Chapter 2 #2
“No.” I shake my head, but my voice betrays me. “I can’t help wanting to see him. Just once.”
Leah sighs. “You ghosted a man at his father’s funeral, babe. That’s not closure, that’s trauma with heels.”
Her words land hard because she’s right. I left him standing in the rain because I couldn’t watch him drown, and I couldn’t save him either. It felt like mercy then. Now it just feels like abandonment dressed as self-preservation.
Leah exhales, all sass gone. “You’re stepping into a world that chews people up and calls it loyalty.”
I smile, small and tired. “I lived there once. I know how sharp the teeth are.”
She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. “Then remember that before you get bitten again.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, Mom.”
“Anytime. Now, drink your caffeine and tell me about the case you crushed today. I need to live vicariously through your professional dominance.”
I snort, nearly choking. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m balanced,” she says, raising her cup in mock salute. “Caffeine, chaos, and a healthy fear of men with cuts.”
We laugh a real, belly-deep laughter, the kind that almost hides the tremor in my chest.
But when I leave, her warning stays with me like the taste of bitter coffee. You step back into that world, and it’ll chew you up.
Early the next morning, snow starts falling before I hit the back roads. Light at first, then heavier fat flakes that smear against the windshield and dissolve into silence.
I didn’t sleep much last night, nervous energy skirted through my body, making sleep impossible. Will Steel tell me to leave? Will he look at me with the same longing and want as the night of the General’s memorial, only to shut me down and force me to walk away?
Leah’s text lights my phone:
Don’t crash. Or fall back in love.
I laugh under my breath. “Too late.”
The road to the clubhouse is an old, familiar, faint scar, but it still throbs when touched. Pines blur past, black against white. The heater hums low.
If Steel opens the door, I’ll tell him it’s business. If he looks at me like he used to, I’ll keep my distance. If he says my name, Aria, in that voice that makes promises sound like confessions, I’ll remember why I left.
That’s the plan. Except every mile closer feels like stripping away another piece of armor.
By the time I reach the clubhouse and the faded Saint Motors sign appears through the storm, my hands are trembling on the wheel. I kill the engine and stare at the faint light spilling under the garage door. My breath fogs the windshield.
Business, I remind myself. Just business.
I step out on shaking legs.
Thick, metallic heat hits as soon as I open the garage door with the scent of oil and smoke. Music hums low from an old speaker.
Steel’s bent over a Harley, sleeves rolled, forearms flexing as he tightens a bolt. His cut hangs on a hook behind him, the “President” rocker catching the light.
I forget to breathe.
He looks up slowly, like he already knows I’m here. Beautiful dark eyes, as I remember, stare at me. Dark circles hang heavy under them.
“Didn’t expect you this early,” he says, voice steady but rough around the edges.
I hold up the folder. “Figured I’d get the paperwork out of your way.”
He wipes his hands on a rag, and I want to reach for him. Stupid, reflexive, but the memory of leaving him in the rain freezes me mid-step. “Draft send you?”
“I volunteered.” That earns me a long, slow look that does things to my pulse I don’t want to name.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.” The air thickens. Neither of us moves.
“You keeping busy?” he asks, like small talk can hide the ache.
“Trying,” I say. “Law doesn’t stop for grief.”
He nods once. “Neither does the club.” Something soft in his tone cracks, and exhaustion makes my throat tighten.
“You rebuilt it,” I say, gesturing to the Harley.
“Had to. Couldn’t stand seeing it rot.”
I smile faintly. “You sound like him.”
His jaw locks. “Don’t.”
The word hits like a slap. I flinch, then cover it with a nod. “Sorry.”
He exhales, running a hand over his face. When he looks up again, some of the tension’s gone. “You don’t need to apologize, Aria.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t either.”
He looks at me like he’s remembering every reason he shouldn’t want me. The air between us hums, full of heat and history. “Still drink coffee like jet fuel?” he asks finally.
“Only on days ending in Y.” His mouth almost curves. Almost. The silence that follows feels heavier than words. I clear my throat. “The deed transfer’s in the folder. I’ll have the city attorney sign off by next week.”
“Appreciate it,” he says, voice low.
I turn toward the door, needing distance before I forget what I came for. “Aria.”
I stop.
He hesitates, like the words hurt on the way out. “Thanks… for showing up.”
It’s nothing. It’s everything. I nod once. “Always.”
The snow’s blinding when I step back outside, but at least it hides the tears threatening to fall.
I make it to my car before I let out the breath I’ve been holding since I walked in. My hands shake when I start the engine. The heater coughs warm air that smells faintly of oil and him.
“You did good,” I whisper. “Kept it professional.” Except my voice cracks on professional.
The snow thickens, blanketing the windshield. My phone buzzes in the cup holder.
Draft: Appreciate you stopping by. We’ve got some issues with the south-lot title. Might need you tomorrow if Steel’s tied up.
My pulse skips at tied up. Old reflex. Old sin.
Before I can respond, another message lights the screen.
Unknown Number: You shouldn’t have come back, counselor.
Cold rushes down my spine.
Another buzz.
Unknown Number: Saints bring fire wherever they go. Don’t get burned twice.
My fingers tighten on the phone until my knuckles ache. I glance toward the garage. There’s no movement, no sound. Just the faint glow of light under the door, steady, safe, and so damn dangerous.
I delete the messages, but the chill doesn’t leave. I’ve faced judges who wanted me buried and clients who lied through their teeth, but one anonymous text from a phantom number still makes my stomach drop.
The Saints never let anyone go. And maybe I never really wanted them to.