Chapter 7 - Brick
We sit in the courtyard for twenty minutes before she speaks again.
"My family must be going out of their minds," she says. Her voice is rough from crying, exhausted from everything. "My mom, my dad, my younger sister. They probably think I'm dead. Or that I finally did what I always said I would and left town without telling anyone."
"You talked about leaving?"
"All the time. Small town girl dreams, you know? Always said I'd save up enough money and just go. Get out. See the world. Do something more than cut flowers and ring up customers." She pulls the cut tighter around herself. "They probably think that's what happened. That I finally did it."
"You should call them," I say. "Let them know you're alive."
"And tell them what? 'Hey Mom, remember that boyfriend you hated?
The one you begged me not to date? Turns out you were right.
He's a Viper who locked me in a warehouse for a week.
But don't worry, I'm fine now. Living in a biker clubhouse with different bikers.
Everything's great.” She laughs bitterly. "That'll go over well."
"They'll just be glad you're alive."
"They'll be glad I'm alive and furious that I didn't listen. That I put myself in danger. That I'm still putting myself in danger by being here instead of coming home."
"Are you in danger here?"
She looks at me. "I don't know. Am I?"
"No," I say firmly. "Not from us. The Vipers might come looking, but we're prepared for that. You're safer here than you would be alone."
"That's not exactly a high bar."
"It's the truth."
She's quiet for another moment. Then, "What about your family? Are they worried about you being at war with the Vipers?"
I nearly laugh. "My family doesn't worry about me."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't have one. Not really. Not anymore."
"Everyone has family."
"I have a mother I haven't talked to in five years.
Two brothers in prison that I've never visited.
A father who died while I was deployed and nobody told me until three months after the funeral.
" I lean back in the chair, looking up at the lights overhead instead of at her.
"That's not family. That's just biology. "
"Your brothers are in prison?"
"Yeah. Different facilities. Different charges. Same outcome. They let violence define them completely until there was nothing else left."
"And you didn't?"
"I almost did. Got close. Closer than I should have." I can feel her watching me. "Joined the military at eighteen to get away from it. To learn control. To become something other than what my brothers became."
"Did it work?"
"Mostly. I learned to channel it. Make it useful. But the violence is still there. Still part of who I am. I just wear it better than they did."
"Is that why you became a MC member?"
"Part of it. The other part is I'm good at it. I don't hesitate. Don't second-guess. When something needs to be done, I do it. Phoenix recognized that. Gave me a place where that particular skill set is valuable instead of destructive."
Rosie shifts in her chair. The leather of my cut rustles with the movement. "Do you like it? The violence?"
No one's ever asked me that directly. Most people assume the answer and don't want confirmation. But she's asking like she actually wants to know. Like my answer matters.
"Yeah," I admit. "I do. That's the fucked up part. I like the feeling of breaking through someone's defenses. Like the adrenaline. Like knowing I'm good at something most people can't stomach. It makes me feel—" I search for the right word. "Useful. Like the darkness in me has a purpose."
"That's honest."
"You asked."
"Most people would lie."
"I'm not most people."
"No," she agrees softly. "You're really not."
Thunder rumbles in the distance. I look up at the sky. The stars are disappearing behind clouds rolling in fast. "Storm's coming."
"I like storms."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. They're loud. Chaotic. But honest. They don't pretend to be anything other than what they are."
I understand that. Understand finding comfort in things that are exactly what they claim to be, no hidden agendas or false promises. "We should head inside before it hits."
"I don't want to go back to the common room."
"You don't have to. There are other options."
"Like what?"
"Guest rooms upstairs. Or—" I hesitate. This is a bad idea. A terrible idea. The kind of idea that proves Saint right about me being fucked. "My room. If you want to keep talking. It's private. Quiet. Has a lock on the door."
She stares at me. "Your room."
"Yeah."
"You're inviting me to your room."
"To talk. That's it. No expectations. No pressure. Just a space that's not full of people. Where you can process without an audience."
"Why would you do that?"
"Because you look like you need it. And because I—" I stop myself before I say something stupid. Something that reveals too much. "Because we're already talking and you seem like you're not done yet."
Rain starts to fall. Light at first, then heavier. Within seconds it's a downpour.
Rosie stands. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Your room. To talk. Nothing else."
"Nothing else," I confirm.
We run for the door. The rain soaks us in the thirty seconds it takes to get inside. Rosie's laughing by the time we're in the hallway, a real laugh, surprised and genuine. Water drips from her hair, from the leather cut, from both of us.
"That escalated quickly," she says.
"Millhaven storms. They don't fuck around."
We climb the stairs. The second floor is quiet. Most of the brothers are still downstairs or out on patrol. The women who aren't sleeping are probably still in the common room with Ivy, Eden and Nora. My room is at the far end of the hall.
I unlock it and push it open.
Rosie hesitates at the threshold. Looking into my private space like she's about to cross a line she can't uncross. "I've never been in a man's room before. I mean, except my ex's. And that was—"
"Different," I finish for her. "I know. You don't have to come in. We can talk in the hallway if that's better."
"No. I want—" She takes a breath. "I want to stop being afraid of everything. And that includes men's rooms. So. Yeah. I'm coming in."
She steps inside.
My room isn't much. Queen bed with gray sheets.
Dresser with motorcycle parts on top. Bookshelf crammed with paperbacks about war and violence and trying to understand both.
Small desk with a laptop. Window overlooking the back courtyard.
Weights in the corner. Punching bag hanging from a reinforced beam.
"It's clean," she says, sounding surprised.
"What did you expect? Dirty clothes and beer cans?"
"Maybe."
"I'm military. We learn to keep our space organized or suffer the consequences."
She walks to the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines. "You really do read."
"I told you I did."
"People say a lot of things." She pulls out a book. "The Things They Carried. Tim O'Brien."
"It's about Vietnam. About carrying the weight of war. Both physical and emotional."
"Have you read it multiple times?" She's looking at how worn the spine is, how the pages are dog-eared.
"Yeah. Keeps teaching me new things every time."
She puts it back and pulls out another. "On Killing. Lieutenant Colonel Dave Grossman."
"About the psychological cost of learning to kill. How the military conditions people to overcome the natural resistance to taking another human life." I watch her handle my books like they're precious. "It's dark. But accurate."
"You're trying to understand yourself through these books."
"Yeah. Trying to figure out if the violence is who I am or just what I learned. If there's a difference."
"And? Is there?"
"Still figuring that out."
She moves to the window. Looks out at the rain pounding the courtyard we just left. "My sister is twenty-two. Just graduated college. Smart. Beautiful. Makes good choices." Her voice goes quiet. "Everything I'm not."
"You're twenty-four. That's not old enough to have failed at life."
"Feels like it sometimes."
"Your sister ever survived a week in captivity and came out still fighting?"
"No."
"Then maybe you're stronger than you think. Maybe good choices aren't the only measure of worth."
She turns from the window. "Why are you being nice to me?"
"We covered this already."
"We didn't. Not really. You gave me non-answers. I want the real reason."
I lean against the doorframe, hands in my pockets, trying to look nonthreatening despite my size. "You want the truth?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. I saw you in that room looking terrified, furious and refusing to break, and something in me—" I gesture vaguely at my chest. "Responded. Wanted to help. Wanted to make sure you survived. Wanted—" I stop myself again.
"Wanted what?"
"To be the kind of man who helps instead of hurts. To prove to myself that the violence isn't all I am. That I can be gentle when it matters." I meet her eyes. "You make me want to be gentle. And that doesn't happen often."
"I don't know what to do with that," she says.
"You don't have to do anything with it. I'm not asking for anything."
"Everyone asks for something eventually."
"I'm not everyone."
"I'm starting to realize that."
Thunder crashes directly overhead. The lights flicker but stay on. Rosie jumps slightly, then laughs at herself. "I said I liked storms."
"You can like something and still be startled by it."
She moves away from the window, closer to the center of the room. Closer to me. Not touching. Just present. "Tell me more about your brothers."
"Why?"
"Because you know everything about what happened to me and I know almost nothing about you. It feels unbalanced."
Fair enough. I move to the bed, sitting on the edge. Give her the rest of the room. "Jake is the oldest. Three years older than me. He's in for assault with a deadly weapon. Beat a guy outside a bar with a tire iron. Guy didn't die but came close. Jake claimed self-defense. Jury didn't buy it."
"Was it self-defense?"
"Probably not. Jake's got a temper that makes mine look peaceful. Always has. He'd start fights just to feel something."
"And the other brother?"
"Ryan. One year older than me. He's in for armed robbery. Held up a gas station with a gun he claimed was unloaded. Turned out it wasn't. He panicked when the clerk reached for something and fired. Clerk survived but lost use of his arm."
"That's—"
"Fucked up? Yeah. That's the Hayes family legacy. Violence and bad decisions."
"But you're different."
"Am I? I break bones for a living, Rosie. I like doing it. The only difference between me and them is I found an outlet that's legal. Mostly."
"The difference is you have control. They didn't. Don't. Whatever." She sits in the desk chair, pulling her legs up. Making herself small again. "Do you miss them?"
"Sometimes. Mostly I miss who they could have been if they'd figured out how to channel the darkness instead of letting it consume them. I miss the brothers I had when we were kids, before everything went to shit."
"What happened? To make everything go to shit?"
"My mom. Not her fault, really. But our dad was an alcoholic.
Mean drunk. He'd come home and pick fights.
We learned to fight back. Learned that violence was how you survived in our house.
Mom tried to protect us, but she couldn't protect herself, let alone three boys who were getting bigger and angrier every year. "
"She's still alive?"
"Yeah. Still in that same small town. I haven't talked to her in five years."
"Why not?"
"Because she called me after Ryan got locked up. Asked if I could send money for a lawyer. Not 'how are you' or 'I miss you' or 'I'm sorry your brother's in prison.' Just money. Like that's all I was good for."
"What did you do?"
"Sent the money. Then changed my number."
Rosie nods slowly. "That's fair."
"Is it?"
"Yeah. Sometimes you have to protect yourself even from family. Especially from family."
Rain pounds against the window. Thunder rolls continuously. The storm is directly overhead now, violent and honest, exactly what it claims to be.
"I should call my family," Rosie says eventually. "Tomorrow. Let them know I'm alive."
"You want company when you do it?"
"You'd do that?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"Because sometimes the hard conversations are easier when you're not alone."
She studies me with those dark eyes. "You're really committed to this whole 'being helpful' thing."
"Apparently."
"It's working. The helpfulness. I feel less hurt than I did an hour ago."
"Good."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She smiles. Just slightly. Just enough. "I should probably go. Let you have your room back."