Chapter 10 Rook
The engine hums steadily beneath me, tires chewing up the damp trail as I carve through the northern woods.
Leaves flash red and gold under my headlights, kicked up in a blur behind me.
The air smells like pine needles and frost that hasn’t settled yet.
Fall’s bleeding in quick, but there’s no snow.
Just a chill that keeps most people in bed.
But I’m not most people. I’ve got a crate of heat strapped down to the back rack and just under an hour to make the drop before the next set of side-by-sides starts ripping through these trails for sport.
This route’s not abandoned. It’s alive—locals on quads, weekend warriors, dirt kids who think the woods are theirs. But if you move quietly, know your timing, and pay the right eyes to look the other way, it works. It always has.
I kill the headlight before the next bend, letting the dark take me. The buyer’s already there, parked where the old logging road flattens out, barely visible behind a crooked birch and a wall of blackberry brambles.
No one talks. I step off the quad, my boots crunching through the frost-laced brush, and unlatch the crate. He checks inside. Metal glints under the flashlight sweep—no serials, no questions. Just like he asked. He tosses a heavy envelope my way.
"Same spot next month?" he asks, French accent thick under the hood of his words.
"We’ll see who’s watching," I mutter, already walking back to my ride.
He doesn’t push it. Just nods, climbs back into his truck, and disappears down the trail, tires silent on the wet dirt. I wait until the red glow of his taillights vanishes before I turn my quad around. The envelope rides warm in my inner pocket, heat bleeding through the fabric like it’s alive.
I should feel good. Relief, maybe. Satisfaction. But my brain’s already spinning somewhere else.
Calla.
She tried to say no when I asked her to dinner. Wasn’t surprised. She’s been living in fight mode too long. Always thinking of Beau first. Always calculating risk. But then Grimm stepped in, all charm and menace, and offered to watch the kid himself.
“You deserve one night,” he told her. “He’s already glued to me, anyway.”
That was the moment she caved. Not for me—for Beau. Or maybe for Grimm. I’m not stupid. I know this dinner is a test. Not just of me, but of who I am outside the club. Outside the shit I’ve done and the blood I’ve spilled. It’s a toe-dip into normalcy.
A candlelit restaurant. Maybe a laugh. Maybe her letting her shoulders down for longer than ten seconds.
But there’s a kid involved now. A kid who looks at me with wide eyes and doesn’t call me anything yet. Not “Dad.” Just “Rook.” He just watches me. Quiet. Like he’s not sure if I’ll vanish or stay. And truth is, I don’t blame him.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I can strip an engine, patch a bullet wound, disappear a body—but I don’t know how to be the man a kid like Beau deserves. Still. I’m trying.
I open the throttle, the engine snarling as I fly down the trail.
Fast and loose. Just the way I used to ride when none of this mattered.
When love was a myth and family was whoever didn’t shoot you in the back.
But now? Now I’ve got dinner in fifteen hours.
With a girl who owns my fucking ribs. And a kid who might one day call me “Dad.”
If I don’t fuck it up first.
I roll back into the compound just as the sun starts clawing over the tree line.
That watery New Hampshire light cuts through the last of the shadows, bouncing off the rows of bikes parked out front.
No one else is awake yet, but the scent of stale beer and burned coffee lingers in the air like ghosts from last night’s bullshit.
I kill the engine, swing off the quad, and stretch my back until it pops. Drop’s done. Package delivered. Payment in hand. Another favor for the table tallied in bloodless ink.
I take the long way around back, cut through the mechanic bay, and slide the envelope under Vice’s office door. He’ll count it later—trusts me enough not to check in front of me anymore. Not because I haven’t given him reason to doubt in the past.
Church is in less than an hour. I don’t even bother showering, just rinse my face at the sink and grab a black tee from the stash in my room. The rest of the guys are already filtering in by the time I hit the main room—leather kuttes, yawns, coffee mugs the size of soup bowls.
“Where the fuck you been?” Wren grunts around a mouthful of donut.
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter, brushing past him.
Ash’s already in the chapel when I push the door open. The table’s round, carved with our sigil—wings and wheels scorched into oak. The air smells like motor oil, tobacco, and steel. Familiar. Solid. Ridge, Boar, Frost, and Grimm file in behind me. Vice and Wren drag ass but take their usual seats.
Ash bangs the gavel once. “Church is open.”
His voice cuts through the static in my head, but I’m only half there.
We go over numbers, parts orders, a busted meth deal someone tried to run through our west route—idiots didn’t get far.
Grimm handled it with his usual brand of violence and flair.
We vote on a protection gig for a local tattoo parlor.
Boar raises concerns about a rival crew sniffing around our territory again.
It’s business as usual. But I can’t stop thinking about dinner. About how Calla hesitated before saying yes. How she still looks at me like she’s not sure if I’m a ticking bomb or something she could build a life around. How Beau never calls me anything. How I want to earn it anyway.
I shift in my seat, leather creaking under me, eyes flicking to the clock. Church drags. My leg bounces. Grimm narrows his eyes at me once, sharp and quiet. I nod once, an unspoken I’m good. He lets it go.
But I’m not good. Not really. Because tonight, I’m sitting across from the only girl who ever mattered, and I don’t know if it’s a fresh start… or a goddamn farewell tour.
Grimm’s boots crunch beside mine on the gravel as we cross the lot. It's that magic hour where the sun’s almost gone but the dark hasn't quite taken hold. Smells like motor oil, leather, and pine out here—home.
“You’re awfully quiet for a guy about to get a second shot at the one that got away,” Grimm says, smirking.
I grunt, adjusting the cut on my back as we walk toward the bikes. “Don’t start.”
He snorts. “What? I’m just sayin’. Calla Blake… the same girl you used to sneak off to the riverbank with back when your voice still cracked.”
“Grimm.”
“Rook.”
He grins like the devil, and I shake my head, but there’s a stupid smile twitching at the edge of my mouth.
“You nervous?”
“No,” I lie.
“Mmhm.” He slaps my shoulder once. “It’s okay to be nervous, brother. You’re not just tryin’ to win a woman. You’re tryin’ to win a mother. That’s some real shit.”
“I’m not gonna fuck this up.”
Grimm’s voice softens. “I know. And just for the record, I always liked her. Even back then. She was tough. Smart. Had that look in her eye like she already knew how the world worked. You sure you’re ready for that?”
I glance down, jaw tight. “No. But I’m gonna be.”
Before he can answer, the clubhouse door creaks open behind us. It’s the prospect—Mikey. He’s got that same squinty-eyed look he wore during church last week. The one that says he’s been thinking too much for someone who hasn’t earned the right to think at all.
“Where you two headed?” he asks, too casual.
Grimm answers first, tone clipped. “Out.”
Mikey hesitates. “Is it about that nurse?”
I freeze mid-step.
Grimm lets out a low whistle. “Boy, you do not want to finish that sentence.”
But Mikey’s got that special kind of stupid where the warning just doesn’t land. “I’m just saying… disappeared then showed up with a kid claiming he’s yours. Doesn’t add up.”
My boots pivot before my brain can stop them. I'm in his face before he can blink.
“You got a patch yet?” I growl.
He swallows. “Not yet, but—”
“Then you don’t get a fucking opinion. Not about her. Not about me. Not about anything.”
He lifts his hands. “Didn’t mean it like that, Rook.”
“No? 'Cause from where I’m standin', sounded exactly like that.”
Grimm steps up beside me, arms crossed. “This your first day with a death wish, or you been workin’ on it a while?”
Mikey’s face flushes. “Sorry. Seriously. Didn’t mean nothin’.”
I don’t say another word. Just hold his stare until he looks down, all that fake confidence shriveling like a busted tire. Then I turn and climb onto my bike.
Grimm follows, shaking his head. “Prospects these days… all mouth, no sense.” He mounts up beside me, smirk returning. “You sure you’re not nervous?”
I check the mirror, watching Mikey slink back inside. “Not about her,” I say, voice steady now.
Grimm kicks his engine to life. “Good. ’Cause that girl’s been through hell. You fuck this up again, I’m taking her to dinner.”
I chuckle, low and bitter. “You wouldn’t survive five minutes with her.”
“You’re probably right.”
Our bikes rumble to life, and we pull out onto the road with my pulse hammering, heart in my throat, and her name echoing louder than my exhaust. Tonight’s not just a date. It’s a reckoning.
The gravel crunches under my tires as we roll into the little dirt pull-off in front of Calla’s cabin. It’s tucked back in the trees like it’s trying not to be noticed—quiet, cozy, small. Just like she always said she wanted.
Grimm’s already kicking his kickstand down when the front door flies open. Beau. Little legs pumping like hell, curls bouncing, shoes untied.
“Rook!” he shouts, launching off the porch like a missile.
I barely have time to swing off the bike before he crashes into me—arms wrapped tight around my waist, face buried in my kutte. I freeze. For a second, I just… hold him.
“Hey, bud,” I murmur, squeezing him gently.
He pulls back just enough to look up at me, cheeks pink from running, eyes wide and warm.
“I—I mean—" His voice catches. “I’m glad you’re here.”