Chapter Forty-Three
Alex
The second my tears stopped, I moved.
I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. I just moved.
Out the back door of Twisted Intentions, past the dumpsters reeking of old grease and stale beer, into the humid Florida night that wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket. My hands were shaking as I fumbled with Eros’ bike keys, my vision still blurred from crying.
Go. Just go. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just fucking GO.
The Harley roared to life beneath me, the vibration familiar and grounding in a way nothing else had been for months. I didn’t look back at the bar. Didn’t check to see if Nano was watching from the window. Didn’t let myself think about the way his voice had cracked when he said he loved me.
I just rode.
The first night was a blur of highway lights and darkness as I rode north, away from the coast, away from the ocean breeze and the life I’d tried to build in Coco Beach. Away from Emory and Maverick and the fragile sense of normalcy I’d convinced myself was enough.
Away from him.
My body ached. My thighs burned from gripping the bike. My hands were numb from clutching the handlebars too tightly. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Because stopping meant thinking, and thinking meant remembering. Remembering the way he looked at me when I told him to leave.
The hurt in his eyes.
The devastation.
“I love you.”
Stop.
I twisted the throttle harder. The engine screamed as I pushed the bike faster. The wind whipped around me, tearing at my hair, stinging my eyes, drowning out the sound of my own thoughts.
But it wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough to drown out him.
By the second day, I was running on fumes.
I stopped once, maybe twice, at gas stations where I filled the tank with shaking hands and bought coffee I couldn’t taste. My reflection in the bathroom mirror was a stranger: hollow eyes, wind-burned cheeks, lips cracked and bleeding from the relentless assault of the road.
I looked like a ghost.
You are a ghost. You’ve been running for so long you’ve forgotten how to be real.
I splashed cold water on my face and forced myself to keep moving. To keep riding. Because if I stopped, if I let myself think for even a second, I would fall apart completely, and I couldn’t afford to fall apart. Not yet.
The road stretched endlessly ahead of me, a ribbon of asphalt cutting through fields and forests and small towns that blurred together into meaningless shapes.
I rode through rain that soaked me to the bone and sunshine that burned my skin.
I rode until my muscles screamed and my vision doubled, and I couldn’t remember what state I was in or how long I had been riding.
All I knew was that I had to keep going.
Because stopping meant facing the truth.
And the truth was too fucking terrifying to face.
It was the third night, or maybe the fourth, when I lost track, and I finally admitted it to myself.
I was riding through Georgia, the air thick and humid, the sky a bruised purple as the sun set behind me.
My body was beyond exhausted. My hands were blistered.
My back ached so badly that I could barely sit upright, and all I could see was his face.
The way he looked at me in Maverick’s office. The desperation in his eyes when he begged me to give him another chance. The raw, unfiltered vulnerability when he said he didn’t want to be the monster anymore.
“I love you.”
I told him it was nothing. Told him it was just sex. Told him to leave.
And the look on his face when I said it, God forgive me, it had destroyed him.
I saw it. Saw the way his expression crumbled, the way his shoulders sagged, the way he nodded and walked away like I had just ripped his heart out and handed it back to him in pieces.
And I let him go.
Why? Why did you do that?
Because I was terrified. Because trusting him meant risking everything. Because loving him meant surrendering to the one person who had the power to destroy me completely.
Because I was a fucking coward.
The realization hit me like a physical blow, and I had to pull over to the side of the road before I crashed. I killed the engine and sat there, straddling the bike, my hands gripping the handlebars so tight my knuckles turned white, and then I screamed.
It tore out of me, raw and primal and filled with every ounce of rage and grief and self-loathing I had been carrying for months.
I screamed until my throat was raw, until my voice gave out, until there was nothing left but the sound of my own ragged breathing and the distant hum of traffic on the highway.
You love him.
The thought was quiet. Insidious. Undeniable.
You love him, and you pushed him away because you’re too fucking scared to admit it.
I pressed my forehead against the handlebars and let the tears come again. Silent this time. Exhausted. Because I didn’t have the energy to fight it anymore.
I loved him.
I loved Nano.
And I broke both of us because I was too afraid to admit it.
I didn’t know how long I sat there on the side of the road. Long enough for the sun to set completely. Long enough for the stars to come out, bright and cold and indifferent to my suffering.
When I finally started the bike again, I didn’t head north.
I turned west.
Toward Texas.
Toward home.
The Gods of Mayhem compound looked exactly the same as it had the last time I saw it.
Red brick. Weathered wood. The club insignia painted across the front in bold, defiant strokes. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the steps where I sat as a kid, listening to the brothers laugh and tell stories late into the night.
Home.
The word felt foreign. Like something I’d lost the right to claim.
I cut the engine and sat there for a moment, staring at the building. My body was so exhausted that I could barely move. My hands were shaking. My vision was blurred from days of wind and sun and tears.
And then the doors opened, and Oscar stepped out onto the porch, his silhouette backlit by the light from inside. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stood there watching me.
And something inside me broke.
I stumbled off the bike, my legs barely able to support my weight. I took one step toward him. Then another. And then I was running, my body moving on instinct, my vision blurred with tears I couldn’t stop.
“Oscar.”
His arms caught me before I collapsed, strong and steady and safe. I buried my face in his chest and sobbed, my entire body shaking with the force of it. Days of exhaustion and fear and grief poured out of me in broken, gasping cries that I couldn’t control.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I’ve got you, Alex. You’re home.”
Home.
I clung to him like he was the only thing keeping me from drowning, and maybe he was. Because without him, without this place, I had nothing left. Nothing but the memory of a man I pushed away because I was too fucking scared to love him.
I didn’t remember much of the next few days.
Flashes. Fragments. Oscar carrying me inside.
The familiar creak of the stairs. The soft give of my childhood bed beneath me.
Voices, low and concerned, drifted through the walls.
Sleep pulled me under like a riptide, dragging me down into darkness so deep I couldn’t fight it.
My body demanded rest, and for once, I didn’t have the strength to refuse.
I woke occasionally. Long enough to drink the water Oscar pressed into my hands. Long enough to eat a few bites of food I couldn’t taste. Long enough to stumble to the bathroom and back before collapsing into bed again.
And then I slept.
Hours. Days. I didn’t know. Time had stopped meaning anything.
All I knew was that I was tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired. The kind of exhaustion that came from running for so long that you forgot what you were running from.
Or maybe I’d always known.
Maybe I just been too afraid to admit it.
When I finally woke up, really woke up, the room was filled with soft afternoon light.
I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my mind clearer than it had been in days. My body still ached, but the sharp edge of exhaustion had dulled. I could think again. Could breathe without feeling like my chest was caving in. And with clarity came the truth I had been running from.
I love him.
The thought didn’t hurt this time. It didn’t terrify me. It just was.
I loved Nano. I loved the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I loved the way he touched me, rough and tender and utterly consuming.
I loved the way he opened up to me, showing me the broken pieces of himself that he never shown anyone else.
I even loved his darker side. The monster that did delicious, dangerous things to me.
I loved him. I loved all of him and I pushed him away because I was too fucking scared to admit it.
You’re still scared.
Yeah. I was. But maybe that was okay. Maybe being scared didn’t mean I had to run. Maybe it just meant I had to be brave enough to face it.
A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts.
“Alex?” Oscar’s voice was quiet. Careful. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse from disuse. “I’m awake.”
The door opened, and he stepped inside carrying a tray with food— scrambled eggs, toast, orange juice. He set it on the nightstand and sat down on the edge of the bed, his expression unreadable.
“You look like shit,” he said.
I laughed, the sound rough and broken. “Thanks.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
He nodded, his gaze steady. “You’ve been out for three days.”
Three days.
“I needed it,” I admitted.
“Yeah.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “You wanna tell me what the fuck happened?”
I looked at him, really looked at him. My brother. The man who raised me after our parents died. The man who protected me, even when I didn’t deserve it, and I realized I was done lying.
Done running. Done pretending I didn’t feel what I felt.
“I fucked up,” I said quietly.