Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
Helle
The parking lot feels empty after he leaves.
I stand there long after the rumble of his engine fades into nothing, arms wrapped around myself against the Florida humidity, staring at the spot where his bike was parked like if I look hard enough it'll reappear.
It doesn't.
He's gone.
Back to Texas. Back to Sharp Shooter Ranch. Back to prepare for a war that could kill him.
Two weeks, he said. Two weeks and I come to him and we figure out what home looks like together.
Two weeks feels like forever when you don't know if the person you love will survive the next five days.
I force myself to turn around, head back inside the clubhouse.
The sun is fully up now, painting everything in harsh morning light that makes my eyes hurt.
Or maybe that's the tears I'm refusing to shed.
The compound is quiet—most people are still asleep, and those who aren't are giving me space.
They probably think I'm about to fall apart.
Maybe I am.
I walk past Bravos' room on the second floor.
The door is closed.
Empty.
He won't be sleeping there anymore.
Won't be there when I wake up reaching for him in the dark.
Won't be there to bring me coffee with his pockets full of creamers and sugar packets he's not sure I'll need.
My chest feels hollow.
My old room—the one I grew up in—feels wrong too.
Like wearing clothes that belonged to someone else.
I'm displaced. Caught between lives.
Not Florida anymore because I can't stay here.
But not Texas yet because I haven't earned that either.
Nowhere.
That's where I am. Nowhere.
I check on Dad around ten that morning.
The door to his room is open, and I can hear voices inside—Mom talking softly, Dad responding with something that makes her laugh.
The sound is so normal, so domestic, it makes my throat tight.
I knock on the doorframe. "Can I come in?"
"Of course, sweetheart." Mom waves me over.
Dad's sitting up in bed looking better than he has in weeks.
Color has returned to his face—not the gray-pale of infection and blood loss, but actual healthy color.
His eyes are alert, bright, tracking me as I cross the room.
He's eating scrambled eggs that Mom made, using his right hand, fork moving steady despite everything he's been through.
"There she is," he says when I sit in the chair beside his bed. "My warrior daughter."
The title still makes my chest tight every time he uses it.
Warrior daughter.
Not disappointment.
Not the girl who betrayed the club.
Not the weak link.
Warrior.
"How are you feeling?" I ask.
"Like shit." But he's smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners. "But I'm alive, so it’s okay."
"Yeah."
He studies my face while chewing, then swallows and sets his fork down deliberately. "You look sad. Missing someone?"
I try to deflect, force a smile that feels brittle. "I'm fine."
"Helle." His voice is gentle but firm. "I've known you your whole life. Watched you grow from a baby who wouldn't stop crying to a little girl who climbed trees higher than her sister dared to a teenager who could outride boys twice her size. You're not fine."
My fake smile crumbles.
"The Nomad," he says. "Bravos. He left this morning."
"Yeah."
"He's a good man."
The words make tears burn behind my eyes. "I know."
"So, why are you here and he's in Texas?"
The question catches me off guard. I blink, trying to process. "Because you need me here."
"I'm fine." He gestures to himself with his remaining hand—the right one, thank God, because he's right-handed and at least Los Coyotes left him that.
"Your mother's here. Elfe's here. Doc says I can go home in a week if things keep going well.
Hell, I'm eating solid food and making jokes.
That's basically a full recovery in my book. "
"Dad—"
"Helle. Listen to me." He reaches for my hand, and I take it, feeling the calluses on his palm, the strength still there despite everything.
"I'm your father. I know when you're sacrificing yourself for someone else.
You've been doing it your whole life—staying small so Elfe could be big, running away so we wouldn't have to look at our failure, working shit jobs under fake names so we wouldn't be ashamed.
" His voice cracks. "And I'm telling you to stop.
Stop sacrificing. Stop punishing yourself. "
"But you almost died—"
"Because of Los Coyotes. Not because of you." His grip tightens. "If you want to go to him, go. Don't wait on my account. Don't use me as an excuse to be afraid."
The words hit like a slap.
"I'm not afraid," I say automatically.
He gives me a look—the one that says he knows I'm lying, has always known when I'm lying, will always know.
"Okay," I admit quietly. "Maybe I'm terrified."
"Of what?"
"Of—" The words stick. "Of losing him. Of building something and watching it burn. Of being happy and having it ripped away."
"So, you'd rather not have it at all? Rather stay here, safe and miserable, than go to Texas and risk being happy?"
When he puts it like that, it sounds stupid.
"What if he dies in the attack?" The question I've been avoiding. "What if I go to him and in five days he's gone and I'm alone again?"
Dad's quiet for a long moment. "Then you'll grieve.
You'll hurt. You'll probably want to die too.
" His voice is rough with memory—probably thinking about the weeks he spent being tortured, wondering if he'd ever see Mom again.
"But at least you'll have loved him. At least you'll have tried. That's more than most people get."
"That's not very comforting."
"It's not supposed to be. Love isn't comfortable. It's terrifying and messy and it makes you vulnerable in ways nothing else can." He squeezes my hand again. "But it's also the best thing we've got. So, don't waste it being afraid."
I'm crying now—silent tears that I can't stop.
Mom moves from her chair, sits on the edge of the bed, and puts her arm around my shoulders.
"I’m alive, kid," Dad continues. "The truth is I’ll be driving your mother crazy with my recovery demands in no time. You should go. Go follow that Nomad, ‘cause the Gods know you want to. That man followed you into hell. Go build something good. Something that lasts. You hear me?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
I need to make some calls.
The weight of what I'm about to do sits heavy in my chest as I walk outside, away from the clubhouse, finding a quiet spot near the fence where I can see the woods.
The same woods where Bravos and I—
I shake the memory away. Focus.
Two calls. That's all it takes to dismantle three years of your life.
My hands shake as I dial the first number.
I call Jack—the man who gave me a job when I was desperate and running, who never asked questions, who let me hide behind my fake name and paid me cash under the table when I needed it.
He answers on the third ring, and I can hear the bar in the background—country music, someone laughing, the clink of glasses. "Hello?"
"Jack, it's me."
"Bailey?" He sounds confused for a second, then: "Oh, shit. When are you coming back? I'm too old for this shit."
"I know, and I’m so sorry. It’s been crazy here."
"I’m sure it has."
Guilt twists in my stomach. "I'm sorry, really sorry."
"Yeah, well, sorry doesn't help me when I'm short-staffed on a Friday night." He sighs. "When are you coming back? I need to know if I should hire someone to replace you or if you're actually planning on showing up."
This is it. The moment I burn the bridge.
"I'm not coming back."
Silence.
Long, heavy silence that stretches until I almost think the call dropped.
"What?" he says finally.
"I'm not coming back. I quit."
"You're quitting. Just like that. After three years."
"Just like that."
More silence. "This about a guy?"
The question makes me bristle. "No. Maybe. It's complicated."
"It's always fucking complicated with you young people." But his voice has lost some of its edge. "Look, you were a decent bartender. Shit waitress—customers complained about your attitude—but good behind the bar. Fast, efficient, didn't steal from the register. I respected that."
"Thanks."
"But you're really leaving? Not coming back at all?"
"I'm really leaving. I'm sorry for not giving two weeks' notice. I know that's shitty. But I just—I can't come back to that life."
"That life," he says slowly, "paid your rent for three years. Kept you fed. Gave you work when you showed up looking like a drowned rat with nothing but a duffel bag and a bad attitude."
"I know. And I'm grateful. Really. You gave me a chance when I needed it and I won't forget that." My voice cracks. "But I need more than survival now. I need to actually live."
He's quiet for a moment.
I can hear him breathing, can picture him standing behind the bar with his phone pressed to his ear, probably shaking his head.
"All right," he says finally. "Good luck with whatever you're doing. And hey—your last paycheck is here if you want to pick it up. Two weeks' worth. I'll hold it for you."
"I'll come by in a couple days. Thank you, Jack. For everything."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get sentimental on me." But his voice is softer. "Take care of yourself, kid."
"You too."
I hang up before the tears can start again.
One down.
The second call is easier.
My landlord—a guy named Rick who owns half the shitty apartments in my complex and charges too much for places with broken AC and questionable plumbing.
"Where's my rent?" he says instead of hello.
Of course. "I'm calling to give notice. I'm moving out."
"Moving out? You're month-to-month. You owe me for this month."
"No, I don’t. I was one of the few that actually paid you on time, remember?"
He's silent for a beat. "You serious?"
"Dead serious. I'll mail you the keys when I'm done cleaning."
"Where you going?"
"Texas. Different part. Closer to family."