Chapter 6 — Knox
She's standing in my kitchen wearing one of my t-shirts and nothing else, making coffee in the machine I've had for six years and barely know how to use.
Her hair is tangled from my hands and there are marks on her neck from my mouth.
I watch her from the doorway and something in my chest pulls tight.
She turns and catches me looking. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"Just not used to someone else in my space."
She hands me a mug. The coffee is strong, bitter, exactly how I like it.
"You remember," I say.
"Some things stick."
We drink in silence.
Outside the temperature is already climbing, the cicadas loud enough to hear through closed windows. It's barely noon and the day feels longer than it should, stretched thin by too little sleep and too much that happened in the hours before dawn.
My side aches where the wound pulls under fresh gauze.
"You should eat something," she says.
"Not hungry."
"When's the last time you ate?"
I have to think about it. Yesterday afternoon, maybe. Before the attack, before everything that mattered more than food.
She opens my fridge and stands there looking at the nearly empty shelves. Milk that's probably expired, condiments, beer. Nothing that constitutes an actual meal.
"You live like a college student," she says.
"I eat at the clubhouse mostly."
"That's not a defense."
She closes the fridge and goes to the cabinets, opening them systematically until she finds a box of crackers and a can of soup that's been there so long I don't remember buying it.
She heats the soup on the stove while I sit at the kitchen table and watch her move through my space like she belongs there.
It should feel invasive, but I just want her to stay.
She sets a bowl in front of me. Chicken noodle soup, crackers on the side. Basic, functional, the kind of meal you make when someone needs to eat and you don't have many options.
I eat because she's watching me and because my body needs fuel even if I don't feel hungry.
She eats standing at the counter, leaning against it in my shirt that hits her mid-thigh.
"What time do we need to leave?" she asks.
"Seven."
"That's seven hours away."
"Yeah."
"What do we do until then?"
I set down my spoon and look at her. She's not really asking about how to fill time. She's asking if we're going to spend the next seven hours tangled in my bed or if we're going to try being normal people who exist outside of sex and confessions.
"I need to shower," I say. "Then check in with Tate."
"Okay."
"You could go to your dad's. Spend some time with him. Come back here around six."
She nods but doesn't move. Just stands there holding her soup bowl, looking at me like she's trying to figure something out.
"What?" I ask.
"Just processing. Yesterday morning I thought I'd never speak to you again. Now I'm eating soup in your kitchen wearing your shirt and agreeing to be claimed by a motorcycle club."
"You can change your mind."
"I don't want to."
"Okay."
She finishes her soup and rinses the bowl, sets it in the sink.
When she turns back to me there's something softer in her face, something that looks like relief.
"I should get dressed," she says. "Go see Dad before he starts calling to make sure I'm still alive."
She goes to my bedroom and I hear her moving around, getting her clothes from where they ended up scattered on the floor.
When she comes back she's dressed in yesterday's jeans and her own shirt, hair pulled into a ponytail.
She kisses me before she leaves. Quick, casual, like it's something we've done a thousand times.
The house feels empty after the door closes behind her.
I shower carefully, keeping the gauze dry. The wound looks better than it did this morning but it still needs proper stitches, probably antibiotics.
I'll deal with it tomorrow. Today I have other priorities.
I change the gauze myself, tape it in place, pull on clean jeans and a black T-shirt. My cut goes on last, the weight of it settling across my shoulders like always. Vigil MC embroidered on the back, the patch worn smooth in places from years of wear.
Wearing it used to feel like armor. Now it feels like declaration.
I call Tate.
"You alive?" he asks instead of hello.
"Yeah."
"Clint wants everyone at the clubhouse at seven. We're discussing next moves."
"I'll be there."
"Bringing someone?"
Word travels fast. I shouldn't be surprised.
"Yeah."
"Good. About time."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I spend the next few hours doing maintenance I don't need to do. Clean my guns, check the ammunition count, organize tools in the garage.
Anything to keep my hands busy while my brain runs through everything that could go wrong tonight.
Francis could meet the brothers and decide this life isn't for her. Could see the clubhouse and the women and the reality of what being with me means and walk away. Could realize that loving me at twenty-six in theory is different from loving me at forty-seven in practice.
Or she could stay. Could look at all of it and choose it anyway.
I don't know which scares me more.
At six she knocks on my door. When I open it she's wearing dark jeans and a deep red shirt that hugs her curves, her hair loose around her shoulders.
She looks nervous but determined, jaw set in that way I remember from every difficult conversation we've ever had.
"Ready?" I ask.
"No. But let's go anyway."
I take her in my truck instead of on the bike. The ride is short but I want time to prepare her, to explain what she's walking into without having to shout over wind and engine noise.
She's quiet for the first few miles, looking out the window at fields turning gold in the late afternoon light.
"You're nervous," I say.
"Of course I'm nervous. I'm about to walk into a motorcycle clubhouse and be claimed in front of people I've never met. That's terrifying."
"They're not going to eat you."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that. Clint's solid. The brothers are good men. Their women will take care of you."
She turns to look at me. "What if they don't like me?"
"They'll like you."
"How do you know?"
"Because I like you. That's enough."
She makes a sound that's half laugh, half disbelief. "That's not how it works."
"That's exactly how it works. You're mine. They respect that."
"Knox."
"What?"
"I'm forty years old and fat and I haven't been part of anything like this in my entire life. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I don't fit?"
I reach over and take her hand, lacing our fingers together. Her palm is damp with sweat.
"Sydney will introduce you around," I say. "She's Clint's woman. She knows how overwhelming this is, she'll make it easier."
"What's she like?"
"Smart. Direct. You'll get along."
"That's not helpful."
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. Something that makes me less terrified."
We're on Old Mill Road now, heading east. The clubhouse is only a few miles ahead and I can feel her tension ratcheting up with every mile.
"There's a seven-year-old there," I say. "Clint's daughter. Ava. If a seven-year-old can handle this, you can."
"A seven-year-old doesn't know what any of this means."
"Neither did Sydney when she met Clint. Neither did any of the women. You're not the first person to walk into this scared."
She's quiet for a moment. Then, "Is Sienna there? Crane's daughter?"
"Probably."
"What's that like? Being with her when her father's trying to kill you?"
"Diesel loves her. That's all that matters."
Francis looks down at our joined hands. "This is the life. This is what I'm choosing."
"Yeah."
"People get hurt. People die."
"Yeah."
"And you're asking me to be okay with that."
"I'm not asking you to be okay with it. I'm asking you to accept it. There's a difference."
We turn onto the gravel road and the clubhouse comes into view. Security lights are on even though it's still daylight. Brothers standing on the perimeter, watching.
Francis sees them and her hand tightens on mine.
"Last chance to change your mind," I say.
"I'm not changing my mind."
"You're allowed to be scared."
"I am scared. I'm doing it anyway."
I park the truck and look at her. Her jaw is set, shoulders back, that same determination I remember from seventeen years ago when she told me she was leaving.
"You're going to be fine," I say.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Okay. Let's do this."
We get out. Tate's on the porch, sees us coming, and calls inside. By the time we reach the steps Clint's in the doorway with Sydney beside him.
Clint's face is unreadable. He looks at Francis, then at me, then back to Francis.
"Francis, this is Clint and Sydney," I say. "Clint, Sydney, this is Francis. We're together."
The words feel too simple for what they mean but I don't have better ones.
Sydney steps forward first, hand extended. "It's good to meet you. Knox has been alone too long."
Francis shakes her hand. "He seems to prefer it that way."
"He thought he did," Sydney says. "Come inside. The other women are in the main room."
We follow them in. The clubhouse is loud, full of brothers and their women, the smell of beer and grilled meat from somewhere outside.
I see Tate talking with Cain near the bar.
Holt's got Louis on his shoulders while Katherine laughs at something Natalie said.
Diesel and Sienna are in the corner, his arm around her waist.
Everyone turns when we walk in.
Sydney takes Francis to meet the women while I make my way to Clint.
He watches me approach with that expression that means he's already made an assessment and is waiting to see if I'll confirm it.
"She knows what this life is?" he asks.
"I told her everything."
"And she's here anyway."
"Yeah."
"You love her?"
"Yes."
Clint nods once. "Then bring her up when you're ready. We'll make it official."
He walks away before I can respond, moving to where Chuck's standing by the wall with a laptop open. They talk in low voices, Chuck pointing at something on the screen.