Chapter Sixteen
Slaughter
The first week, I told myself it was temporary.
Just a few more conversations. Just enough time to make sure she wasn’t pregnant.
That I hadn’t completely fucked up. Then I would go back to Tennessee, back to the clubhouse, back to the tomb where men like me belonged.
But temporary turned into days. Then weeks.
And somewhere in the accumulation of stolen hours and whispered conversations, I stopped counting the days and started living them.
We were careful. So fucking careful.
I never showed up at the farm. Never called her phone.
Never left any trace that could lead Shadow or Kansas or anyone else back to what we were doing.
Hope would text me from a number I didn’t recognize—Closing at 10 tonight—and I would wait in the Medicine Park motel room until it was safe to ride to the diner.
She would let me in through the back door after Stacey left, locking it behind us.
We would sit in the same booth every time.
The one in the far corner where the fluorescent lights flickered, and the vinyl was cracked from years of use.
She would pour coffee. I would watch her hands move, steady and sure, and wonder how the hell I had gotten here.
The secrecy should have felt wrong. Dirty, even. Like we were doing something we needed to hide. But it didn’t.
It felt precious. Like every moment we stole from the world was something fragile and rare, something that could shatter if we weren’t careful.
The fear of discovery, of Shadow finding out, of Kansas asking questions, of Reaper showing up with that cold, calculating look in his eyes, added weight to every word we spoke, every glance we shared.
It made me pay attention. Made me present in a way I hadn’t been since Julie died.
And God help me, I started looking forward to it. To her.
“Tell me about your brother,” she asked one night, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, steam curling between us.
I leaned back against the booth, my own mug forgotten on the table. “Digger?”
She nodded, her eyes soft and curious in the dim light.
“He’s younger than me by two years,” I said, my words coming easier than I expected. “Total opposite of me in every way. I’m the one who plans, who thinks things through. Digger? He just blows shit up and figures out the details later.”
A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Literally?”
“Literally.” I couldn’t help but grin. “He’s the club’s demolition expert. If something needs to come down, a building, a bridge, whatever, Digger’s your guy. He loves it. Gets this look on his face like a kid on Christmas morning every time he sets a charge.”
“And you don’t?”
I shook my head. “I build things. Design them. Ravage and I work construction together when we’re not handling club business. I enjoy seeing something go from blueprints to reality. Digger enjoys watching things turn to rubble.”
She tilted her head, studying me. “But you’re close?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightened slightly. “He’s my brother. Only family I’ve got left besides Aurora.”
“What about your parents?”
Her question hung in the air between us, and I felt the familiar ache settle in my chest. The one that came every time I thought about my mother.
“Mom died when I was twelve,” I said quietly. “Car accident. A drunk driver ran a red light and T-boned her on the driver’s side. She was gone before the ambulance even got there.”
Hope’s expression crumpled, and she reached across the table, her fingers brushing mine. “Chapman, I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. “But it fucked us up pretty bad. Me and Digger. We didn’t have any other family. No grandparents, no aunts or uncles. We were about to get shipped off to foster care when Roxy stepped in.”
“Roxy?”
“Roxy Franks. She was my mom’s best friend.
Married to Moonshine, the Golden Skulls Tennessee Chapter former president.
” I paused, remembering the way Roxy had shown up at the funeral in her leather and boots, her eyes red from crying but her jaw set with determination.
“She adopted us. Both of us. Took us into the clubhouse and raised us like we were her own.”
Hope’s thumb brushed over my knuckles, a gentle, grounding touch. “That’s beautiful.”
“It saved our lives,” I said simply. “The club became our family. Roxy and Moonshine became our parents. And Digger and I—we had each other. We had a home.”
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching mine. “Do you still feel like it’s home? The clubhouse?”
I thought about it. About the tomb and the blood and the weight of the cut on my back. About Aurora sleeping in the nursery while I rode away into the night. About the way the Smoky Mountains looked in the fall when the leaves turned gold and red and the air smelled like wood smoke.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “It’s home. It’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be.”
“Tell me about it,” she whispered. “About Tennessee.”
So I did.
I told her about the Smoky Mountains—how they weren’t like the Wichita’s here in Oklahoma, all low and rolling and covered in scrub.
The Smokies were alive. Ancient and towering, their peaks shrouded in mist that gave them their name.
I told her about the way the mountains changed with the seasons: spring brought wildflowers and rushing creeks swollen with snowmelt; summer turned everything green and lush, the air thick with humidity and the sound of cicadas; fall painted the ridges in fire, every shade of red and orange and gold she could imagine; winter stripped the trees bare and left the peaks dusted with snow, silent and stark and beautiful.
I told her about the clubhouse. A sprawling compound tucked into the hills outside Knoxville, surrounded by forest and accessible only by a winding gravel road. About the main cabin with its stone fireplace and leather couches, the garage where we worked on bikes, the tomb hidden beneath it all.
I told her about riding those mountain roads with Julie on the back of my bike, her arms wrapped around my waist, her laughter carried away by the wind.
And when I said Julie’s name, Hope didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. She just listened, her eyes never leaving mine, her hand still holding mine across the table.
“She loved the mountains,” I said, my voice rough.
“Used to say she could feel God there. In the trees and the mist and the way the light came through the leaves.” I stopped, swallowing hard.
“We would ride up to Clingmans Dome sometimes, just to watch the sunset. She would sit on my bike with her head on my shoulder, and we wouldn’t say anything. We’d just... be.”
Hope’s eyes glistened, but she didn’t cry. She just squeezed my hand and said, “She sounds like she was an incredible person.”
“She was.” The words came out steady, true. “She was everything.”
“Tell me more,” Hope whispered. “Tell me about her.”
So I did.
I told her about the first time I kissed Julie in the eighth grade, behind the bleachers after a football game, both of us nervous and fumbling and laughing when our noses bumped.
I told her about prom, how Julie had worn a blue dress that matched her eyes, and how I had stepped on her feet three times during the slow dance.
I told her about our wedding. Small and simple, just family and the club, Julie in a white sundress with wildflowers in her hair.
I told her about the way Julie used to hum while she cooked, always off-key but so damn happy it didn’t matter.
About how she would steal my T-shirts and wear them around the house, the fabric hanging to her knees.
About the way she would curl up against me at night, her head on my chest, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my ribs while she told me about her day.
I told her about the years we tried for a baby. The hope and the heartbreak, month after month. The way Julie would cry in the bathroom when her period came, and after every miscarriage. How I would hold her and promise her it would happen, that we just had to keep trying.
And I told her about the day Julie told me she was pregnant.
“We were in the kitchen,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I was making breakfast—eggs and bacon, nothing fancy. And she just walked up behind me, wrapped her arms around my waist, and said, ‘Chapman, we’re having a baby.’”
Hope’s breath hitched, and I saw tears slip down her cheeks.
“I turned around so fast I almost knocked the pan off the stove,” I continued.
“And she was holding the pregnancy test, and she was crying, and I just—I picked her up and spun her around. Right there in the kitchen. We were both crying and laughing, and I kept saying, ‘We’re gonna be parents. We’re gonna be parents. ’”
I stopped, my throat closing up.
“She was so happy,” I said finally. “So fucking happy. She would talk to her belly every night, telling Aurora stories about what her life was going to be like. About how much we loved her already. About how she was going to grow up surrounded by family and the mountains and everything good in the world.”
Hope was crying openly now, her hand gripping mine like a lifeline.
“And then she died,” I said, the words flat and final. “And all those promises, all those dreams, they died with her.”
“But Aurora didn’t,” Hope said softly.
I looked up, meeting her eyes.
“Aurora’s still here,” she continued, her voice gentle but firm. “And she still deserves all those things Julie wanted for her. The family. The love. The good life.”
My chest tightened, and I felt something crack inside me. Something that had been holding me together through sheer force of will.
“I don’t know how to give her that,” I admitted. “I don’t know how to be her father without Julie.”
“You learn,” Hope said simply. “You try. You fail. You get back up and try again.” She paused, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. “And you let people help you. You don’t have to do it alone, Chapman.”