Chapter Ten
The compound lot smelled like charcoal and rebellion.
Becca carried her wildflower arrangements through the crowd of brothers and old ladies, weaving between motorcycles that gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Someone had set up folding tables near the fire pit.
Someone else had rigged speakers to blast classic rock across the lot.
The whole scene looked like a family reunion, if your family wore leather and solved problems with violence.
"Where do you want these?" she called to Claire, who was directing traffic near the food tables.
"Anywhere that looks bare." Claire grinned. "Which is everywhere."
Becca set to work, placing arrangements on picnic tables, on the ends of the bar someone had dragged outside, on any flat surface that could hold a vase.
The wildflowers were simple—daisies, black-eyed Susans, sprays of greenery she'd found growing along the compound fence—but they transformed the industrial lot into something almost festive.
The old ladies cheered when she finished the last table.
Fang stared at a centerpiece like he'd never seen flowers before in his life.
"Problem?" Becca asked.
"No." His stone face didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "Just... unexpected."
"I get that a lot around here."
She left him contemplating the daisies and made her way toward the grill, where Blast was holding court with a spatula and an audience.
"—so there I am, right? Three wires, all the same color, and the manual's in Farsi.
" He flipped a burger with theatrical flair.
"The lieutenant's yelling about the convoy schedule, the translator's praying, and I'm thinking, this is exactly like that time my mom asked me to fix the garbage disposal. "
The brothers around him laughed. Becca stopped at the edge of the group, watching.
"What happened?" one of the prospects asked.
"I cut the blue wire. Same as the garbage disposal." Blast's grin flashed. "Figured if it worked for the Kenmore, it'd work for the IED."
"That's not how bombs work," Scout said dryly.
"That's not how your bombs work. Mine run on chaos and good intentions." He spotted Becca and his grin widened. "Hey, florist. You hungry?"
"Starving." She moved closer, grabbing two beers from the cooler beside the grill. "You tell this story a lot?"
"Only when I'm trying to impress beautiful women." He accepted the beer she offered, their fingers brushing on the bottle. "How'm I doing?"
"The garbage disposal comparison needs work."
"Noted. I'll punch it up for next time."
She settled onto the bench beside the grill, close enough to feel the heat from the coals and closer still to feel the heat from him.
Brothers milled around them, arguing about sports and bikes and whose turn it was to make a supply run.
Kids—she hadn't realized the compound had kids—darted between the motorcycles, playing tag with the reckless abandon of children who'd grown up around danger.
"Whose are they?" she asked, nodding toward a pair of girls who'd stopped to pet one of the bikes.
"Brothers' kids. Some of the old ladies have them, some of them are from before." Blast's voice softened. "Compound's got a daycare, believe it or not. Natalie runs it."
"The VP's woman runs a daycare."
"Life's full of contradictions." He took a long pull from his beer. "You should see story time. Razor reads Goodnight Moon in a voice that could make grown men cry."
Becca laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised. "You're making that up."
"Scout's got video evidence. It's blackmail material for the ages."
The sun sank lower, painting the compound in gold and amber. More food appeared—ribs, corn, potato salad that one of the old ladies swore came from a secret family recipe. Someone started a game of horseshoes. Someone else broke out a guitar.
Through it all, Blast stayed beside her.
His manic energy hadn't disappeared—he still cracked jokes, still moved his hands when he talked, still radiated that restless intensity that seemed to define him. But something about it had... gentled. Slowed. Like being near her gave him permission to dial back from eleven to nine.
"You're quiet," he said eventually.
"I'm watching."
"Watching what?"
"This." She gestured at the lot, the brothers, the controlled chaos of the cookout. "All of it. I'm trying to figure out what I'm seeing."
"Bikers eating ribs. Not that complicated."
"It's not, though." She turned to face him, searching for words. "It's... a family. You're all a family. The jokes, the arguments, the way everyone watches out for each other—it's the same thing I saw in Pilsen. The same thing that made me want to stay."
His expression shifted. The joker's mask slipping, just a little.
"You see that?"
"I see people who chose each other." Her voice was soft. "People who built something together because they wanted to belong somewhere. That's rare. That's... special."
He was quiet for a long moment. The music played, the kids laughed, the brothers argued—but between them, there was only stillness.
"Most people look at us and see criminals," he said finally. "Thugs. Dangerous men doing dangerous things."
"Most people don't look past the surface."
"And you do?"
"I'm a florist." She smiled. "I spend my life looking for beauty in unexpected places."
His hand found hers on the bench. Scarred fingers lacing through hers, warm and rough and impossibly gentle.
"You're something else, Becca Sawyer."
"So are you." She squeezed his hand. "Whatever your name actually is."
"Keith." The word came out quiet, almost reluctant. "Keith Anderson. But nobody's called me that since I enlisted."
"Keith." She tested it, tasted it. "That's a very normal name for someone who defuses bombs."
"Hence the upgrade." His grin returned, but softer now. "Blast is more... evocative."
"Blast suits you."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She leaned into his side, feeling his arm come around her shoulders. "The energy. The noise. The way you fill up every room you walk into."
"Some people find that exhausting."
"Some people don't understand that the noise is just... how you process. How you stay present." She tilted her head to look at him. "The silence is where it gets hard. Isn't it?"
His arm tightened around her.
"You see too much," he said quietly.
"I see you."
The cookout continued around them—music and laughter and the smell of smoke—but Becca felt like they'd carved out a pocket of stillness in the chaos. A space that belonged only to them.
She thought about Pilsen. About the murals and the neighbors and the families who'd welcomed her even though she wasn't from there. About four years of building something that mattered, of earning her place through early mornings and honest work.
This was the same thing. Different packaging—leather instead of aprons, violence instead of flowers—but the same desperate, beautiful need to belong.
The compound wasn't pretty. Wasn't safe. Wasn't anything she would have chosen for herself.
But sitting here beside Blast, surrounded by people who'd chosen each other, she felt something she hadn't felt since the fires started.
Home.
The cookout wound down after midnight.
Brothers drifted off to beds or bikes, old ladies gathered leftovers, kids were carried to wherever kids slept in a biker compound. Becca helped clean up, stacking plates and folding tables with the easy rhythm of someone who'd closed down a hundred events.
By one a.m., the lot was quiet.
Becca made it as far as the common room couch before exhaustion hit.
She'd meant to go to her room. Meant to shower, change, sleep in an actual bed. But the couch was soft, and her flower buckets were right there, and the compound had finally stopped buzzing with noise and motion.
She curled up with her head on a throw pillow, surrounded by the smell of roses and the distant sound of Blast laughing at something in the garage.
His laugh carried through the walls. Bright and sharp and alive.
The last thing she heard before sleep pulled her under.
She dreamed about flowers growing through concrete, pushing up through cracks in industrial floors, blooming in impossible places.
Blooming anyway.