Chapter Thirty-Five
AFTER SABLE MET Momma, I left her and the kids in the kitchen with Josie and Fiona. Zara was already chattering about unicorns again, Malik close by, and Sable, hell, she looked wrung out but calmer than I’d seen her in days. I figured she was in good hands for the moment.
I pushed out the back door into the night air.
The yard stretched quiet, moonlight layin’ silver across the grass, and there—under the big oak that’d been standin’ since before the club bought this land—sat Momma.
The swing tied to the lowest branch creaked as she moved, the ropes old but sturdy, her body swayin’ slow like she had all the time in the world.
She didn’t look up when I walked across the yard. Just kept her eyes on the dark, her hands folded in her lap. The kind of peace she carried had teeth in it—you knew she’d fought for it.
I stopped beside the swing. “Mind if I sit?”
She patted the empty spot next to her. “Never.”
I eased down, the wood cool under me, the faint sway pullin’ me back to a hundred memories I didn’t even know I’d kept. Nights sittin’ on the porch as a boy, watchin’ the stars, Momma singin’ songs I couldn’t remember the words to now.
“You alright?” I asked finally.
“You tell me.” Her voice was quiet, steady. “That girl’s got fire behind her eyes and a crack right down the middle of her soul. Sound familiar?”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, fingers laced. “She’s been through hell.”
“She’s not the only one.”
My jaw tightened. I turned my head toward her, and said, “Don’t.”
Her brows lifted gently. “Don’t what, Zeke?”
“You know what,” I muttered. “I haven’t told her.”
Momma’s hands folded together, her thumbs brushing slow. She didn’t press. She let the silence stretch, like she always had, until it near split me open.
“I never told her my family was part of a cult,” I said, the words heavy. “Hell, I don’t even know the name of it. I was just a kid. All I remember is runnin’—dark night, your hand squeezin’ mine, you tellin’ me not to look back.”
Her eyes softened, but her tone didn’t waver. “You were six years old. I made sure you forgot as much as you could.”
“And you did,” I said. “You gave me a shot at a normal life, even if I ended up ridin’ with outlaws.”
Her lips curved into the smallest smile.
“Normal’s a story folks like to tell themselves, son.
You lived honest. That’s what matters. You don’t apologize for survivin’, and you sure as the sun don’t apologize for who you are now.
” She laid her hand lightly on my arm, warm and grounding.
“You turned out good. Don’t think I don’t see it. ”
The knot in my throat made it hard to answer.
She let me sit with it a moment before she asked, “You plan on tellin’ her eventually?”
“Yeah,” I said after a beat. “When it matters. When she trusts me enough to know it ain’t somethin’ I hid outta shame. Just somethin’ I can’t remember clear enough to explain.”
“She’s strong,” Momma said, her gaze still fixed on the night. “But she’s not unshakable. That man who had her—this Gabrial—he twisted things in her head, the same way they tried with me. She’s walkin’ through fire, Zeke. And right now you’re the only one she lets close.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t let her down.”
I turned, meetin’ her eyes, unwavering as I could. “I won’t.”
The swing creaked softly, ropes groanin’ with the night breeze. Crickets hummed in the grass, and somewhere out front, a bike rumbled down the road before fading into distance.
After a long moment, Momma rose from the swing. She paused, her hand resting on my shoulder, gentle but firm enough to make me feel it in my chest.
“You’re doin’ better than you think,” she said. “But don’t wait too long. Some ghosts don’t stay buried.”
She gave my arm a squeeze, then turned back toward the clubhouse, leavin’ me alone under the oak.
I sat there long after she’d gone, starin’ into the dark, tryin’ to piece together memories that slipped like water through my fingers, wonderin’ what the hell I’d do when those ghosts finally clawed their way back.
***
THE BONFIRE WAS burnin’ high out back, flames lickin’ at the sky, sparks spittin’ into the dark.
Music thumped low from the speakers somebody’d dragged outside, near drowned by laughter, curses, and the crack of bottles knockin’ together.
Smoke curled thick in the air, heavy with the stink of spilled beer, charred wood, and perfume.
This was where the wild shit always happened. Devil kept the clubhouse clean, business, family, loyalty. Out here? Out here was chaos, and the brothers liked it that way.
Sweet butts circled like moths, leanin’ close, their laughter shrill, the firelight catchin’ on too much makeup and the shimmer of cheap jewelry. A couple prospects were already half-drunk, shovin’ each other too close to the flames until someone barked at ‘em to back the hell off.
I cut across the yard, stickin’ to the edge. Didn’t plan on stoppin’.
“Thunder!”
I turned at the sound. Gearhead was propped against a picnic table, a fresh beer in his hand, another empty at his boots. Firelight danced across his face, throwin’ shadows that made his tattoos look like they were crawl in’. He jerked his chin at me. “Get over here.”
I walked over, boots crunchin’ gravel, and dropped down on the bench beside him.
“You look like a man chewin’ on ghosts,” he said, pushin’ the cold beer my way.
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
He smirked, takin’ a long pull from his own. “Funny. I remember when you were the first son of a bitch in line for nights like this. Now you’re sneakin’ around the edges like an old man lookin’ for his slippers.”
“Things change.”
“Yeah, they do.” He eyed me over the rim of the bottle. “You serious about that, brother? About her?”
I felt the weight of his stare, the fire poppin’ between us. “Yeah.”
“Don’t ‘yeah’ me.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I ain’t bustin’ your balls, Thunder. I’m askin’ if you’re sure. Woman with a past like hers? Kids in tow? That ain’t just takin’ a woman to bed. That’s takin’ on her ghosts, too. And they don’t always stay buried.”
I clenched my jaw, starin’ at the fire. “I know what I’m doin’.”
He studied me a long moment, then nodded. “Alright. Just makin’ sure you’re not lettin’ a pretty face and a sad story drag you under. I’ve seen it happen. Strong men get weak when they start thinkin’ with their heart instead of their cut.”
“She’s not draggin’ me under.” I met his gaze, steady. “She’s the only thing keepin’ me from drownin’.”
Gearhead sat back, whistle low between his teeth. “Well, shit. Guess you really are gone for her.”
Before I could answer, a sweet butt wandered over, hips swayin’, perfume hittin’ heavy even over the smoke. She laid a hand on my arm, nails painted blood red, leanin’ in so close I could feel the heat of her skin.
“Thunder,” she purred, lips glossed, eyes already glassy from booze and firelight. “Haven’t seen you out here in forever. Thought maybe you forgot what fun looks like.”
I stepped back, her hand fallin’ away. My voice was flat, final.
“Not interested.”
She blinked, pout faltering, then turned toward Gearhead with a roll of her eyes. He barked a laugh, but I was already walkin’ away, shovin’ my hands into my pockets, leavin’ the fire, the laughter, and the smell of smoke behind.
Because all I could think about was Sable in the kitchen, the image of her wide-eyed and trembling when I’d had her against the wall, the way her voice had cracked when she whispered my name.
Sweet butts didn’t mean a damn thing anymore.
Not when I already knew who I wanted, and she was burnin’ me alive without even tryin’.