Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Brandy
I’d been driving for the last hour without stopping, without thinking, just moving.
My back ached from sitting in the same position for too long, my eyes burned from staring at the endless white lines on the highway, and my bladder had been screaming at me for the last thirty miles.
But I’d kept going, kept pushing forward, because that was what I did.
I ran. It was my specialty, my default setting, the one thing I was really, truly good at.
The one consistent thread that ran through my entire pathetic existence.
Running away from Diamond Creek when things got complicated with the club.
Running away from my family when I was eighteen because I couldn’t stand the disappointment that hung in the air every time they looked at me.
Running away from Torment because I was too scared to believe he actually wanted me—not just my body, but all of me, broken pieces and all.
I was so fucking tired of running. Tired of being the girl who always bolted when things got real, when emotions got messy, when people tried to get too close. But here I was again, doing the same damn thing.
The smell of gasoline hung heavy in the air, sharp and acrid, mixing with the scent of hot asphalt still radiating heat from the day and exhaust fumes from the highway nearby.
A semi-truck rumbled past on the road behind me, its engine a low growl that vibrated through my chest and then faded into the distance, leaving only silence behind.
The fluorescent lights of the gas station buzzed overhead like angry wasps, casting everything in a harsh, artificial glow that made the world feel unreal, disconnected.
Like I was standing in a dream—or maybe a nightmare.
One of those dreams where you were trying to run but your legs wouldn’t move, or you were screaming but no sound came out.
What the hell was I doing?
I had everything I’d ever wanted back in Bethlehem, everything I’d been searching for all these years.
My parents, who loved me unconditionally despite everything I’d done, everything I’d become, every mistake I’d made along the way.
My brothers and sister, who’d welcomed me home with open arms and embarrassing childhood stories that made me laugh until my sides hurt.
My mother, who’d brushed my hair and tucked me into bed like I was still her little girl, like the last decade of pain and loss had never happened.
My father, who’d held me while I cried ugly, broken sobs into his shoulder and told me he’d failed to protect me, when the truth was, I’d never needed protecting from him—I’d needed protecting from myself.
From my own demons, my own self-destructive impulses, my own inability to accept love when it was offered.
And Torment.
God, Torment.
The man who’d shown up on my doorstep unannounced, who’d faced down my father without flinching even when Dad had gotten right up in his face with that cold, threatening stare that made most men back down.
The man who’d kissed me in that doctor’s office like I was something precious, something worth protecting, his hands gentle on my face while his eyes burned with an intensity that made my knees weak.
The man who’d fucked me against my bedroom wall with a desperation that told me everything his words couldn’t, his body saying what his mouth was too afraid to admit.
The man who’d said my kid like it meant something, like he was claiming not just the baby but me too, even if he didn’t know how to say it out loud, even if vulnerability scared him as much as it scared me.
And I’d run. Again.
Like I always did when the stakes got too high, when the fear got too real, when I could see the finish line of something good and my brain told me to blow it all up first.
Because that was what I did when things got too real, too complicated, too close to what I actually wanted.
When something threatened to be genuine instead of temporary.
When someone looked at me like I mattered, like I was more than just a body to use and forget.
I sabotaged myself before anyone else could do it for me.
I destroyed the good things before they had a chance to destroy me.
It was a pattern I’d perfected over the years, a defense mechanism I’d honed into an art form.
I thought about Amber.
The one person in Diamond Creek who’d understood what it was like to be a club whore, to be used and discarded and treated like you were nothing more than a warm body to pass the time, a convenient hole when the brothers needed relief.
Amber had been there, had lived it, had survived it just like me.
She knew what it was like to smile and pretend you didn’t care when they finished and walked away without a backward glance.
And now Amber was with Massacre.
Massacre, the sergeant at arms of the Golden Skulls.
A man who was dangerous and deadly and had a reputation for violence that would make most people cross the street to avoid him.
But he was also completely, utterly devoted to her in a way that would’ve seemed impossible just months ago.
The last time I’d talked to Amber, she’d been laughing about how Massacre was trying to get her to marry him, how he kept bringing it up in that gruff, awkward way of his like he didn’t know how to be romantic but was trying anyway.
She’d said she was fucking with him, making him work for it, not letting him think he had that much pull over her, keeping him on his toes because she liked watching him squirm.
And his brother Player was apparently making Massacre’s life miserable about the whole thing, giving him endless shit and offering unsolicited advice, which Amber found absolutely hilarious.
But beneath the laughter and the teasing, I’d heard something else in her voice. Something soft and warm and real. Something I barely recognized because it was so foreign to our world.
Happiness.
Pure, genuine, unguarded happiness.
Amber—a former club whore, just like me—had found her happy ever after with Massacre.
She’d let herself believe she deserved it, had stopped telling herself she was too damaged or too dirty or too broken.
She’d stopped running from the good things and started fighting for what she wanted, even when it scared her, even when every instinct told her to protect herself by leaving first.
So why couldn’t I do the same?
What was the difference between Amber and me?
We’d both been club whores. We’d both been used and passed around like we were nothing more than objects for their entertainment.
We’d both been treated like we were disposable, like our feelings and our bodies and our hearts didn’t matter to anyone.
But Amber had decided she was worth more than that.
She’d made the choice to walk away from that life and claim something better for herself.
She’d decided she deserved happiness, deserved love, deserved a man who would fight for her and protect her and treat her like she was precious.
She’d decided her past didn’t have to dictate her future.
And I’d decided I didn’t. I’d decided I was broken beyond repair, that I was too damaged and too tainted to ever deserve anything good. I’d convinced myself that I was fundamentally unworthy of love.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs and making my knees weak. My chest tightened painfully as the truth crashed over me in waves.
I was the only thing standing in my way.
Not Torment. Not my family. Not the club or the rules or the Federation or any of the other bullshit I’d been using as excuses for years.
Just me. My fear. My self-loathing. My inability to believe I deserved anything good.
I’d been my own jailer this entire time, keeping myself locked in a prison of shame and regret.
But I did deserve it. God, I did.
I deserved to be loved. I deserved to be happy.
I deserved to wake up every morning feeling safe and cherished.
I deserved a man who would show up on my doorstep and face down my terrifying father and kiss me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered to him.
I deserved a family who would welcome me home with open arms and embarrassing stories and unconditional love, no matter what I’d done or where I’d been.
Being a club whore didn’t define my entire existence. It was something I’d done, something I’d survived, something I’d endured when I thought I had no other options. But it wasn’t who I was. Not all of me. Not the parts that mattered. Not my capacity for love or loyalty or hope or resilience.
I was done running.
I pulled the nozzle from the tank and replaced it in the pump with shaking hands.
The metallic click as it settled back into place felt final, decisive.
My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat, adrenaline flooding my system like I was preparing for battle.
My whole body was trembling, every nerve ending alive and electric.
In a way, I was preparing for battle. I was going to fight for this.
For Torment. For my family. For the messy, imperfect, beautiful life I wanted instead of the safe, empty life I thought I deserved.
I was going back to Bethlehem.