Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Kendall
My boots hit the asphalt with a satisfying thud as I slide off the motorcycle.
My legs wobble slightly, not from the journey, but under the weight of finding myself here.
The diner's lingering scent of stale coffee and old grease offers a strange sense of comfort after the madness of the past few days.
As Booker reaches for my helmet, his fingers gently brush against my cheek, catching my breath in my throat. He flashes a subtle, crooked smile and turns toward the building. I follow him inside as the bell above the glass door rings with a welcoming chime.
Morning light streams through the glass, illuminating dust specks as they drift lazily in the quiet air.
Apart from the soft hum coming from the refrigerator, the restaurant is completely empty.
From behind the counter, a tired-eyed waitress looks up, instantly recognizing Booker without asking a single question.
“Corner booth in the back is free,” she calls out, nodding toward a red vinyl booth that reminds me of one I’d seen in an older movie.
Trailing my hand along the table edges, I make my way back and slide onto the seat, feeling the cool vinyl against my legs.
Booker takes his place across from me where his back is to the wall and he can see the entire room from his vantage point, his large frame occupying the small space.
He remains silent at first, simply holding my stare with a focus that sets my heart racing.
The waitress shuffles over, her apron bearing the faint stains of a long morning. She pulls a notepad from her pocket, the tip of her pen clicking once as she prepares to write.
“Morning,” she says, her tone worn but polite. “What can I get started for you two?”
Booker keeps his eyes on mine, not even bothering to glance at the menu. “Black coffee for me,” he replies, his voice gravelly. “And whatever pie you have that’s fresh.”
I glance at the menu for appearance, though the choice is easy. “I'll take a coffee too, with just a splash of cream and two sugars. And we will take two slices of the apple pie.” When I define what pie we want, Booker’s lips tilt upward in amusement.
The woman nods, writing it down with quick, practiced strokes. “Coming right up.” She turns on her heel and retreats toward the kitchen, leaving us in our small, quiet corner.
Booker leans forward, crossing his arms on the table. The movement pulls at his shirt, showing the ink creeping up from his collar. “See?” he says, his mouth quirking into that crooked smile. “Easy.”
The waitress returns moments later. She maneuvers through the narrow space between the tables, balancing two steaming ceramic mugs and a pair of plates stacked with pie.
The sweet aroma of baked apples and cinnamon instantly cuts through the dull scent of stale diner coffee.
She sets the plates down with a soft clatter, places the mugs carefully on the placemats, and disappears back toward the kitchen without another word.
I stare at the slice of pie, watching a thin ribbon of steam rise from the crust. It feels surreal to be sitting here, in the middle of a quiet morning, with a man who has turned my entire world upside down in the best way possible.
Booker takes a slow sip of his black coffee, his eyes never leaving my face. The intense heat of his gaze makes it hard to focus on the food, so I take a forkful of the pie. It is tart, warm, and comforting.
“This is good,” I murmur, hoping to break the thick, charged atmosphere. “I haven't had homemade pie in years.”
Booker nods, breaking his focus just long enough to taste his own slice. “I figured you needed something real. Not the processed garbage we usually live on at the clubhouse.”
He settles back into his chair, looking relaxed in a way I have never seen a man like him look. An idea flickers through my mind. We are dancing around each other, afraid to say too much, afraid to ruin the fragile peace we’ve built.
“How about a game?” I suggest, tracing the rim of my coffee mug. “Twenty questions. No heavy stuff, no Syndicate, no Jerome. Just… us.”
He leans in, his interest piqued. “A game? You trying to figure out if I’m as dangerous as I look?”
I laugh, a genuine sound that makes his eyes darken with amusement. “I already know how dangerous you are, Booker. I want to know who you are when you aren't carrying a weapon.”
He raises his mug in a silent toast. “Fair enough. You go first.”
“Okay. Question one,” I say, tapping my fingers on the table. “What did you want to be when you were a kid? Before the life, before the club.”
He pauses, gazing out the window at the empty road as if he can see a past version of himself there.
“I wanted to be an architect. I loved the idea of building things that lasted. Structures, houses, bridges. Something solid in a world that felt pretty temporary.” He looks back at me, a wry expression on his face.
“My turn. What is your biggest fear? And I don't mean the obvious stuff like Jerome or the syndicate.”
I chew on my bottom lip, weighing the question. It’s an honest one. “I fear losing the ability to choose. To be stuck in a life that doesn't fit, controlled by people who don't see me as a person. I want to be the one steering my ship, even if the waters are rough.”
He nods slowly, acknowledging the weight of the answer. “I get that. I really do.”
“Question two,” I continue, shifting in my seat to get comfortable. “What is your favorite memory that has nothing to do with the club?”
He laughs, a short, throaty sound. “Fishing.
When I was ten, my uncle took me to a lake up north.
We sat on a dock for six hours and caught absolutely nothing.
But we talked. He didn't treat me like a kid, he treated me like a man. It was the first time I felt like my opinion actually mattered.” He leans forward, his voice dropping an octave.
“Your turn. What is one thing you are dying to do but never thought you would get the chance?”
“I want to teach Kolter to paint,” I confess, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.
“He has this artistic streak, but we never had the supplies or the time since Jerome kept us apart for him to hone his skills. But when I could sneak a peek, I’d watch him over the monitors and watch as he’d draw on the walls using whatever he had on hand to sketch with.
I want to buy a canvas, some brushes, and just let him make a mess.
I want to watch him create something beautiful just for the sake of it. ”
“We can make that happen,” he promises, his voice firm and steady. “As soon as things are settled, we’ll find the best art supply shop in the state.”
I feel a warmth spread through my chest that has nothing to do with the hot coffee. “I’d like that.”
We keep going. He reveals that he is secretly a fan of old jazz records because they calm his racing mind.
I confess that I used to write poetry in the margins of my old schoolbooks.
He tells me about the first bike he ever rebuilt, and I describe the sensation of wind on my face the first time I truly felt free.
It just so happens that was with him on the back of his mean machine.
With every question, the stranger before me becomes someone I recognize. The intensity he projects is still there, but now I see the humor underneath it, the thoughtful nature he hides behind a wall of tattoos and leather.
“You're a lot more thoughtful than people give you credit for,” I observe, finishing the last bite of my pie.
“And you're a lot more resilient than you know,” he counters, reaching across the table to cover my hand with his. His palm is rough, calloused, and grounding. “I’m not just saying that because I’m trying to win you over.
I mean it. I’ve watched you fight, Kendall.
I’ve watched you survive. That takes a kind of strength most people don't have.”
I look down at our joined hands. The silence returns, but it is not the suffocating silence of the clubhouse or the dread-filled quiet of Jerome's prison. This silence is easy. It is comfortable. It is the sound of two people finally finding a common ground.
“What’s question fifteen?” he asks, his eyes on mine.
“I think I’m all out of questions,” I admit, feeling a sudden shyness. “I feel like I know enough to know that I want to keep talking to you.”
He smiles, a slow, genuine expression that reaches his eyes and makes my heart flip. “Good. Because I have a lot more questions for you.”
He gestures for the waitress, tossing a bill onto the table. He stands up, and I do the same, sliding out of the booth. The air outside hits us with a gentle breeze, a contrast to the diner, but as he takes my hand, I don't feel the need to look over my shoulder.
“Ready to go back?” he asks.
I look at the bike waiting in the parking lot, then back at him. “Yeah. I think I am.”
He leads me toward the bike, and as I slide onto the back, I realize my life is finally shifting. I'm not running away from something anymore. I'm riding toward a future I choose. It feels like exactly where I belong.
The ride back feels different. The road seems to shorten under the tires, and the bike hums beneath us with a rhythmic pulse.
Booker keeps his speed moderate, and as we take the curves, I find myself leaning into him, trusting the smooth arc of the bike.
I’m not clinging to him for dear life anymore.
My hold is soft, relaxed, and sure. When we finally pull into the gravel drive of the clubhouse, I notice how the afternoon light is golden, bathing everything in a warm, inviting glow.
Booker kills the engine, and the hum dies away, leaving the compound in a peaceful silence. I unhook my helmet, shaking out my hair. I look at the familiar structure of the clubhouse, and a smile breaks free across my face.
We walk across the crunching gravel toward Slayer’s porch, Kolter sitting at his feet, inspecting a small motor part. The sight makes my chest ache in a way that feels surprisingly good. It’s a quiet, domestic scene, miles away from the chaos we left behind in the dark.
“Looks like you two had a productive day,” Booker exclaims as we get closer.
Slayer looks up with a slow grin and stands. Kolter jumps up, his eyes lighting up the moment he spots me. He doesn't bolt toward us this time. Instead, he walks with a new sense of confidence, his posture straighter than it was this morning.
“We did,” Slayer replies. “The kid has a natural mechanical aptitude. He figured out the carburetor linkage on my old bike in ten minutes flat.”
I step forward, a smile hitting my face. “Did you have a good day, Kolter?” I ask, reaching out to ruffle his hair.
He beams up at me, looking healthy and energized. “It was awesome. Slayer showed me how to use a wrench and Jersey made us lunch.”
I look between Kolter, Slayer, and Booker. I feel the warmth of Booker’s arm around my waist as he pulls me into his side. It feels good. It feels solid. I know the next chapter of our lives is starting right here.