitting in my chest, the part of me that keeps replaying the feel of her arms around me, the way her voice dropped when she said thank you like it meant something deeper than gratitude.
I take the long way home without meaning to, letting the ride burn off some of the tension that wants somewhere to go. My eyes stay sharp out of habit, checking mirrors, scanning intersections, tracking movement, even in broad daylight when everything looks harmless and ordinary.
She’s safe. The doors are locked. Her sisters are there, hell my brothers are there.
I run through the checklist automatically, like saying it enough times might convince the part of me that still wants to turn around and go back.
The road opens up as the houses thin out, trees lining the edges, sunlight flashing through the leaves in broken patterns across the pavement. The warmth of the day presses in around me, the engine steady beneath me, but my head keeps circling the same damn truth.
I don’t just want her safe, I want to be the one who keeps her safe, always.
The realization settles heavy and unwelcome, sitting in my chest like a weight I don’t know how to set down yet.
Wanting someone like that means lines blur.
Means there’s something real on the line.
Means there’s something to lose. And I’ve never been real good at that part.
By the time I pull into my driveway, I kill the engine and sit there for a second longer than necessary, helmet resting against the tank, letting the afternoon noise fade into the background.
I’m still sitting there letting the heat of the day soak into my shoulders, when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I frown and fish it out, expecting one of the guys.
Mom. The name on the screen pulls something loose in my chest I didn’t realize was tight.
I swipe to answer. “Ma.”
“Hey, mijo,” she says, warm and familiar, like she’s smiling on the other end. I can hear dishes clinking in the background, the low murmur of the TV, the normal soundtrack of her house. “You still coming for dinner tonight or did the boys rope you into something?”
“Yeah,” I answer without hesitation, swinging my leg off the bike. “I’ll be there.”
Sunday dinners are non-negotiable whenever I can make them.
My mom. My sisters. Hell, even my stepdad.
They’re my anchor, the people who kept me upright when everything else in my life tilted sideways.
No matter how busy things get at the club, I don’t miss that table unless there’s blood on the line.
“Good,” she says. “I made arroz con pollo and that flan you like, so don’t be late.”
A faint smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “You're always trying to bribe me with food.”
“It works,” she fires back. “And bring an appetite, I made more than enough. Even if Rafa keeps sneaking bites.”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head as I push the bike into the shade. “Alright. I’ll shower and head that way in a bit.”
“Drive safe,” she adds automatically, the same words she’s been saying since I was sixteen and thought I was invincible on two wheels.
“Always,” I say, and hang up.
I push through the front door and step into the quiet.
Not the peaceful kind. The empty kind.
The house is dark except for the thin strip of late afternoon light cutting across the hardwood from the front window, dust drifting lazy in the beam.
Big couch. Big chair. Heavy wood coffee table.
A massive TV mounted on the wall that I barely use.
Everything solid. Everything comfortable.
Everything chosen more for function than feeling.
It’s not a bad place. It’s just… not much of a place.
I’m not here enough for it to ever really feel like home. Most nights I’m at the shop, the clubhouse, crashing wherever I land after long days and longer nights. This place exists because I needed somewhere that was mine, somewhere quiet when I needed to shut the world off.
I kick off my boots by the door and move deeper into the house, the quiet following me like a shadow, and for the first time since I bought the place, it doesn’t feel like enough.
I drop my keys on the counter and the sound echoes too loud in the stillness.
I drift into the kitchen and pull open the fridge, the cool air washing over my face for half a second before I grab a beer from the top shelf.
The bottle cap twists off with a soft crack in my hand, metal biting into my palm just enough to register, and I take a long pull, the cold bitterness grounding and sharp against my tongue.
Better.
I lean back against the counter and stare into the quiet again, the house still too big for one person, too empty for how loud my head feels right now. The hum of the refrigerator fills the space like fake company, the only thing moving in the room.
I’ve never brought a woman here. Not once. Not hookups. Not mistakes. Not anyone I didn’t plan on keeping at arm’s length. This place has always been mine alone, clean and controlled and untouched by anyone else’s mess or expectations.
My eyes drift automatically to the couch and for half a second I can picture her there, curled into the corner with her knees tucked up, that soft little furrow between her brows when she’s thinking too hard about something. The image hits harder than it should.
I shake my head once and scrub a hand over my jaw. Going down that line of thought is dangerous. But after the last forty-eight hours that’s the only line my brain can go down. She’s all I can think about.