Chapter Twenty-Four
MOLLIE
W alking out of the doctor’s surgery, there’s a light breeze that kisses my cheek. It’s fresh. Welcoming. At just after eleven, my clothes are dirty having completed six hours of work already. The tiredness from yesterday and this cough that hasn’t shifted in weeks, have finally caught up with me. I’m exhausted and in desperate need of two days’ worth of sleep.
Travis takes the lead as we walk back to his bike, me following in a sleepy state behind him. I’m passed the helmet then he climbs on and waits for me to follow suit, not saying a word. Clipping the strap under my chin, I step closer, swinging my leg over the back, holding his leather cut to pull myself up. I catch his eyes focused dead ahead, lost in thought.
Wondering.
Something shifted between us last night. Something that tilted our balance. The dreaded conversation about a family was thrust upon us by the arrival of Sophie, only, we never really spoke about anything. He told me the baby wasn’t his. That Sophie had come back to stay with Tanya. But Travis’ admission—his declaration about not wanting children, felt like a knife cutting me down the middle.
One part of me is content with things exactly the way they are. Minus the messages from my mother, subtly dropping reminders that my time away from home is coming to an end, I have everything that I could possibly want. A job. A home. People who care about me. My freedom.
What appears to have happened over night, though, is the sudden need to know where my future is headed. It’s all well and good choosing to stay here at the farm, but unless the man I love wants the same things as I do, there’s a small part of me contemplating what’s the point. Is it time wasted? It sounds so selfish, I know that, I even damn myself for thinking it. It’s just… all night I kept thinking; what if I get to forty and we never have children, and I grow to resent him? It could happen. I could easily fall out of love with him for not getting something that up until yesterday, I didn’t know I may want. Then again, would I really want to go back to galas and functions with my parents, keeping up appearances with the hope that one day I find a man who loves me enough to have a family with me?
My insides scatter at the mere thought.
Surely it doesn’t come down to sacrificing what we have for an eventuality? It can’t. Christ, this is such a mess. One that’s totally scrambling with my head. Perhaps I’m overthinking this. Perhaps my hormones are just making me see things backwards.
Except, I might want children one day. And he said he doesn’t. Ever.
What Travis and I have is love. Yes, even I will be the first to admit that the shouting and physical bouts may seem a little crazy, but that’s our way. It’s what we do. I’m far too determined to backdown or quit, and he’s simply too much of a brute to ever concede or walk away from something. We clash for love, care and a need to protect what we desire most in this world, which is each other.
I get his fear. I understand that his childhood was tainted because of the way his parents loved. But just because they were like that, doesn’t mean he would be. Travis is a man who loves deep. I see it for the club and for his aunt and uncle. And me. He also hurts deep, too. I think the thought of what we have not being enough one day is eating away at him just as it is me. I know if I don’t squash his wayward thoughts or put his mind at rest, the idea of us not being us will manifest like a plague. With time, it will only get worse. Until all of the things that make us, us , will eventually fade away.
I just can’t see how I give up wanting something like this to make him happy. Would he have children to simply pacify me? Because he loves me? It pains me, but after how he spoke to Sophie, I don’t think he could. Sadly, given how I left my dad’s clutches; I don’t think I could sacrifice not having children to satisfy him either.
It’s a stalemate.
My head whirls and my stomach knots when I think about how I make it better, knowing that for the first time in my life, I don’t immediately have a solution. He doesn’t say a word as I wrap my arms around his waist, silently taking up my position. He starts the engine, and my thighs tighten, holding myself against him. His smell goes a little way to calming my fluttering heart and sudden worry. What the hell am I going to do? Knowing how we both are, we’ll stay like this until breaking point. Question is, who will break first?
We didn’t speak whilst we sat in with my doctor. Being realistic, how much can two people really talk whilst a doctor is assessing you? Still, there was nothing as we sat there and waited. He didn’t hold my hand or ask me how I was. Not once did he look up from his phone, either. I know he’s busy, but I also know this is his way of playing it cool, making it appear as though everything is okay when it’s not. Fuck my life, if this is how it is after one day, I dread to think what it will be like in another week, or a month…
My unwanted thoughts drift away as we make our way out of town onto faster roads.
He always tells me his favourite way to clear his head is out on two wheels. With the wind hitting his face and the engine roaring underneath him, more often than not, he comes home a different man. I must admit, it’s been calming for the soul whenever he’s taken me out. With no destination in mind, we just leave. Whether it’s to chase the sun or to count the stars, we’re able to drop everything and head out. Naturally, just when I feel less tense, that little voice inside tells me if we added anybody else to our duo, this wouldn’t happen. There’d be no more of this.
I grip him tighter, resting my head against his back, hating the thought. I love this. This is my new happy place. Even with my helmet, the smell of leather and his citrusy shower gel invade me. Calming me. When we get home, we need to come to some sort of compromise, talk about our future. I don’t want anything coming between us.
Weaving past a car, I’m thrown to the left, and his hand comes down to rest on my leg. He does this when he’s riding too fast. Like my protector. Another jolt, this time to the right, and his hand is immediately off me.
Something doesn’t feel right.
We’re moving too fast for me to lift my head, but with it turned to one side, I check the traffic behind us. I can’t see anything untoward. The tension in his body, however, permeates through mine. He’s focused on something, his large frame now leaning slightly forward as he watches the road ahead.
I move with him, my body melding to his like a yin-yang. He straightens, I move back. He leans, and I move forward. It’s with one of these moves of symmetry that I catch a glimpse of a bike racing in the outer lane. I don’t immediately recognise who it is, but as it tears up the tarmac, the distinctive leather cut of a Sodom Saviour catches my eye.
He gains on us, dodging traffic with minimal effort.
Squeezing Travis a little harder, he pulls on the throttle, increasing our speed.
The other bike draws closer with ferocious intent. It’s clear from the way his focus remains on us that we’re his intended target. Given the moves the Rippers are making lately, it has to be down to the drugs. Either that, or it’s a case of wrong place, wrong time.
But we’re not on his turf. In fact, he’s riding through the Rippers’. I know enough now to understand that they don’t move inside areas the other club controls. Like most things, the more of something someone has, the more in control they are. It’s just the way it goes. So why is he brazenly chasing us here ? Such a bold move will call for a retaliation. One Rocco hinted towards. Do the Saviours already know?
We undertake a lorry in the slow lane, momentarily losing sight of him. Once we pass the front of it, pulling through the lorry’s slipstream, the Saviour’s right there, leaning his bike to the left, directly into our path.
I gasp, tightening my hold on Travis, slamming my eyes shut. My move makes the bike wobble as Travis dodges his advance, slowing the bike before immediately twisting the throttle and throwing us back.
It’s an assault on my senses. The harsh smell of burning rubber mixed with leather and smoke invades my nose as my now damp eyes frantically search for the rider. The lorry’s brakes continue to shudder with intermittent screeches, forcing my ears to ring with fear that he’s going to plough into us.
I can’t control my shakes. Can’t get a grip on the acceleration of my heart and the spine-tingling rush of adrenaline that thunders around my body. I’m terrified. Absolutely terrified. Especially when the sound of the Saviour’s engine whips up alongside us on our left again, forcing Travis to veer right, back into the path of the lorry.
The lorry driver slams his brakes on, clearing a path for Travis. I don’t watch but feel the duck of his body as he dives into the opening space, making our escape. He doesn’t make it more than ten yards away from the other bike before he’s hot on our tail again.
Fuck. I don’t see a way out of this.
Just when I feel a constricting crush of panic in my chest, we’re surrounded by four more bikes, each one containing us, closing us in. The chaos of the club has finally caught up with him. The outlaw war which dominates their existence, intensifies to a head.
I sob, my stray tears hidden behind my helmet as I press myself as hard as I can to Travis’ back, holding onto him with everything I’ve got left. We’re outnumbered five to one.
We don’t stand a chance.
A bike moves in, forcing my terrified body to turn rigid, unable to do anything as he moves closer to my side, the side box on his bike so close to us, I’m amazed it doesn’t hit me.
Wait.
The side box!
Lifting my head slightly, I immediately recognise the brand-new, jet-black bike. Dean. He’s here? But how? Slowly allowing my eyes to venture past him to the next rider, I see Mop, then Rocco. They’re here too. The guys from the club have come to help get us out of here safely.
I don’t entirely relax, but knowing Travis is no longer alone against the man chasing after us eases some of my tension. I don’t doubt his capabilities, but I’m aware with me being here, he’ll put me first before he makes any rash decisions. Ultimately, he won’t risk me the way he would himself.
As if in a flying V formation, Rocco leads us through the traffic whilst his men move behind us. I don’t see what happens or what they do to the Saviour, but we don’t let up until Rocco directs us away from all the traffic, taking an exit and turning down a side road.
We pull to a hasty stop, but none of the engines are cut. I’m caught up in a vortex, trying to keep up with what’s happening around me. “Take her,” Travis shouts, looking to Rocco, and I’m hit with an immediate pelt of rejection.
“What?” My muffled voice is ignored as he shouts at me.
“Now, Mollie. Go!” He twists the throttle, revving the engine, signifying the urgency.
I have no time to argue as I swing my leg off the bike, standing back with a fright when Travis speeds off, the rear tyre kicking up dirt and a small cloud of smoke.
“Let’s go!”
I turn my gaze from a fleeing Travis to Rocco.
He quickly nods his chin, signalling me to go to him. Moving as fast as my heavy, vibrating legs will carry me, I count two bikes as I climb on the back. Rocco and Mop are here, leaving two more Rippers out there. That’s who Travis must be heading back to. They’re going after the rider.
Everything is heightened again. All the fear, all the worry, it all comes flooding back like a dam bursting at the crack as I grip the edge of Rocco’s cut. Then I begin to cry to myself, letting it all seep out without a request for forgiveness. I haven’t cried like this for God knows how long. Crying has always made me feel weak. And that isn’t something I enjoy.
My emotions take a beating. All the things that could have happened play on a loop inside my head. And Travis. Where did he go? What will he do if they end up catching the person who came after us? I shudder, desperately trying to stow it all away, my body completely and utterly exhausted.
By the time we’re pulling up at the farm, the adrenaline has worn off. My body’s now running on empty. The ride didn’t take long, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t surprised when Rocco headed towards the farm, rather than the clubhouse. I can’t see the outcome clearly, but my guess is he’ll be heading to the others in case something’s gone wrong. It’s one less thing to worry about if I’m not there.
He stops along the path as opposed to the yard where Mick’s truck is still parked. Knocking off the engine, he waits for me to catch up and climb off before he looks at me.
I take off my helmet, swiftly wiping under both eyes. I don’t wear makeup to work, so there’s no chance of black lines, but I can feel how damp they still are.
His eyes run tracks over my face, no doubt catching the puffiness of my eyes and redness I can feel in my cheeks. It takes him a while to start speaking, both of us stuck, unsure of what to say or who should speak first. “He knows what he’s doing,” he tells me, his voice so stern and confident.
My lip wobbles looking at him. I hear his harsh words, but I also detect the softness outlining his eyes, his concern for me evident. I’d ask him how he can be so sure if I could, but the trembles begin in my hands and my legs, momentarily distracting me.
“One of us will check in with you. I give you my word.”
He wanted to make me feel better. His one of us , however, manages to make me feel a thousand times worse.
What if the worst happens? What if there were more Saviours waiting? What if there’s an ambush and Travis and Dean and whoever else came to us, end up getting hurt?
The engine revs and Rocco pulls away quickly. I can’t describe the onslaught of emotions that tumble down over me. It’s everything, all mashed into one giant mass, suffocating me as though two strong hands are now wrapped around my throat. I’m powerless.
Choking on air, I slowly turn on shaky legs and make my way to our house, the safe haven which he built for us. I chuck my keys in the dish then pull out my phone, sending Mick a message letting him know I’m sick. It’s not a total lie considering the antibiotics in my bag, but I can’t face work. Not now. I’m too bogged down by the weight of all that’s happened recently.
Heading to the sofa, I slump into the cushions, tapping my phone to my top lip before standing right back up again. I repeat the process, anxiously deliberating on what the hell I should do. The answer is nothing. Telling myself to calm down, I spot my bag and take some of the medicine given to me. Hopefully it might make me feel a little better. I have a chill, but I can’t tell if it’s the stress or if I’m starting to get worse.
The hours start ticking by. I pace. I sit. I send messages. None of it helps. It’s like I’m barefoot in the bog and can’t get myself free. I manage to make a cup of tea but I end up spilling it all over me when my phone pings in my hand. Fumbling, I drop my mug on the side and scramble to unlock my phone.
Dean: We’re good
That’s it? What the fuck? Heat floods my face and neck as I hit call but it immediately cuts off. I try again, this time it rings to voicemail. Holding my phone in front of my face, my fingers tap on Travis’ name. It does the same. I curse them both as I lower my phone, my fingers typing my message out fast.
Me: What happened? Where’s Travis?
I bite my lip, nervously waiting for the dots to start bouncing. My heart skips a beat when they do.
Dean: Busy. Will call later
Me: I need more than that
Me: Dean?
He doesn’t reply, sending me to tears again. They’re happy tears mixed with a gut-wrenching realisation that Travis didn’t call me himself. Clutching my phone, I sit back down on the sofa, waiting for the call that he said would come later.
When my phone rings, my eyes lazily open. Disorientated, I pick it up, realising I must have fallen asleep. With a jolt, I sit and hit the green button, lifting it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Travis?” I croak.
“It’s me. Are you okay?” he asks, clearly noting my tired voice.
“Me? I’m fine,” I say in a rush. “Where are you? What happened?” My questions become a little more frantic with each one I ask. My head’s swivelling looking for him, even though I know he’s not home yet.
“I’m fine,” he sighs, lying to me.
Rubbing my heavy eyes, I listen to him breathing. It sounds so stupid, but this tiny little thing is so comforting. “When are you coming home?” I need him here, with me.
Another sigh. “Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
Maybe tomorrow ? “What do you mean tomorrow?”
I hear him run a hand over his face. “Look, we have too much to do. I’m needed here. I’ll be back tomorrow when I can.”
I need you . I want to scream at him. But I don’t. The words aren’t easy to find when I feel this level of rejection. Why isn’t he coming home now? Is this still about earlier or is he really so knee deep in the shit he physically can’t get back to me? My lips finally part and I find the three words I need. “I love you. ”
He takes in a breath before he says, “I know,” then hangs up.
Just like that. Gone.
And just like that, I’m back to crying again.