Chapter 12
?
— Dutch —
Icouldn’t get the look in Indira’s eyes out of my head.
Three in the morning, sitting in my hotel room, and that moment of surprise on her face was all I could see. Not anger. Not hurt. Surprise. Like she couldn’t believe I’d actually walked away from easy pussy.
The coded business card from my ammunition supplier sat on the nightstand.
Nothing but a phone number and the image of a hunting rifle, the kind of thing that looked innocent enough if the wrong person found it.
Successful meeting, solid deal negotiated, no complications. But all I could think about was her.
The old me wouldn’t have believed it either.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Glitch’s number. The brother who’d supposedly been unable to track Indira down when she left. The one who’d asked if I wanted to skip this meeting. He clearly knew more than he’d been letting on.
The phone rang twice before his gravelly voice answered. “Jesus, Dutch, it’s three in the morning. Someone better be bleeding.”
“You knew.”
A long pause. Then a sigh. “Yeah. I knew.”
“You knew Indira would be in Montana and you didn’t tell me?”
“I tried to get you to sit the meeting out, remember? Suggested you send someone else.” I heard rustling, probably Glitch getting his laptop. “I wasn’t sure how you’d handle it. Thought maybe it was better if you didn’t know.”
“How long have you known where she was?”
“A while. I kept tabs on her social media activity. Her friend Emma posted about the bachelorette trip to Whitefish.” He paused. “I figured the odds of you two running into each other were low. It’s a ski town, not a one-bar village.”
“She walked into The Rusty Spur while I was waiting for the supplier.”
A long exhale. “Jesus. What are the odds? You talk to her?”
“No.” I ran a hand through my hair. “But she saw me. Saw me turn down a couple of club groupies who were throwing themselves at me.”
“And?”
“And I think... I think she was surprised. Like she couldn’t believe I did that.”
Another pause. “So what do you want from me?”
“I want to write her a letter.”
Glitch laughed. Actually fucking laughed. “A letter? What is this, 1850?”
“I’m serious.”
The laughter stopped. “Shit. You are serious.” A pause. “Dutch, she blocked your number. She moved states to get away from you. What makes you think she wants to hear from you?”
“Because of the way she looked at me tonight.” I stood up, pacing to the window. “Not angry. Not hurt. Curious.”
“Or she was just shocked to see you in Montana.”
“Maybe. But I need to try, Glitch. I need to tell her that I’m not the same man who fucked everything up. And I need to do it in a way that doesn’t feel like stalking or harassment.”
I heard him typing in the background. “Okay, but why a letter? Why not just... I don’t know, show up at her door? That’s more your style.”
I thought about my mother’s shoebox, those dozens of yellowed envelopes filled with my father’s words. The man he could only be on paper—vulnerable, honest, real. The man he’d never managed to be with her in person.
“When I was in Florida, my mom showed me something,” I said slowly. “Letters my father wrote her when he was in prison. Dozens of them.”
I stopped, the words catching in my throat. My fingers drummed against my thigh, restless. Glitch waited.
“She said writing was the only way he could drop his guard,” I finally managed. “No audience, no reputation to protect.”
Glitch was quiet for a moment. “And you think you’re the same way?”
I didn’t answer right away. My hand found my hair again, tugging at it. “Maybe I can do it in writing.”
“Huh. That actually makes sense.”
“Plus, if I send a letter, she can choose whether or not to read it. She’s in control. She can throw it away if she wants. But at least she’ll know I tried to reach her without forcing myself into her space.”
“Okay,” Glitch said. “She’s working out of Nashville now—same company, just changed locations. Got promoted too. Senior account manager.”
My eyebrows rose. “Good for her.”
“She works from home, so I can get you her apartment address. But Dutch—are you sure about this?”
“I’m sure. If I send a letter, she has all the power.”
“And if she doesn’t respond?”
“I leave her alone. Forever. But I have to try, brother. I have to at least try to make this right.”
Glitch was quiet for a moment. “Alright. I’ll give you her address when you’re back.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do. But Dutch, this better not be some bullshit attempt to manipulate her into coming back. Because if it is, I’m out.”
I paused, the weight of his words hitting me. “Out? As in...?”
“As in I’ll hand in my cut before I help you hurt her again.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. One of my brothers—one of my most trusted brothers—was threatening to leave the club over how I’d treated a woman.
Six months ago, I would have been furious.
Would have reminded him who was president, who gave the orders, who decided what was and wasn’t club business.
But when I thought about it, I wasn’t surprised.
Glitch had always been different. Never touched the club girls.
Treated women like they were actually people instead of entertainment.
I’d never once heard him talk about a woman the way some of the brothers talked about their women—like property, like conquests, like something to be managed rather than loved.
Maybe that’s why he hadn’t tried too hard to find Indira when she first left. He’d known I wasn’t ready. Known I would have just made things worse.
“It’s not,” I said finally. “Even if it’s too late to matter.”
After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at my phone. My chest felt tight. My mouth had gone dry.
A blank page. That’s what I needed to fill, and the thought of it made my hands shake.
By the time the sun came up, I had the beginnings of an idea.
?
Three days later, I was back in Millfield, sitting in my office at the clubhouse with a notepad covered in scratched-out sentences.
My pen kept hovering over the page, fingers cramping from how hard I was gripping it.
Writing had never been my strong suit, but this had to be perfect.
Had to be honest without being manipulative, accountable without making excuses.
Glitch knocked on my door around noon, a piece of paper in his hand.
“Her address,” he said, settling into the chair across from my desk and sliding it over.
I took the paper and studied it for a moment. Nashville. She’d really started over.
“This letter. What if she throws it away without reading it?” Glitch asked. Same question he’d asked when I’d called him at 3 AM and told him I wanted to write a letter.
“Then I respect that and move on with my life.” I set the paper down. “That’s the point—she’s in control. Not me.”
Glitch leaned back in his chair. “Who are you and what did you do with my prez?”
“Funny.” But I knew what he meant. Before Indira had walked out, I would have seen rejection as a challenge, something to overcome rather than respect. Now... now I just wanted her to be happy, even if that happiness didn’t include me.
“You want me to read what you’ve got so far?” he asked, nodding toward the legal pad.
“It’s shit.”
“Let me see.”
I reluctantly handed over the pages covered in cross-outs and false starts. Glitch read in silence, his expression unreadable.
“Well?” I asked after what felt like an hour.
“It’s honest,” he said finally. “Maybe too honest. You basically admit to being a complete piece of shit for the entire relationship.”
“Because I was.”
“Yeah, but Jesus, brother—you sound like you’re auditioning for a sad poetry slam.” He tossed the pages back. “Nobody wants to read six paragraphs of you flagellating yourself.”
I grabbed the pages. “So what, I should just pretend I wasn’t an asshole?”
“Nah. But there’s a difference between owning your shit and drowning in it.” He leaned back. “And for fuck’s sake, keep it short. She’s got a life. Don’t make her need a coffee break to get through your guilt spiral.”
I spent the next two days rewriting. My neck ached from hunching over the desk.
Three times my coffee went cold before I remembered to drink it.
I’d catch myself holding my breath as I worked through a particularly difficult sentence, only exhaling when the words finally came right.
Cutting out the self-flagellation and the detailed explanations of my fucked-up childhood.
Focusing on the essential message: I understood why she’d left.
I didn’t expect forgiveness. I just wanted her to know that losing her had taught me what kind of man I was and what kind of man I wanted to be.
The kind of man I should have been all along.
When I showed Glitch the revised draft, he read it through twice before looking up.
He had that look on his face—the one he got when he was processing something that didn’t fit his mental spreadsheet.
Glitch was a black and white guy. He saw patterns where others saw chaos, noticed details that slipped past everyone else.
It’s what made him invaluable to the club—that laser focus, that one-track mind that wouldn’t let go of something until it made sense.
Right now, that focus was aimed squarely at me.
“You’re really doing this?” he asked. “The whole celibacy thing. Sticking with it.”
“Yeah.” I set down my pen. “You seem surprised.”
“I am. Most brothers, they talk about changing, about being better. Then a club girl offers them a blow job and all that talk goes out the window.” He leaned forward. “What makes you different?”
I thought about how to explain it. “Remember when Indira walked in on me with Crystal?”
“Hard to forget. You were a fucking mess afterward.”
“I woke up the next morning feeling worse than I did before.” I stared at the wall behind him. “I’m done with that.”