Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
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It took nearly six weeks for Brandi’s ankle to fully heal. When it finally did, she made up her mind: she was going to see Gypsy. He agreed to meet her at the Firehouse Grill for lunch.
Outside, the air was thick with heat and exhaust. A row of gleaming chrome bikes lined the curb and spilled across the street, their presence like a territorial claim. The distant rumble of engines came and went like rolling thunder. Looked like a busy day at The Firehouse.
Adjusting the strap of the duffel bag over her shoulder, she winced.
Who knew money could be this heavy?
She weaved through the patio crowd—leather brushing against her arms, smoke curling into her hair, the sharp scent of whiskey and sweat thick in the air. Laughter rose from a nearby table, loud and wild, and the bass thump of music bled through the walls.
The bouncer spotted her and pulled the door open.
Inside hit like a wave.
It was worse—hot, loud, chaotic. Music pounded from overhead speakers, the bass vibrating through the floorboards.
Voices layered over each other, creating a constant low roar.
The scent of seared meat, fryer grease, and stale beer hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint bite of cologne and cigarette smoke clinging to every surface.
She blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim, golden lighting and the haze drifting from the open kitchen. Her pulse kicked up—not from fear, exactly, but from the sheer overload of it all.
She scanned the crowd, searching for Gypsy, but the bodies were packed in tight—patches and tattoos and dark denim everywhere. No sign of him.
Brandi made her way to the bar, nudging past a guy in a cut who didn’t seem to notice her at all. She waved to Vega, who was slinging drinks like a machine.
“Hey, Brandi. How’s the ankle, doll?”
“All healed up,” she said with a small smile. “I’m looking for Gypsy.”
Vega nodded toward the far end of the bar. “Back office.”
“Thanks.”
She ducked under the pass-through, her shoulder brushing the cool steel, and followed the narrow hallway. It was quieter back here—the chaos muffled, though the thump of music still vibrated faintly through the walls.
She paused outside the office door, heart knocking once, then knocked.
“Come in,” came the sharp reply.
Brandi stepped inside. “Hello.”
Gypsy looked up from a stack of paperwork. “Brandi. Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? Food?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
“Okay. You wanted this meeting, so… what’s going on?”
She didn’t sit. Instead, she slipped the strap from her shoulder and set the heavy duffel bag on the desk with a dull thud.
“This is the money I stole from Misha. Every penny. I’m giving it to you to pay for Quinn’s SUV.”
Gypsy stared at the bag like it might explode. “You’re telling me you never spent any of it other than that beater you purchased?”
Brandi nodded. “Not a dime.”
“If you remember I offered it to you for the orphanage,” She reminded him. It was something she’d wanted to do at Christmas.
He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under him. He hadn’t taken the money. “We took care of the church and the kids.” Any other woman would’ve burned through it in a week—designer bags, shoes, a new car. But Brandi?
She’d been scraping by, working shifts at an ice cream shop that smelled like sugar and sanitizer, living above The Coffee Bean in a room that always smelled faintly of burnt espresso, wearing secondhand clothes softened by too many wash cycles.
She had nothing.
And now he knew why.
“The insurance covered Quinn’s SUV,” he said, voice quieter now. “And that money? It’s not stolen. You earned every dime.”
Brandi shook her head slowly. “I don’t see it that way, Gypsy.”
He studied her. There was no fire in her voice—just a quiet conviction that bordered on grief. She didn’t believe she deserved it.
“You still taking online classes?”
“Yes. It’s slow going. They aren’t cheap.”
“Use some of the money to pay for them. Buy a newer car. Go places.” He watched her eyes drift toward the floor. “I give you permission, Brandi. Spend the money.”
She shrugged. The weight of her guilt sat heavy across her shoulders, an invisible chain she hadn’t yet shaken off.
“You still blaming yourself for Wick’s accident?”
She flinched. There it was.
“Wick has moved on. He’s happily married to Sloan. He wishes you the best. Don’t let his kindness be wasted.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Want me to hold on to the money for you?”
“Yes, please.”
Gypsy reached into the bag and pulled out a stack of bills, thick and neatly wrapped in a rubber band. He didn’t count it. Didn’t care how much it was.
“Take this. Spend it however you see fit.”
Brandi hesitated. Then, with a sigh, she took the money and tucked it into her purse. Her fingers lingered on the zipper before she closed it—it felt like stuffing away a piece of her shame.
“Can I grab dinner here?” she asked, voice smaller now.
Gypsy blinked. It caught him off guard, her asking permission.
He wanted to ask where she and Tool stood, but Mercury’s voice rang in his head: You’re nosey. “How about we grab a table and eat lunch together?”
Her smile was quiet but real. Some of the tension slipped from her shoulders as she stood and followed him out.
Back in the main room, the atmosphere hit Brandi all over again—music, heat, laughter, the scrape of chairs and the occasional clatter of pool balls.
The scent of charred meat and fried onions wafted from the kitchen, mixing with the sharp tang of beer and the soft sweetness of whatever Vega had just poured.
Gypsy led her to the round table by the fireplace—the one she’d only ever seen from a distance. The brothers’ table.
She hesitated for a second before sliding into the seat beside him, the aged leather cool beneath her palms. Her heart thudded. Not from nerves, exactly. Just... the unfamiliarity of it. Of being seen like this.
A few heads turned. No words. Just flicks of attention and flickers of unreadable expressions before they looked away.
Moments later, two more figures approached.
Killer dropped into the chair across from Brandi, his usual scowl replaced with something closer to a smirk. The toothpick shifted in his mouth as he gave her a once-over.
“Well, look who’s back on two feet,” he said, voice gruff but warm.
Brandi smiled, some of the tension in her chest easing. “Took long enough.”
“You still favoring it?” he asked, nodding toward her ankle.
“Not as much.”
“Good.” He leaned back, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “You eat yet?”
She shook her head. “Just sat down.”
Killer gave a small grunt that sounded like approval and flagged down a waitress with a flick of his fingers.
Wrench settled into the seat beside him with his usual quiet energy. He reached for a pint that had already been waiting and offered Brandi a small smile. It didn’t scream affection, but it wasn’t dismissive either—more of a we see you, you’re good here kind of vibe.
Neither man asked what she was doing there. They didn’t have to. If she was sitting at this table, she belonged.
Gypsy leaned back and gestured toward the menu. “Order whatever you want. Foods on me.”
Brandi glanced down at the list, her fingers tracing the words out of habit more than hunger.
But when the waitress came over, she ordered a plate of wings and fries anyway—because something about Killer being there, Gypsy next to her, and Wrench nearby made the noise of the place seem a little less loud.
Just a little.
The room still buzzed with movement, scent, and sound—music, kitchen clatter, bursts of laughter—but at this table, with the fire crackling behind them and familiar faces around her, Brandi felt the edges of something steady.
Not just safe.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time—
Home.