CHAPTER EIGHT
NOTHING LASTS FOREVER.
I’ve been learning that since before I could spell my own name.
People come and go. They stay long enough to make you hope, then they’re gone.
Foster moms. Friends. Every kind of love.
Except Billy. Billy’s the one constant I wish I didn’t have.
I’m following Cash up the stairs to Billy’s room. On the first floor, activity is brewing. There’s a party tonight.
Rox and Maze are gone. Just like that.
Billy came to the room last night, voice clipped and vicious. Maze was saying he didn’t bring the heat, that he didn’t know those guys were looking for him. Rox was uncharacteristically edgy, swearing under her breath and pacing.
“I covered your ass once,” said Billy, “but I won’t do it again.”
Afterwards, they started packing. This morning, Rox cried and kissed me and told me that one day the three of us would get a place together in Nashville, that we’ll see each other again.
Maze took the whole locked cabinet with them, carrying it out to the trunk of their beat-up car, but folded a small baggie into my hand before they said goodbye.
“Make ‘em last, though, babe,” he told me, and kissed me on the forehead.
For a while I just sat in the empty room, gutted and disoriented—but peaceful, too. It had been a while since I’d had any time to myself. I took a pill. Then two. Then Cash knocked on the door. I guess Billy finally remembered me.
When we reach Billy’s door, Cash knocks and waits for Billy to call us in. Then he holds the door open for me to walk into the familiar space.
It’s nicer than Rox and Maze’s room. A lot nicer.
Bigger, but cleaner, too, with a low, king-sized bed with built-in headboard and strip lighting, and everything put away in its place.
Billy’s tidy, I’ll give him that. The room smells fresher, cleaner—and familiar, Billy’s expensive cologne hanging in the air.
I hate that cologne. It smells oppressive and cloying to me.
He doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed until he’s finished lacing his boots.
Then he rests his forearms on his knees and looks up at me with a long, low sigh.
The kind of sigh my caseworker used to give me when I was being moved to yet another house when I was in the system.
As if it’s my fault when people leave or flake out.
I take it as a good sign, though, that my futon is no longer on the floor.
“What am I going to do with you?” he says, half to himself, shaking his head.
“Send me home?”
“You are home,” he snaps, standing up. He’s six feet of power. I’m five-three and pretending not to flinch.
He steps closer, looming, then he sighs again, lower this time. Almost wistful.
“I remember when you were just a kid,” he says. “Tiny little thing, all bones and eyes. Wouldn’t talk to anyone. Wouldn’t even eat unless I sat beside you.”
I say nothing. Because it’s true. And I hate that it’s true.
He studies my face like he’s remembering something fond. Or pretending to.
“You used to follow me everywhere.”
“I was thirteen,” I mutter. “Didn’t know any better.”
Something sharp flashes across his expression, but he swallows it.
“You’re not a kid anymore,” he says finally. “But I’m still looking after you, Max. I’ll always look after you.”
“Look after me?” I spit out. “How the hell is this looking after me?
His expression tightens, eyes narrowing.
“You dragged me back here like I was some fucking—”
“Don’t start,” he cuts in. “You don’t get to mouth off like you didn’t bring this on yourself.”
I take a step toward him. “You let Silas—”
In a blink, his hand is around my throat. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just enough to make my breath hitch. Just enough to remind me what he’s capable of. His thumb presses lightly against the side of my neck, like he’s measuring how far he’d have to go to shut me up for good.
“That’s enough.”
His eyes are all ice now. The warmth, the memory, the flicker of the boy I used to know…all gone.
“I fed you. Clothed you. Protected you when no one else would.”
“You drugged me.”
He laughs, darkly. “And look at you now. Got a taste for it, clearly.”
He drops his hand and steps back.
“Where the fuck is your collar?”
I shrug.
He scrubs a hand down his chin, slow and tight, the way he does when he’s deciding whether or not it’s worth breaking something.
“Fine.”
He walks to the door, opens it, and pauses to look back at me.
“Stay here for now. I’ll send Cash up for you later.”
The door shuts and the lock clicks into place. I pull out my baggie and count the remaining pills.
What feels like days later, Cash’s voice jolts me out of a dreamless sleep.
“Max? I gotta bring you downstairs.”
I turn my head to the doorway to see him standing there. The TV’s on, a cacophony of noise at the end of the bed that I’m not paying any attention to, and I’m sprawled out on Billy’s bed, foggy and out of it.
Make ‘em last, Maze had said, and I had every intention to, but the last six pills in his little baggie had been too much to resist as the hours had clicked away in this unbearable bedroom. My thoughts kept drifting, too painfully, to everything that had happened in here.
To what had happened to Ryder.
To Jake. To Damian.
To Wyatt.
Now there are no more pills and I can barely stand. I roll to my side and put my feet on the ground, but when I try to put my weight on them the world tilts. Suddenly Cash is grabbing my arms and trying to pull me up.
“Hey,” he’s saying with concern. “You okay?”
“Fine.” The word comes out too slowly.
He gets me up, gets my arm around his shoulder and holds me up around the middle, and we lurch unsteadily out into the hall.
The staircase in particular is tricky. But by the time we’re walking through the hangar, I’m getting my bearings a little and walking easier.
The world is loopy and twisted, though, reality a slippery illusion I’m trying to hold on to.
We step outside into the golden light of late afternoon. The hangar’s yard has been transformed. Long folding tables, music playing on portable speakers, and smoke pouring out of the pair of massive grills Billy bought last year. The air is warm, laced with the smell of grilled meat and summer.
This isn’t one of Billy’s bigger, wilder parties. Everyone here is familiar. Men in O.D. cuts, their women, their kids.
A few children run shrieking past us, sticky-faced and barefoot.
But all I see is Wyatt, standing near the hedge talking to two women. Their eyes are locked on him, but his are locked on me, watching me impassively as Cash guides me carefully through the crowd.
Billy’s sitting at the far end of one of the long tables, tipping a beer back and laughing, looking relaxed and happy. But when he sees us coming, his expression darkens. No hello. No nod. Just a frown.
Cash helps me slide onto the bench beside him, but I stumble, yanking the tablecloth as I go. Three people lunge to catch it before drinks go flying. Billy doesn’t move. Cash leans in and whispers something to him.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, cutting me a look like I’m a dog that pissed on his floor.
He flags Pluto over from the grill.
“Bring her a burger and get her some fucking water.”
Then he turns back to his conversation like I’m not even there.
I don’t mind. I sit numbly beside him, the world undulating around me like I’m on a slow-moving boat. When Pluto sets the burger down, I peel off a bit of bun and pop it in my mouth, but my stomach turns the moment it hits my tongue.
I’m not hungry.
The party hums around us, loose and easy. Probably fun for everyone else. Probably fun for Wyatt, still flanked by those two women laughing at whatever he’s saying. Hanging off his every word.
When the food is mostly gone and even the kids have quieted down, Billy stands and claps his hands together.
“All right, all right. Shut the fuck up for a second.”
Laughter trickles out across the tables. He grins, soaking it in. In his element.
“We’re here tonight to celebrate someone who’s more than proven his commitment to this club. Who, in the time he’s been with us, has shown absolute loyalty, grit, and ruthlessness.”
He lifts his bottle toward Wyatt.
“Ryan, you tenacious bastard. Your insight and your intellect have made this club stronger. That, and you ride like a fucking demon. You embody what the O.D. stands for. And that’s why I’m proud as hell to celebrate your promotion to Road Captain.”
Cheers erupt. Bottles clink. Someone howls. One of the women next to Wyatt kisses his cheek. He stiffens, just slightly, then recovers with a grin and raises his bottle.
“When the skull screams, we scream back!” Billy calls, his voice going hard. The ritualistic chant. “You earned that patch, brother.”
More applause. More whistles.
I don’t clap. I don’t move.
Road Captain.
That makes Wyatt third in command. Right after Silas.
That’s when I notice Silas sitting a few feet away, watching, and not clapping either.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise.
Maybe this is what Wyatt wanted to tell me behind the storehouse. That he was rising in the ranks.
His betrayal goes so much deeper than I ever could have imagined. He’s not just patched-in, he’s club leadership. He’s almost as O.D. as Billy is.
After his speech, Billy makes his rounds.
He starts with Wyatt—Ryan, whatever. They look close.
Billy’s got his arm slung around his shoulders, the two of them leaning in, talking low, like they’re in on some private joke.
Every now and then one of them laughs. Billy throws his head back, then gives Wyatt a firm smack between the shoulder blades, all grins and brotherhood.
It makes me sick.
Silas watches from one of the smaller tables, arms crossed, beer untouched. His face hasn’t changed since the speech—flat, unreadable, with that dead-eyed stare he always has. He doesn’t smile, or clap, or laugh. He just watches Billy and Wyatt like he’s measuring them both for coffins.
He looks about as thrilled to be here as I am.
I amuse myself by picking my hamburger into pieces, then sprinkling the mess back over my plate like I’m feeding birds that aren’t there.
My arms feel heavy, like they belong to someone else. My limbs move like I’m underwater. I keep forgetting to blink until my eyes sting.
The sun’s too bright. Sound comes in waves—too loud, then too soft, then gone entirely. I’m floating in and out of the moment like a ghost tethered to the wrong plane.
No one at the table looks at me, but I feel the weight of their attention in their avoidance. The silence. The side-eyes.
I don’t care.
My skin itches under the cotton of my clothes, but scratching doesn’t help. My head’s full of static. My stomach flips every time I breathe too deep.
Everything’s soft and far away. Like I’m behind glass. And every time I lift my gaze, Wyatt is watching me.
At some point, I rest my cheek on the table just to ease the weight of my head. The burger smells sour now, so I push the plate away before I gag.
In the distance, Billy’s dropped the family patriarch act. He’s on a bench with one girl straddling him and another curled against his side. The one on his lap lifts her shirt and flashes him. He claps his hands to his cheeks in pretend shock, and then throws his head back. howling with laughter.
I need a drink.
I lift my head to find Cash but the motion disorients me, and before I know it I’m on the ground. People are frowning, looking down at me. But one of them is Cash.
“Cash,” I say to him. “A whiskey.”
Someone tries to pull me up but I like it on the ground. I go limp, boneless, refusing to stand. Then Cash is looking down at me again but this time he has Billy with him.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he grits out. It’s Angry Billy. This is the worst one. Angry Billy is not very nice. “The fuck is she on?”
Cash shrugs.
“Everyone back the fuck off,” Billy snaps, waving his arms. The circle clears fast. His gaze burns into me. Then he calls out: “Silas!”
“No,” I mumble. “Nonononono.”
But Silas is already there—leaning over me and smiling.
“I need you to take care of her,” Billy is saying. “I can’t fucking do this. Just keep her in one place until Mr. White gets here.”
Silas nods, but another voice cuts in.
“I’ll take her.”
Wyatt.
It’s enough to snap me to attention. I roll my head to the side to see him speaking over me, not looking at me. But I see the determination in his jaw.
No.
“What?” Billy asks.
“It’s fine,” Silas says quickly. “I’ve got it.”
“Nah,” Wyatt says, still ignoring him. “I’ll take care of her. Keep her in line. Be my pleasure.”
Billy whistles low and slow.
“Didn’t peg you for the kind that likes ‘em limp and half-conscious,” he says, grinning. “But hey, no judgment. You want her like this? Shit, knock yourself out. Just don’t lose her, and try not to break her—at least not all the way. She’s still gotta be good for something.”
“Roger that,” Wyatt says, cool and controlled.
He bends down and lifts me like I weigh nothing.
I try to fight, but I can’t make my limbs obey.
Laughter follows us.
“Have fun, mate.”
“Call me over for some sloppy seconds.”
I should scream. I should kick and bite and thrash. But instead I feel a kind of quiet come over me.
Not because I’m okay. Not because I trust him. But because despite everything…his arms feel like home.
The smell of him. The solidness of his chest. The heat of his body against mine. It pulls something up from the deepest part of me, something I thought I’d buried when Ryder died.
He’s awful. He’s part of this.
But being in his arms feels like the way things used to be. Before the club. Before the van. Before Ryder died.
I don’t fight because I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. And I just want to be reminded of another life. A better one. The one where Wyatt was good and Ryder was still alive and I wasn't this thing I am now.
So I rest my head on his shoulder and let myself pretend, just for a minute, that I’m okay.