Chapter Twenty-One
Hope
The truck door slammed shut with a finality that made my bones rattle.
I sat in the passenger seat, my hands clenched in my lap.
I barely managed to pull on my jeans and shirt before he dragged me out to the truck.
I could still smell Chapman on my skin. Could still feel the ghost of his hands on my hips, his mouth on my neck, his body moving inside mine.
The scent of sex and sweat and jasmine clung to me like a second skin, and I knew Zeke could smell it too.
The engine roared to life, and Zeke threw the truck into reverse, backing out of the motel parking lot with enough force to make the tires squeal. I braced myself against the door, my heart hammering in my chest.
Chapman.
I left him there. Left him standing in that motel room with blood dripping from his nose, his ribs bruised and broken, facing Whisper and Widow and Monk. The image of him, naked and defiant, refusing to be ashamed even with guns pointed at him, was burned into my mind.
The truck hit the main road, and Zeke accelerated hard, the engine growling as we sped toward Lawton.
The landscape blurred past the window. Scrub brush and red dirt, and the endless Oklahoma sky.
The morning sun was just beginning to crest the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
It should have been beautiful. Instead, it felt like the end of the world.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Zeke’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, sharp and furious.
I turned to look at him. His hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin. His eyes were fixed on the road ahead, but I could see the rage simmering just beneath the surface.
“I was thinking,” I hissed, my voice steadier than I felt, “that I’m a grown woman who can make her own choices.”
“Your own choices?” He barked out a laugh, harsh and bitter. “You call fucking a Golden Skull in a goddamn motel room a choice?”
His words hit me like a slap, but I refused to flinch. “Yes. I do.”
“Jesus Christ, Hope.” He shook his head, his knuckles going even whiter on the wheel. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Any idea at all?”
“I know exactly what I’ve done.”
“No. You don’t.” He took a sharp turn onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing over ruts and potholes. Dust billowed up around us, coating the windshield in a fine red film. “You have no fucking clue what kind of shitstorm you just created.”
My chest tightened, fear and anger warring inside me. “Then explain it to me.”
“You want me to explain it?” He laughed again, the sound devoid of humor. “Fine. Let’s start with the fact that Slaughter is a Golden Skull. The Tennessee Chapter’s executioner. Do you know what that means?”
“I know what it means.”
“Do you?” He shot me a look, his eyes blazing. “Because I don’t think you do. I don’t think you understand that the man you just let fuck you is a killer. A stone-cold, no-remorse, bury-the-bodies-and-sleep-like-a-baby killer.”
“Stop it.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care. “Don’t talk about him like that.”
“Like what? Like he’s dangerous? Like he’s exactly the kind of man you should be running from instead of spreading your legs for?”
The crudeness of his words made my stomach flip, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “He’s not dangerous to me.”
“Not dangerous?” Zeke’s voice rose, filling the cab of the truck. “Hope, he beat two men bloody with his bare hands yesterday. Broke bones. Left them unconscious in a pool of their own blood. And you think he’s not dangerous?”
“He was protecting me!” The words burst out of me, raw and desperate. “Those men were Satan’s Angels. They would have hurt me, Zeke. Chapman stopped them.”
“And that makes it okay? That makes it okay for you to—” He broke off, his jaw working as he struggled to find words. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand the rules.”
“What rules?” I demanded. “The club’s rules? I’m not in the club, Zeke. I don’t have to follow their rules.”
“Yes, you do!” He slammed his hand against the steering wheel, making me jump. “You’re my sister. Balthazar’s sister. That makes you protected. That makes you off-limits.”
“Off-limits to whom? To Chapman? Why? Because he’s a Golden Skull?”
“Because there are protocols!” His voice was shaking now, fury and something else—fear, maybe—bleeding through.
“There are ways things are done. If a brother wants to pursue a sister, he goes through the proper channels. He talks to her family. He gets permission. He doesn’t just—” He broke off again, his breathing ragged. “He doesn’t just take what he wants.”
“He didn’t take anything,” I said fiercely, my hands clenching into fists in my lap. “I gave myself to him. Willingly. Gladly.”
The truck swerved slightly as Zeke’s head whipped toward me, his eyes wide with shock and rage. “What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” I lifted my chin, refusing to back down. “I wanted him, Zeke. I chose him. And I’d choose him again.”
For a moment, I thought he might pull over and throw me out of the truck. His face had gone red, his breathing harsh and uneven. But he just turned back to the road, his hands gripping the wheel so hard I thought it might crack.
“You have no idea what you’ve done,” he said again, his voice low and dangerous. “No idea what this means.”
“Then tell me.” I leaned forward, my voice rising. “Stop talking in circles and just tell me what I’m supposed to be so afraid of.”
“The Golden Line-Up.” His words came out flat, final. “That’s what you should be afraid of.”
My stomach dropped. I had heard the term before. Whispered conversations between Ghost and Zeke, late-night phone calls that ended abruptly when I walked into the room. But I never knew what it meant.
“What is that?” I asked quietly.
Zeke’s laugh was bitter. “It’s what happens when a brother violates a Golden Rule. When he touches a sister without permission, without going through the proper channels. The entire club lines up, and they beat the shit out of him. One by one. Until he can’t stand anymore.”
The image hit me like a physical blow. Chapman, already bruised and bleeding from the fight yesterday, facing down an entire club of men intent on punishing him. For me. For choosing me.
“No.” The word came out as a whisper, then louder. “No. They can’t do that.”
“They can. And they will.” Zeke’s voice was hard, unyielding. “Reaper will demand it. Ghost will back him. And Chapman will have to take it, because that’s the price for what he did.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong!” My voice cracked, tears burning behind my eyes. “We didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You broke the rules, Hope. Both of you. And there are consequences.”
“I don’t care about the consequences!” I was shouting now, my voice filling the cab of the truck. “I don’t care about their rules or their protocols or their fucking Golden Line-Up! I love him, Zeke! Do you hear me? I love him!”
The truck swerved again, pulling onto the drive that led to the farmhouse before he slammed on the brakes so hard I was thrown forward against the seatbelt.
Dust billowed around us as he threw the truck into park and turned to face me, his eyes blazing.
“You love him?” His voice was dangerously quiet.
“You’ve known him for what, a few weeks? And you think that’s love?”
“Yes.” I met his gaze head-on, refusing to back down. “I know it is.”
“You’re a child.”
“I’m twenty-eight years old!”
“Then stop acting like a lovesick teenager!” He was shouting now too, his control finally snapping. “You think love is enough? You think it matters that you have feelings for him? It doesn’t! Not in this world! Not when you’re dealing with the MC!”
“Then maybe I don’t want to be part of this world!” The words tore out of me, raw and desperate as I saw our sisters walk out onto the front porch. “Maybe I’m tired of living by rules I never agreed to! Maybe I’m tired of being told who I can and can’t love because of some bullshit protocol!”
“Those bullshit protocols are what keep you safe!” Zeke’s voice was shaking. “They’re what keep men like Slaughter from taking advantage of women like you!”
“He didn’t take advantage of me!” I was crying now, tears streaming down my face. “He loves me,” I snapped, yanking at my seatbelt. “I know he does.” I didn’t want to talk about this with him anymore. He wasn’t listening to me and nothing I said would make him see things differently.
I shoved the truck door open and jumped out, my legs shaky beneath me.
The morning air was cool against my skin, carrying the scent of earth and growing things.
I just needed to get inside. Needed to get away from him, from his words, from the weight of everything that had just happened.
But I had barely taken three steps when I heard his door slam and his boots hitting the gravel behind me.
“Hope, wait—”
“Leave me alone, Zeke.” I kept walking, my eyes fixed on the porch steps ahead.
Faith, Charity, and Joy were standing on the porch, all three of them watching with pale, worried faces. They must have heard the truck pull up. Must have been waiting, wondering what had happened. I could see the questions in their eyes. The concern. The fear.
I just needed to get past them. Needed to get inside and lock myself in the bathroom and—Zeke’s hand closed around my arm, spinning me around to face him. “Don’t walk away from me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“Let go of me.” I tried to pull free, but his grip tightened.
“Not until you understand what you’ve done. Not until you understand what this means.”
“I understand perfectly!” I was yelling now, tears streaming down my face. “I understand that you think I’m stupid and na?ve and—”
“You sound just like her.” His words came out harsh, uncontrolled, like he couldn’t hold them back anymore. “Just like Shirley. Same na?ve bullshit. Same desperate need to believe that some man actually gives a shit about you beyond what’s between your legs.”
The comparison hit me like a physical blow, stealing the breath from my lungs. I heard Charity gasp. Saw Joy’s hand fly to her mouth. Faith took a step forward, her face stricken.
My mom. Shirley Owens. The woman who dragged me and my sister from California to Arizona, chasing one MC man after another.
The woman who had left us alone for days at a time while she partied at clubhouses.
The woman who had been passed around like a party favor, used and discarded and always—always—came back for more.
The woman I spent my entire life swearing I would never become.
“I’m nothing like her,” I said, but my voice had lost its strength, coming out thin and reedy.
“Aren’t you?” Zeke’s voice was flat and emotionless.
“Zeke,” Faith started, her voice sharp with warning. But he wasn’t done. His face was red, his breathing ragged, and the words kept coming like he couldn’t stop them.
“You’re just another club whore warming his bed!”
His words landed like a jab, knocking the air from my lungs. I stared at him, unable to speak, unable to breathe, unable to process what he’d just said.
The silence that followed was absolute. I felt the world tilt beneath my feet. Felt my heart shatter into a thousand pieces inside my chest. Felt every ounce of strength drain out of me all at once.
Club whore.
That was what they’d called her. That was what the brothers had whispered when they thought we couldn’t hear. That was what Shirley Owens had been. A woman who gave herself to men who would never respect her, never love her, never see her as anything more than a convenient fuck.
And now my own brother was calling me the same thing.
In front of my sisters. Charity’s face had gone white, her eyes wide with shock and horror.
Joy was crying, tears streaming down her seventeen-year-old face.
And Faith—Faith looked like she had been struck, her hand clutching against her chest, her mouth open in a silent gasp. They all heard it. Every word.
“Zeke.” Faith’s voice was shaking, barely above a whisper. “How could you?”
“Hope, I didn’t...” Zeke started, something in his expression shifting as he seemed to realize what he had just said. What he had just done. “I didn’t mean.”
I yanked my arm free from his grip, stumbling backward. My whole body was shaking, my vision blurring with tears. “Don’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “Don’t you dare.”
“Hope.”
“You meant every word.” I looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the truth in his eyes. The anger. The disgust. The pity. “And maybe you’re right. Maybe I am just like her.”
“No, Hope, that’s not...”
Faith moved toward me, her hand outstretched. But I couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the sympathy in her eyes, the horror on Charity’s face, the tears streaming down Joy’s cheeks. Couldn’t bear the knowledge that they all heard what Zeke had called me.
Club whore.
I turned and ran. Up the porch steps, past my sisters, through the front door.
I heard them calling my name: Faith’s voice sharp with concern, Charity’s choked with tears, Joy’s small and frightened.
But I didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Just kept running until I reached the bathroom, slamming the door behind me and locking it with shaking hands.
Only then did I let myself break.