Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Bravos
The converted barn that serves as Sharp Shooter's main clubhouse smells like leather cleaner, manure, and stale beer.
Maps are spread across every surface. Weapons inventory sheets. Communications equipment being tested and retested.
Phantom's at the head of the main table with Shadow beside him—our Enforcer, six-foot-four of muscle and bad attitude.
Across from him is Blaze, our VP.
A few other senior members scattered around, going over details for the hundredth time.
Runes and Damon won't arrive with their men until tomorrow.
Right now it's just us—Shotgun Saints—preparing to host what will either be the beginning of the end for Los Coyotes or a bloodbath that gets us all killed.
I'm studying a satellite image of the compound when Ford's voice crackles over the radio.
"Uh, Phantom? We've got a situation at the gate."
Everyone looks up.
Phantom reaches for his radio. "What kind of situation, Ford?"
Static. Then: "There's a... woman here. Says she's Bravos' ol' lady."
The entire room goes silent.
Every single head turns toward me.
My heart stops, then starts again too fast.
Phantom's eyebrows raise slowly. "Bravos? You have an ol' lady?"
I can't breathe properly. Can't think. "Apparently I do now."
The silence stretches for another beat.
Then Shadow slaps me on the back so hard I almost stumble forward into the table.
"Oh come on, our boy is getting tired of all the strange pussy in every city!" He's grinning like this is the best news he's heard all week. "Looks like he wants to be a boring fuck now!"
Laughter ripples through the room—breaking the tension, turning this into something manageable instead of the earth-shifting moment it actually is.
"Fuck off, Shadow," I mutter.
"What's her name? She hot? Please tell me she's hot." He's still grinning, leaning back against the table with his arms crossed. "Because if you're giving up the Nomad life, she better be worth it."
"Shadow." The voice comes from the corner—Grace, one of Phantom’s daughters, sitting with her laptop open and papers spread around her.
She's been here for lunch, stopping by before heading to another ranch to check on horses.
Livestock vet. Smart as hell and doesn't take shit from anyone, especially Shadow.
"Some people actually mature and grow up. Not that you'd know anything about that."
Shadow turns toward her, that cocky grin still in place. "What's that supposed to mean, Princess?"
"It means you're emotionally stunted and Bravos is evolving past you." Her tone is dry, matter-of-fact, like she's diagnosing a sick animal.
"Big words for someone who spends all day with her hand up a cow's ass."
"Better than spending all day with my head up mine, which is apparently your full-time occupation."
"You know what—"
"Enough." Phantom's voice cuts through. "Both of you. Jesus Christ, you're like children." He looks at me, expression unreadable. "So. An ol' lady. The girl from Florida?"
"Yeah. Helle."
"She's supposed to be in Florida. Safe. Away from this." His voice isn't angry, just stating facts.
"She was. Apparently she changed her mind."
Phantom studies me for a long moment.
Everyone's watching this exchange—the President and his Nomad, working out what this means for the club.
"You love her," Phantom says. Not a question. A statement.
"Yeah. I do."
Another long moment, then Phantom nods once. "All right. Go get your girl. We'll finish planning without you."
"Prez—"
"Go, Bravos. This can wait ten minutes."
I don't argue. Just head for the door.
Behind me I hear Shadow say, "Ten minutes? Shit, give the man at least twenty. He's got three years of Nomad reputation to maintain."
Grace rolls her eyes, "You're disgusting."
"You love it."
"I really don't."
The door closes on their bickering and I'm walking fast across the compound toward the front gate.
My heart is pounding.
She came. She's here. She wasn't supposed to be here, but she came anyway.
Part of me wants to be angry—I told her to stay safe, to wait in Florida, to let me handle this without worrying about her.
But mostly I'm just relieved.
Relieved she's close.
That I can see her. That she's real and here and mine.
Ford is still standing at the guard shack looking uncomfortable when I arrive.
And there she is.
Sitting on her Kawasaki, helmet off, blonde hair catching the last golden light.
She looks tired, windblown, absolutely beautiful.
Our eyes meet across the distance.
"So, uh," Ford starts, clearly out of his depth. "She says she's your ol' lady."
"I heard."
"Is she? Because I didn't want to just let someone in if—I mean, security and all, with the attack coming up, Phantom said to be careful—"
"Open the fucking gate, Ford."
"Right. Yeah. Opening the gate."
He scrambles to the control panel and the gate swings open with a mechanical groan.
Helle rides through slowly, parks next to me, kills her engine.
We stare at each other.
"You're supposed to be in Florida," I say.
"I was. Now I'm here."
"The attack is in two days."
"I know. I'm not fighting. I'm just here. Close." She climbs off her bike, pulls off her gloves. "I needed to be close."
I cross the distance between us in three steps and pull her into my arms, holding her so tight she gasps.
"You rode all the way here," I say into her hair.
"Eighteen hours. Quit my job. Ended my lease.
" She pulls back just enough to look up at me.
"I'm all in, Bravos. Completely in. I want to be closer to you, and there’s a shop in town that needs a mechanic, someone good with bikes. I’ve done all the work on my Kawasaki myself, so I think I could do it. "
My chest feels too tight. Too full.
"You told Ford you're my ol' lady."
"Was I wrong?"
"No. But we should probably talk about that."
"Okay. Let's talk."
I take her on a tour of the ranch because I need time to process, need to move, need to do something other than stand there overwhelmed by the fact that she's here.
I show her the main clubhouse—the converted barn with its high ceilings and rough wood beams.
The bunkhouses where members sleep when they're here.
The armory that's currently locked down tight with enough weapons to start a small war.
Which, I guess, is exactly what we're doing.
Then the garage.
It's massive—Shadow's pride and joy, built over five years with money the club made and his own obsessive perfectionism.
Three bays, hydraulic lifts, every tool you could possibly need.
Bikes in various states of repair lined up along the walls.
Helle stops in the doorway, eyes wide.
"This is incredible," she breathes.
"Shadow built most of it. Spent five years getting it right."
She walks inside slowly, running her hand over a tool bench like it's something precious. "I could work here."
Honestly, I’d rather have her working at our shop opposed to someone else's. "You want to work here?"
"Maybe. If I'm staying. If we're doing this." She looks at me. "Are we doing this?"
"Yeah. We're doing this."
We walk out back where the property opens up into rangeland.
Open space stretching to the horizon.
"It's beautiful," Helle says quietly.
"Yeah. Been in Phantom’s family for many, many generations. They built this place from nothing." I lean against the fence, watching her take it all in. "Started with just the main house and the barn. Now it's—well, you can see what it is."
"And you? Do you live here?"
"When I'm not on the road. Got a room in the bunkhouse."
"Can I see it?"
I nod and take her.
My room is exactly what you'd expect from a Nomad who's never in one place long enough to accumulate shit.
Small. Sparse. Functional.
Bed with a plain gray comforter. Dresser with four drawers. Closet barely big enough for my clothes. A single photo on the dresser—the only personal item I own.
Helle picks it up carefully.
Two little girls, maybe seven and nine, grinning at the camera.
Emma and Claire. My sisters. Taken six months before the fire.
"They're beautiful," she says softly.
"Yeah. They were."
She sets the photo down gently, looks around the room again. "This is home?"
"This is where I sleep between rides. Home is—" I stop. Don't know how to finish that sentence. "I don't know what home is anymore."
She looks at me with those eyes that see too much. "Maybe we figure that out together."
We sit on the edge of my bed because there's nowhere else to sit.
"So," I say, trying for casual and failing completely. "You want to be my ol' lady, huh?"
"Is that okay?"
"It's more than okay. But Helle—you know what that means, right? In this world?"
"I know it means I'm yours, and you're mine."
"It means you're under my protection. Under the club's protection." I need her to understand this completely. "It means when I introduce you, you're my ol' lady first, everything else second. It means you're part of this club whether you're patched or not."
"I can live with that."
"It also means—" I have to say this. Have to make sure she understands the weight. "It means if I die in two days, you're a widow before you're even really a wife."
Her face goes pale. "Don't. Don't talk like that."
"I have to. Because it's possible. Likely, even, with the odds we're facing." I take her hands. "And I need you to understand what you're signing up for. This isn't some romantic idea. This is real. Dangerous. Permanent."
"I understand." Her voice is steady, even though her hands are shaking. "I'm choosing this anyway. Choosing you."
I cup her face, make her look at me. "Why?"
"Because for the first time in three years, I'm not running. I'm choosing. And I choose you." Tears shine in her eyes. "I choose us. Even if it's scary. Even if it ends badly. I choose this."
I kiss her then.
Slow and deep and full of everything I feel—love and fear and gratitude and need all tangled together into something I don't have words for.
She responds immediately, hands fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer.
We fall back on the narrow bed, tangled together.