Epilogue
Jax and Nora
The heat of the cylinder heads cooks the denim of my jeans as the six of us hold the centerline of the highway, our engines producing a single, coordinated roar.
My knuckles remain stiff inside my riding gloves, but my mind stays stuck on the concrete floor of that office garage in Houston, on the exact sound of Stanley’s jaw cracking beneath my left fist.
We broke him. We left him small and trembling on the oil-stained floorboards, ensuring he understood the exact penalty for stepping foot near Moonrise again.
But at the same time, a cold knot of tension stays locked behind my ribs. Nora has an independent streak a mile wide. If she thinks I went behind her back to handle her past, if she views my intervention as a form of pity, she will shut the door on me before I can explain what I feel.
A sharp electronic chime cuts through my helmet speakers and my thoughts. The wireless Bluetooth unit overrides the rumble of the exhaust.
"New text message from Nora," the synthetic voice announces.
My fingers instantly clamp down on the front brake lever. The front tire screeches against the pavement, the rear end of the chopper fish-tailing across the center stripe.
Around me, five sets of brakes bark in rapid succession. Tires smoke against the asphalt as the men swerve to avoid my exhaust pipes.
I kill the ignition and kick the stand down to slide my helmet off, and let it drop onto the gas tank.
My hands carry a sudden, uncontrollable tremor as I yank my phone from my leather vest pocket.
Nora has never sent a text. Every word we share happens face-to-face, out in the open air of the yard.
If she’s texting, it might be because Stanley has gone to her and she’s probably going to have my head.
My thumb hits the screen regardless, needing to know what she has to say.
I'm late. I think I might be pregnant.
Whatever I’m expecting, it’s not this, and it forces my breath out of my lungs in a whoosh. The highway tilts away at the edges of my vision. I swing my leg over the frame, my boots hitting the gravel shoulder, and I start to pace.
I march down the yellow centerline, my strides long and unhinged, my eyes locked on those eight words until the glass screen blurs into a gray smudge.
The five choppers idle in a vibrating crescent around my bike. I hear the men kill their engines one by one, and the sudden silence is filled only by the ticking of hot chrome.
Priest spits a stream of tobacco into the ditch, swinging his boots onto the asphalt. "Rowe! What the fuck? Are you trying to get the whole line rear-ended by a logging truck?"
Rafe steps off his bike, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Your face is grease-pale, man. Who died?"
Reed stays mounted, his hands resting on his handlebars, his brow furrowing. "Talk to us, Jax. Is Hargrove pulling something new from the city?"
"Speak up, man," another voice calls out from the rear. "You're pacing a trench into the state highway."
I stop my boots on the centerline and turn around and face them. The sun hits the leather of their vests, and my throat feels completely parched.
"Nora," I say slowly. "She just messaged me. She thinks she's pregnant."
The five of them freeze at the same time. Total silence hangs over the highway for the span of a single heartbeat before the line erupts in perfect unison.
"What the fuck are you standing here for?" Rafe yells, slamming his hand against his thigh. "Turn that throttle!"
Priest boots his starter pedal down with a loud bang. "Move your ass, Rowe! Get back on the bike!"
Reed points a gloved finger straight down the road. "Go. Right now. She needs you."
"Get the hell out of here!" the others shout over the sudden roar of the restarting engines. "Grip it and rip it, man! She’s waiting!"
The noise snaps the fog out of my brain, and it’s all I need to vault onto my seat, my boot stomping the starter. The engine screams to life as I drop the transmission into first gear with a heavy metal clunk and twist the throttle flat against the grip.
The rear tire throws a massive cloud of gray dust and gravel into the ditch as I tear down the asphalt, leaving the men behind me.
The five-mile stretch to the cottage passes in a gray blur of pine trees and salt marsh. My head pounds against the inside of my skull, the rhythm matching the stroke of the pistons beneath my seat.
I skid into her driveway, the front tire plowing through the crushed oyster shells. I kill the ignition, leave the keys in the triple-tree, and sprint up the wooden porch steps. I pound my fist against the oak door frame, the vibration rattling the glass pane.
In the next second, the latch clicks and Gran opens the door. Her blue eyes carry a trace of worry, but her mouth begins to soften into a smile.
"Jax," she starts, lifting her apron. "You should have seen that Houston boy. He was shaking so hard his shoes…"
"Excuse my rudeness, Gran," I break in, my chest heaving as I step across the threshold. "I need to see Nora. Please take me to where she is right now."
Gran’s smile vanishes, replaced by a sharp, discerning look. She doesn't ask a single question but simply turns on her heel and walks down the narrow hallway, her apron strings swaying against her skirt.
She stops outside a door that I surmised is Nora’s bedroom and gives a short nod of her chin toward the brass knob before she steps back toward the kitchen.
"Thank you," I whisper.
I grip the brass knob, turn it, and push the wood open without knocking.
Nora stands near the foot of her mattress. She is wrapped in a single white bath towel, her shoulders bare, her fiery red hair damp and curling tightly against the pale skin of her neck.
She looks radiant, her cheeks flushed pink from the shower water, but she starts violently when the door hits the wall. Her mouth opens, her lips moving twice without a single sound escaping her throat.
I close the door behind my back, the latch clicking home. I cross the floorboards in four long strides, stopping six inches from her skin.
"Do you mean what you sent?" I ask.
Nora stands frozen, her blue eyes wide, locked on my face. She gives a single, numb nod of her chin. She blinks, a tear breaking from her lashes.
"Then we need to go to the hospital," I say, my hands coming up to hover near her shoulders. "Today. Now."
Nora looks down at the white terrycloth towel clamped against her chest. "I'm not dressed, Jax."
I turn on my heel, my eyes sweeping the room until they hit the wooden chair by the closet. A simple blue cotton dress sits on the wicker seat. I grab the fabric, my calloused fingers catching slightly on the hem, and I press the material into her hands.
"This will do," I tell her. "Get dressed. I'm putting the truck outside. I'll be waiting at the bottom of the steps."
She nods again, her movements almost robotic. I leave the room before she can offer a single word of resistance.
I run down the hallway and dash into the salvage yard, pausing to snatch the ring of keys from the brass hook. I sprint out to the driveway, yank the heavy steel door open, and climb into the cab.
The key turns in the column, the starter grinding before the V8 engine roars to life. I back the truck up until the tailgate clears the porch, then pull forward, positioning the passenger door directly at the bottom of the steps.
My palms sweat against the plastic steering wheel. I grip the rim until my knuckles turn gray, my eyes fixed on the screen door.
Ten minutes stretch into twenty, and finally, the screen door clicks. Nora steps onto the porch, wearing the blue dress, her damp hair pinned back, her face scrubbed clean of color.
She descends the three wooden steps with cautious movements, her hand gripping the railing.
I jump out of the cab, round the hood, and open the passenger door.
I catch her by the elbow, lifting her gently into the high bench seat, before slamming the steel shut and sprinting back to the driver's side.
The twenty-minute drive to the clinic happens in silence. The only sound is the rhythmic thunking of the tires over the highway seams. My pulse drums in my ears, a heavy, suffocating beat that leaves a bitter taste under my tongue.
In no time, I pull the Ford into the circular drive of the Moonrise Clinic.
I cut the ignition, leave the truck idling in the red zone, and round the hood to get her.
I take her hand, her fingers ice-cold against mine, and guide her through the automatic sliding glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby.
However, when we enter, I stop in the center of the linoleum floor. There are signs for radiology, pediatrics, and emergency that split the hallway. But for the first time in my life, my boots feel heavy, glued to the floor tiles, and I suddenly have no idea which way to steer her.
"Jax. Nora."
A woman steps out from the admissions corridor wearing faded teal scrubs. It is Lily, Reed’s wife.
She has thick, dark hair pulled into a neat tortoise-shell clip, a calm warmth in her blue eyes, and a small stethoscope tucked into her side pocket. She walks straight toward us, her sneakers squeaking against the polished floor.
"Reed called me ten minutes ago," Lily says politely. "He said you might be on your way here. I have the back room set up. Come with me."
I give her a single nod, my throat so tight I can barely manage a swallow.
Lily leads us past the rows of vinyl chairs into a small, dim examination room. A white table covered in a sheet of crinkling paper sits beneath a large black monitor display. A female technician in gray scrubs sits in a rolling chair by the console.
"Lie right here, Nora," Lily says, tapping the paper liner.
Nora climbs onto the table stiffly. She lies flat on her back, her fingers trembling as she pulls the hem of her blue dress up over her ribs, exposing the pale, rounded skin of her abdomen.
The technician reaches for a clear plastic bottle. She tips it over, squeezing a thick dollop of clear blue gel onto Nora's stomach.