Chapter 18 Choosing Freedom
No More Chains
Recovery turned out to be a lot harder than getting stabbed.
At least getting stabbed happened quickly.
Recovery required patience.
And patience had never been one of my strengths.
Three weeks after leaving the hospital, I was still under strict instructions not to lift anything heavy.
According to my doctor, "heavy" included almost everything I normally touched during a workday.
Motorcycles.
Engine blocks.
Toolboxes.
Apparently even certain boxes of spare parts qualified.
The restrictions drove me insane.
By the second week, I was already trying to work around them.
By the third week, Elliot had started threatening to call my doctor directly.
The fact that he absolutely would made the threat surprisingly effective.
"You are literally the worst patient in America."
I looked up from the paperwork spread across the kitchen table.
Elliot stood nearby holding a grocery bag.
Disapproval radiated from every part of his body.
It was impressive.
Honestly.
"I've never heard that officially."
His eyes narrowed.
"Because nobody has survived long enough to tell you."
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
The sound surprised both of us.
Not because it was unusual.
Because it had become easier lately.
Natural.
The weeks after the hospital had changed something between us.
Not the feelings.
Those had never disappeared.
The walls.
The fears.
The excuses.
Those were gone.
At least mostly.
The realization settled warmly inside my chest.
Because despite everything that had happened, Elliot was here.
Still.
Every morning.
Every night.
Every difficult conversation.
Every painful recovery.
The kid had simply refused to leave.
And for once, I was smart enough not to push him away.
Elliot unpacked groceries while I reviewed insurance documents.
The fire investigation had finally concluded.
Officially, nobody could prove who started the blaze.
Unofficially, everyone knew.
The Steel Vipers.
The same answer we'd known from the beginning.
Unfortunately, knowing and proving were different things.
The case remained open.
Which meant the club remained a problem.
The thought immediately darkened my mood.
Elliot noticed.
Of course he did.
The man could read me better than most people read road signs.
"What is it?"
I looked toward the insurance paperwork.
Then away.
"The club."
His expression softened immediately.
Not pity.
Never pity.
Understanding.
The difference mattered.
A lot.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Elliot sat beside me.
Close enough that our shoulders touched.
The simple contact eased some of the tension.
Not all.
Enough.
"You don't owe them anything."
The statement sounded simple.
Obvious.
Yet something about hearing it aloud struck deeper than expected.
Because for years, part of me had believed the opposite.
Not consciously.
Not logically.
But somewhere deep down.
The club had shaped so much of my life.
My mistakes.
My regrets.
My guilt.
Even after leaving, I'd spent years reacting to it.
Avoiding it.
Running from it.
The realization felt uncomfortable.
Like uncovering an old wound.
Elliot continued quietly.
"You already left."
His hand found mine.
Warm.
Steady.
"You just haven't forgiven yourself for ever joining."
Silence followed.
Because once again, he was right.
The annoying little genius.
I hated when he did that.
Loved it too.
Unfortunately.
The truth settled heavily inside my chest.
I'd spent years trying to build a new life.
A legitimate life.
Yet some part of me still behaved like the scared kid who'd joined the Steel Vipers looking for belonging.
The realization felt exhausting.
More than that.
It felt unnecessary.
Maybe for the first time, I understood that.
The club didn't own me anymore.
My mistakes didn't own me anymore.
The past didn't own me anymore.
The understanding arrived slowly.
Then all at once.
A strange sense of peace followed.
Not complete.
Not perfect.
Enough.
That evening, I made a phone call.
A simple one.
Important.
Permanent.
Derek answered on the third ring.
The sound of his voice immediately transported me backward.
Years.
Memories.
Regrets.
This time, I didn't let them stay.
"Kane."
The greeting sounded cautious.
Suspicious.
Good.
He should be suspicious.
"Derek."
Silence followed.
Brief.
Dangerous.
Neither of us liked each other very much anymore.
Maybe we never had.
"What do you want?"
Straight to the point.
As always.
I respected that.
A little.
"I want this finished."
Another silence.
Longer this time.
The kind that carried meaning.
Understanding.
Possibly disappointment.
Then:
"You're making a mistake."
The statement would've affected me once.
Not anymore.
"No."
I looked across the apartment.
Toward Elliot.
The future.
Everything waiting ahead.
The answer felt simple.
Certain.
"I already made my mistakes."
For several seconds, Derek said nothing.
Finally, he laughed.
Humorless.
Resigned.
"Then we're done."
The words should have sounded threatening.
Instead, they sounded tired.
Like a chapter finally ending.
The realization surprised me.
Maybe because I'd expected something dramatic.
Anger.
Threats.
Violence.
Instead, I got closure.
Strange.
Life rarely worked that way.
"Yeah."
The agreement came quietly.
Final.
Then I ended the call.
Just like that.
No speeches.
No confrontation.
No grand finale.
Only a decision.
A choice.
The first real choice I'd made regarding the club in years.
The feeling stayed with me long after the call ended.
Freedom.
Actual freedom.
Not running.
Not hiding.
Choosing.
The realization felt incredible.
A week later, Kane Customs hosted an unofficial meeting.
Which was a polite way of describing three stubborn men arguing around a desk.
Mason arrived first.
Bringing coffee.
Chaos.
And approximately seventeen unnecessary opinions.
Rhett arrived second.
Bringing spreadsheets.
Practicality.
And significantly fewer opinions.
The contrast remained hilarious.
Even after all these years.
The three of us crowded into the temporary office space attached to the damaged garage.
Reconstruction had already begun.
Insurance money helped.
Community donations helped more.
Apparently people liked Kane Customs.
The support still surprised me.
Mason dropped into a chair.
"Okay."
He pointed toward the paperwork.
"Explain why we're here."
I looked toward Rhett.
Rhett looked toward me.
Neither of us volunteered.
Typical.
Eventually, I sighed.
"Because the business needs to change."
Mason immediately looked suspicious.
Which was fair.
Most of my good ideas sounded terrible initially.
"Define change."
I slid several documents across the desk.
Business plans.
Expansion estimates.
Financial projections.
Rhett reviewed them first.
His eyebrows slowly lifted.
Interesting.
The reaction encouraged me.
Mason glanced at the paperwork.
Then blinked.
Then blinked again.
A rare occurrence.
"What the hell?"
The question sounded genuinely impressed.
I took that as a positive sign.
"The garage barely survived."
The statement settled across the room.
True.
Uncomfortable.
Important.
I continued.
"If we're rebuilding, we rebuild properly."
Rhett nodded slowly.
Understanding appearing immediately.
The man always saw the bigger picture.
"We expand."
Exactly.
I pointed toward the plans.
"Restorations."
"Custom builds."
"Parts."
"Storage."
"Events."
Every possibility we'd discussed over the years.
Every opportunity ignored because growth felt risky.
The fire had changed that.
Life was risky anyway.
The realization made playing safe seem pointless.
Mason looked genuinely excited now.
Which should have concerned me.
Probably.
Instead, it made me smile.
A little.
"You're serious."
The answer came instantly.
"Yeah."
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
Then I looked at both men.
At my friends.
My family.
The people who'd stood beside me through everything.
And finally said the thing I'd been thinking about for weeks.
"I don't want to do it alone."
Silence followed.
Meaningful silence.
Because they understood what I was offering.
Not jobs.
Not favors.
Partnership.
Trust.
A future.
Rhett exchanged a glance with Mason.
The tattoo artist grinned immediately.
Of course he did.
"You finally came to your senses."
I rolled my eyes.
The man was unbearable.
Rhett simply smiled.
Small.
Genuine.
Enough.
The answer was yes.
The realization filled the room.
Warm.
Certain.
Real.
As paperwork spread across the desk and plans took shape, I felt something I hadn't experienced in years.
Excitement.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Not guilt.
Excitement.
For the future.
For what came next.
For the first time, I wasn't building something to escape my past.
I was building something because I believed in what came after it.
And sitting there surrounded by friends, possibilities, and second chances, I finally understood something important.
Freedom wasn't leaving the past behind.
Freedom was choosing what came next.
And for the first time in a very long time, the choice belonged entirely to me.
My Own Story
The email sat open on my laptop for nearly twenty minutes before I gathered the courage to send it.
Which was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
I'd spent months writing the manuscript.
Months revising it.
Months doubting every single chapter.
Yet somehow clicking one button felt more terrifying than writing fifty thousand words.
My finger hovered over the trackpad.
Then moved away.
Then returned.
Then moved away again.
Across the table, Jaxon watched the entire process with growing amusement.
The traitor.
"You know it won't bite you."
I looked up.
Immediately narrowed my eyes.
"That's easy for you to say."
The grin he tried hiding made everything worse.
"You're not the one sending it."
"No."
He leaned back in his chair.
Comfortable.
Annoyingly comfortable.