Chapter 21 New Beginnings #2
Theo has that military build—all controlled power and deadly precision. He probably needs equipment that can handle the kind of training regimen soldiers maintain. I can picture him in a gym, focused and intense, pushing himself to limits that would make most people quit.
"What do you do?" I ask. "For work, I mean. I know you love bikes, but wanted to know the lore around it."
Nash glances at me, then back at the road. We're heading out-of-town now—passing the last few shops and houses before the landscape opens up to farmland and forest.
"I fix bikes," he says. "Motorcycles. Started as a hobby but turned into a side business."
"Really? How'd you get into that?"
He's quiet for a moment, navigating a curve in the road.
Trees line both sides now—bare branches reaching toward the gray November sky like skeletal fingers.
"Started messing around with engines when I was a teenager," he says finally.
"My old man had a garage, taught me the basics before he passed.
Carburetors, transmissions, electrical systems. When I got older…
maybe nineteen or twenty…I bought a beat-up Harley for five hundred bucks and rebuilt it from scratch.
Took me eight months. Fell in love with the entire process.
Something zen about taking apart an engine and putting it back together. "
I can picture it—young Nash with grease on his hands and determination in his eyes, completely focused on transforming that beat-up motorcycle into something beautiful. The same intense focus I saw when he was reading the contract at breakfast, weighing every word.
"That Harley still runs," he continues with a hint of pride. "Got it in the garage. Custom paint job, rebuilt transmission, purrs like a kitten."
"I'd love to see it sometime."
"Yeah?" He sounds pleased. "Most Omegas aren't interested in motorcycles."
"Most Omegas probably weren't raised by a grandfather who restored classic cars in his spare time," I counter. "I grew up around engines and tools. Used to hand him wrenches when he was working under the hood."
It’s the first time I’ve shared that with anyone in a long time. Normally I stop myself from sharing about my life before my ex-pack and the mayhem that delivered over the years. My online persona as the giddy friendly Booktoker social enthusiast isn’t one to share about personal stuff either.
Nash glances at me, something warm in his expression.
"Your grandfather sounds like he was a good man."
"He was." The past tense still hurts even though it's been five years. "Best man I ever knew."
We're quiet for a moment, both lost in memories of people we've lost.
"You know…" Nash continues, clearing his throat. "After I rebuilt that first Harley, I started doing it for other people. Word got around that I was good with bikes. Then I got into what I thought was a motorcycle club."
His jaw tightens slightly—just enough that I notice.
"Thought it was a club?"
"Turned out to be a gang." He says it casually, but there's weight behind the words. History. Regret. "That's a whole different subject though. Not great breakfast conversation."
A gang. Nash was in a motorcycle gang.
That explains so much—the leather jacket that looks lived-in rather than fashionable, the way he moves with that contained danger, the scars I noticed on his knuckles at breakfast, the edge underneath his smooth lawyer exterior.
I'm intrigued—dying to ask more questions.
How did he get out? Was it dangerous? Is that how he met Grayson and Theo?
But something in his tone tells me this isn't the time.
Maybe it's a story for when we know each other better.
When trust has been built and secrets don't feel so dangerous to share.
So I just nod, looking out the window as the landscape rolls by.
"Let's drop your stuff at the house first," Nash says, changing the subject smoothly. "Then we'll make our way to the next town for shopping."
"Sounds good."
The truck settles into a comfortable rhythm on the highway.
The heater blows warm air that carries the faint scent of pine—probably from the little tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror alongside fuzzy dice that look like they've been there since Nash bought the truck.
Christmas music plays softly from the radio.
Mariah Carey is back for the millionth time today, telling everyone what she wants for Christmas with that powerhouse voice.
I lean back in the seat, watching the world pass by through the passenger window.
Snow-dusted fields stretch endlessly on both sides of the highway, rolling gentle hills that go on forever.
Farmhouses dot the landscape—some already decorated with Christmas lights twinkling despite the daylight, strings of colored bulbs outlining rooflines and wrapping around porch posts.
Others remain plain and functional, maybe belonging to people who don't celebrate or just haven't gotten around to decorating yet.
Cattle huddle together in pastures for warmth, their breath visible in the cold air, creating little clouds around their massive heads.
A red barn in the distance has a faded Coca-Cola advertisement painted on its side—the kind you see in old photographs, a remnant of a different era when companies paid farmers to turn their barns into billboards.
Fence posts line the highway, many leaning slightly from years of harsh weather and settling ground.
Some have been wrapped with garland and red bows—festive touches in an otherwise stark winter landscape.
Bare trees reach skeletal branches toward the pale gray sky, creating intricate silhouettes against the overcast backdrop.
This is so different from the cramped apartment I've been living in for the past year.
Different from the bars and businesses and crowded streets of downtown Oakridge Hollow where everything is packed together and noise never stops.
Out here, everything is open. Spacious. Room to breathe without feeling like walls are closing in.
The sky stretches forever, no buildings blocking the view.
I pull out my phone without thinking. The urge to document this moment is automatic after years of content creation. The landscape is beautiful—would make great B-roll for a video. Or a photo series about leaving one life behind and starting another.
But then I hesitate, thumb hovering over the camera app.
With Kael's pack, every time I tried to film or take photos, there was commentary. Mocking laughter. Questions about what I was doing, said in that tone that implied I was wasting time on something stupid. Eventually I stopped creating content around them entirely.
But Nash said to focus on my game plan. Said they'd help me take this seriously.
I open the camera app and angle my phone toward the window.
The fields blur past—golden browns and whites, bare trees creating stark lines against the pale sky.
I take a few photos, adjusting the exposure to capture the winter light properly.
Then I switch to video for some movement shots, holding my phone steady despite the truck's vibrations.
"What are you doing?" Nash asks, his voice curious rather than judgmental.
I tense anyway, ready for criticism.
"Just getting some footage. For content. I can stop if it's—"
"You should get shots of the house too," he interrupts. "When we get there. The property looks good on camera—Grayson's done lots of work on the landscaping. He'd probably love to see it featured in your content."
I blink at him, surprised.
"Really?"
"Why do you keep sounding surprised when we offer to help?" He glances at me, eyebrow raised. "This is your career. Document whatever you want. We'll help however we can. If you need us to hold props or move furniture or whatever influencers do, just say the word."
My chest feels warm.
"Thank you. That means more than you probably realize."
He just nods, turning his attention back to the road.
I go back to filming, but this time without the familiar weight of anxiety pressing on my shoulders. Without waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Just creating, the way I've always wanted to.
The highway continues through the countryside, cutting a dark line through white and brown fields.
We pass a small town—barely a dot on the map with maybe fifty people living there.
Just a gas station with pumps that look like they haven't been updated since the 1990s, a handful of buildings clustered together looking worn but loved, and not much else.
A hand-painted sign advertises fresh Christmas trees for sale—$40 for six-footers, $60 for eight-footers. Another sign announces upcoming holiday events at the local church: cookie exchange on the fifteenth, Christmas pageant on the twenty-second, candlelight service on Christmas Eve.
Nash's truck eats up the miles with steady purpose, the engine humming beneath us with barely contained power.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh, completely relaxed in a way that suggests he makes this drive frequently.
Every so often his scent—motor oil and leather and something uniquely Alpha that I can't quite name—drifts over to me on the heated air.
"Where will I be staying?"
"Guest room in the main house," he says, taking a turn onto an even smaller road.
"Grayson's already got it set up for you.
Fresh sheets, cleared out the closet and dresser drawers, made sure the heating works properly in that room.
He stress-cleaned for three straight hours yesterday. Reorganized the linen closet twice."
The image makes me smile despite myself. Sweet Grayson stress-cleaning, probably second-guessing every decision, wanting everything to be perfect for someone he barely knows.
We turn off onto another road—this one barely more than a dirt track with gravel scattered across the surface.
The pavement here is rougher, cracked from years of freeze-thaw cycles and heavy vehicles.
Trees grow closer on both sides now, creating a natural tunnel that filters the weak winter sunlight into dappled patterns across the truck's hood.
Then we round a curve and the property opens up before us like something from a painting.
The main house sits on a gentle rise, exactly like Nash described—two stories with white siding that looks freshly painted and dark green shutters framing every window.
A wraparound porch spans the entire front and both sides, complete with rocking chairs that look inviting despite the cold weather.
Smoke rises from the brick chimney in lazy spirals, suggesting a fire burning inside to ward off the November chill.
The house looks welcoming. Warm. Like a home instead of just a building.
Christmas lights line the porch railing in perfect, even strands—white lights that probably look magical when lit up at night.
More lights wrap around each porch post in careful spirals, the kind that take hours to get right.
Garland with red velvet bows decorates the front door and hangs from the porch ceiling in elegant swags.
A massive wreath hangs in the big picture window, adorned with pine cones and more red ribbon and what looks like real evergreen branches.
To the left, I can see Nash's cabin—smaller and more rustic with rough-hewn logs and a metal roof that looks built to withstand harsh winters.
A large garage sits attached to it, the kind built for serious work rather than just parking cars.
Through the windows I can see tools hanging on pegboards and what looks like motorcycle parts on workbenches. His space. His sanctuary.
To the right, partially hidden by a dense stand of evergreen trees that provides natural privacy, another cabin is barely visible.
Just a corner of dark wood and a glimpse of a stone chimney.
That must be Theo's place—private and secluded, perfect for someone who needs space to process trauma and decompress from the world.
"Wow," I breathe, taking it all in.
"Grayson went overboard with the decorations this year," Nash says, but there's clear affection in his voice.
Fondness. "He does every year even though we don't really celebrate Christmas properly, let alone get much visitors.
Says it makes the place look lived-in instead of like three bachelor Alphas are squatting here. "
"It's beautiful. Seriously beautiful. Like something from a magazine or a Christmas movie."
Nash pulls the truck up the gravel driveway to the main house and cuts the engine.
For a long moment we just sit there in the sudden quiet, looking at the property spread out before us. The only sounds are the truck engine ticking as it cools and a crow cawing somewhere in the distant trees.
This is going to be my home for the next six weeks.
This beautiful house in the countryside with three Alphas who are already showing me more kindness in a few days than my ex-pack did in years. A place where I can document my life without fear. Where I can chase dreams instead of having them crushed.
Where I can figure out who I am when I'm not being told I'm worthless.
I pull out my phone again, framing the house in my camera app.
The composition is perfect—the white house with Christmas decorations, the smoke from the chimney, the winter landscape surrounding it like something from a greeting card.
This is something new I'll be experiencing.
A genuine fresh start.
A chance to be myself without constant criticism or control.
And this time I can document it without fear or mockery.