Chapter 9 The Lines We Cross
NINE
THE LINES WE CROSS
STEEL
The last thing I text her is Good. The safest lie I’ve ever told.
The moment I set my phone down, the quiet hits like a punch to the gut.
My brothers are loud on the other side of my bedroom walls, shouting about heating coils, patch rotations, some bullshit about supply runs, but in here, it’s just me and the truth I won’t say out loud.
I’m not good. I’m not even close.
I sit on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, phone cooling in my palm like a dead bird. Aria’s name glows at the top of the thread. Two words she didn’t send stare back at me in the empty space:
Miss you.
I know that’s what she would say, even if she can’t say it. I feel it like a bruise that never healed right.
I drop the phone on my nightstand hard enough to rattle the lamp. The ache under my ribs spreads, tightening, carving room for a kind of regret I don’t have language for. I stand, pace, curse, run a hand over my face until the skin stings. None of it helps.
So, I do what I always do when I need to shut my brain off. I drink.
There’s a bottle of Jack in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Second one this month. I twist the cap off, take a long pull, and feel the burn claw down my throat. The fire doesn’t numb shit, it just slows the storm in my head long enough to breathe.
I take another drink. And another.
By the time the bottle’s a third gone, I’m stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling fan blades spinning shadows across the room.
I try not to imagine her sitting alone in her house, flinching at every noise, sliding Tama’s ring along a chain like it’s a promise and a curse at once.
I try not to imagine her crawling out of my bed this morning, pulling my flannel around her shoulders like armor. I try not to imagine her leaving again.
I fail.
Sleep comes slow, the bad kind, jagged around the edges. I dream in flashes of her breath fogging against my throat, the press of her knees bracketing my hips, the sound she makes when she breaks apart under my hands.
Then the dream shifts.
Snow. A shape in the trees. A shadow moving toward the garage. A camera flashing too close. Aria’s crying my name.
I jerk awake with my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it aches.
The window is bruised in early morning light when I drag myself upright. My head throbs. My mouth is dry. I stumble into the bathroom attached to my room and splash cold water on my face, staring at myself in the mirror until I don’t look human anymore.
Then I pull on my jeans, my boots, and my cut, lock the door behind me, and move through the clubhouse on autopilot, heading for Church.
The brothers are already gathered around the long table.
Coffee cups steam on the scarred wood. Maps of the county are spread across the surface.
Rock is arguing about route expansions, City is rattling off supply shortages, and Draft is talking about propane deliveries like the world isn’t three seconds from burning down, but Aria keeps bleeding into every thought.
I step into the room, and everything stutters for half a beat.
Honor gives me a once-over as I enter with his head tilted, brow tight, reading the tension under my skin like scripture.
Throttle mutters “Jesus” under his breath when he sees my face.
Draft stops mid-sentence, the pen in his hand stalling.
City’s worry is subtle, eyes flicking to his phone, then back to me, as if waiting for me to snap.
“Morning, boss,” City says, flipping pages on his tablet. “Got updates on suppliers.”
I don’t hear the rest.
Because right in front of me is a map of Route 46. The same route Aria has to take home. The same stretch of road that hides a dozen blind corners and twice as many places for a body to disappear.
“Steel?” Rock says slowly. “You tracking any of this?”
“Yeah,” I grit out. “Just thinking.”
Crusher snorts from the end of the table. “Don’t hurt yourself.”
The room gives a low rumble of laughter. Normally, I’d smirk, throw a jab back, but today it grates like sandpaper.
Rock slides a folder toward me. “We’re debating expansion for the Ridge roads. Might partner with the Lumber crew to clear.”
“I don’t give a shit about the Ridge right now,” I snap.
The room goes still. Even Throttle’s grin fades. Rock blinks hard, like he’s trying not to take it personally. “Alright. What do you give a shit about?”
Aria’s name sits on the back of my tongue like a live wire. I don’t say it.
I rake a hand through my hair. “Routes. Perimeter. Who’s been coming in and out of town? Patterns. Traffic cams.”
City’s eyes sharpen. “You expecting trouble?”
I don’t get the chance to lie because that’s when my phone buzzes.
Short. Sharp. Like a warning shot.
I pull it from my pocket, expecting another supply question from Throttle or a check-in from Honor.
My stomach drops when I see her name.
Aria.
I open the message. A picture fills the screen. My blood freezes.
Aria and me. In the cot. Her head on my shoulder. My hand on her hip. Her mouth on my neck. The photo was taken from inside the garage. Close enough to touch us while we slept.
Underneath the image, a message.
Unknown Number: We know where she sleeps. And where you don’t.
My vision tunnels.
Rock asks something, but it’s just noise.
“Steel?” Crusher says sharply. “You breathing?”
My breath stops cold in my chest. Every instinct I own turns predatory. I don’t feel the phone slip from my hand. Don’t hear it clatter to the floor. I just hear the roar in my head.
“What the hell?” Crusher demands.
I force myself to breathe, pick up the phone, and turn the screen so only he can see. His jaw clenches hard enough to crack.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “That’s… who was in the garage with you?”
“No one,” I grit. “No one we saw.”
Rock comes up behind us. “What the hell’s going on?”
I shut the screen off. “Nothing we can’t handle.”
“Bullshit,” Crusher says under his breath.
I turn on him so fast he stiffens. “Don’t start.”
He doesn’t back down. Never has. “You gonna tell the room, or you gonna keep pretending this is personal?”
“This is personal,” I snap. “It’s also not anybody’s fucking concern.”
Rock crosses his arms. “If someone’s stalking your girl, it’s all of our concern.”
“She’s not.” The word girl sticks in my throat. “She’s not mine.”
Crusher laughs once, humorless. “Keep telling yourself that.”
My phone buzzes again.
Aria: Where are you?
Aria: Tell me what to do.
Her fear hits harder than any punch I’ve taken.
I stand so fast the chair kicks back. “I need the cage.”
City blinks. “The what?”
“My SUV,” I grit. “Now.”
Rock’s jaw drops. “You’re leaving? In the middle of…”
“I said now!” I bellow loud enough to echo off the walls. Crusher’s the only one who moves. He tosses me the keys without question. Our eyes meet for half a beat. His expression says, Do not come back without her.
I pocket the keys and push out of Church.
Rock’s voice follows me out, “Steel, wait.”
But I don’t. I can’t. Crusher’s the only one who understands.
He watches me go with that grim, silent nod that means handle your shit, brother.
The second the door shuts behind me, the world narrows to one truth.
Aria is in danger because of me. Fear hits first. Then the kind of rage that turns your pulse into gunfire.
The cold sinks in, but it’s not enough to numb what’s clawing up my spine.
Aria’s face filled with fear.
That photo.
Her sleeping beside me. Someone inches away with a camera while I didn’t wake up.
I don’t remember crossing the lot. I don’t remember getting in the cage. I only remember the wheel under my hands and one thought hammering through my skull. Get to her. Now.
It’s a twenty-minute drive from the clubhouse to her little house in St. Louis. I do it in twelve.
The snow along Route 46 is piled high on either side, plow lines jagged like a scar cutting through the white. My pulse hammers the whole way. Halfway there, a shape flickers in the trees, creating a shadow.
A dark sedan slows two car lengths behind me, then speeds off the moment I check my mirrors. My shoulders knot. My pulse spikes. Paranoia, or instinct? Doesn’t matter. I’ve survived this long by trusting both.
Aria’s silver Jeep is parked in her driveway, dusted with snow.
I breathe a sigh of relief knowing she’s ok. I should pull into her driveway. I should see her with my own eyes. But if I do, I won’t leave. And if I don’t leave, I’ll drag her deeper into whatever hell is circling us.
So, I force distance the only way I can. I send the text.
Steel: Motel on M-20 at dusk.
Aria: Ok.
That single word both steadies me and guts me.
I turn the SUV around, heart pounding against my ribs, and drive. I don’t pick a direction. I just let the wheels roll and the miles blur, the windshield frosting at the edges as the day bleeds into a pale, stretched-out afternoon.
The lie I told myself, the one about keeping my distance, crumbles fast. Because every fifteen, twenty minutes, I loop back toward her neighborhood. Not close enough to be seen. Just close enough to catch a glimpse of her front porch through the trees.
Close enough to watch for anything out of place.
Each time I swing past, my pulse eases. I swear I’ll stop, but I never do. Each time I drive away, the dread claws back up my throat.
City calls, Crusher calls, Rock calls. I ignore them all one by one.
City: Boss, you good? Call me.
Ignore.
Crusher: Need ten minutes. Urgent.
Ignore.
Rock: Where the hell are you? Road crew needs orders.
Ignore.
I can’t talk. I can’t explain this. Not when my hands are shaking on the wheel and my thoughts keep circling the same image of Aria asleep beside me, a camera pointed at us from the shadows.
Someone was inside that garage. Someone was close. Someone was patient.