Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Jersey
While Slayer was tied up with his brothers at the clubhouse, I went to work in my cramped trailer kitchen, pulling together breakfast for Boston and Carolina.
It isn’t anything fancy, seeing as I’m no five-star chef since nobody ever sat me down to teach me the ropes of a home-cooked meal.
My sperm donor and incubator were always too busy chasing their own vices to care if I had a hot plate in front of me, leaving me to survive on bowls of cereal and cold pop tarts.
Despite that lack of a foundation, I manage to scramble some eggs and fry up a mess of bacon and toast. The sizzle filled the small space—a domestic sound that felt strangely grounding amidst the heavy tension of the compound.
I plate the food with care, mindful of the routine they crave, and watch as they sit together in a synchronized dance of comfort.
They might not process the world at the same speed as the men at the clubhouse, but the love between them is undeniably pure, innocent, and something I’m determined to shield as they navigate their impending parenthood.
“What are we doing today?” Boston asks, his tone buzzing with excitement.
I can tell he’s ready to face the day and find his footing in this new life.
He shifts in the vinyl chair, his fork hovering over the last strip of bacon.
There’s a spark in his eyes I haven’t seen in the thirteen hours since we met—a hunger for more than just a meal.
He’s looking at me with a level of trust that makes my chest ache, waiting for me to provide the roadmap for this brand-new world he’s been dropped into.
I set my coffee mug on the counter, leaning back against the sink as I take him in.
Beside him, Carolina is meticulously folding her napkin, her fingers moving with the same rhythmic precision I noticed at the diner.
They’re both so fragile, yet there’s a resilience in the way they lean into each other.
“Well,” I begin, my voice softening to match the tone they need so they don’t feel overwhelmed.
“First, we’re going to get you two settled.
We’ll unpack those crates the guys brought in last night and find a place for everything.
Then, I thought we’d take a walk around the compound, just the three of us, so you can see where everything is and get familiar with your surroundings. ”
Boston nods vigorously, his grin widening. “We’re good helpers, Jersey. We can unpack fast!”
Carolina looks up, her hands finally stilling on the folded paper. “Will we see the Bubba?” she asks, her voice small but hopeful.
The question feels like a lead weight in my stomach.
I know Slayer has a reckoning waiting for him at the clubhouse—a correction Riptide was very clear about keeping hidden from these two when he glanced at me yesterday.
I can’t tell them the truth, but I won’t lie to them either.
The club’s brand of justice is a brutal reality that has no place in the quiet sanctuary I’m trying to build.
“Slayer has some club business to handle this morning,” I explain, keeping my tone light and floaty, forcing a reassuring smile, I continue, “but he’ll be around later. For now, you’ve got me.”
“That’s okay,” she whispers, leaning her shoulder into Boston’s as a shy grin tugs at her lips. “We like you too.”
Her simple acceptance makes the lump in my throat grow twice its size.
These two possess a purity that’s startling in a place like this.
I watch as Boston reaches out to pat her hand, his expression serious and protective.
They don’t need the details of the war with the Dragons or the internal politics of the MC, they just need to know they aren’t alone.
As I clear the plates, I make a silent vow that as long as they’re under my roof, they’ll feel nothing but happiness.
I make quick work of the dishes, the clink of silverware against ceramic sounding like thunder in the quiet morning while the scent of lavender soap lingers.
After I wipe down the counters until they gleam under the fluorescent lights, I refresh my coffee, savoring the bitter warmth to steady my nerves.
With a deep breath, I gesture for Boston and Carolina to follow me down the narrow hallway to the second bedroom.
There, their things are stacked in a neat formation, a collection of suitcases and cardboard boxes representing their shared history.
It’s a modest pile, but to them, it’s a lifeline, and I promise myself to help them turn these pieces into a real home.
They stand behind me in the cramped hallway, shoulders slightly hunched and eyes wide, looking intimidated by the sudden permanence.
To them, this trailer isn’t just a building; it’s vast, unknown territory that doesn’t yet hold the scent of their old lives.
I offer a soft, encouraging smile, trying to be the pillar I promised Slayer I’d be.
“Why don’t we start by hanging up your jeans and shirts, then putting your socks and other things into the dresser? ”
Boston nods, his movements stiff as he reaches for a box taped shut with heavy industrial tape, handling it like the contents are glass.
Beside him, Carolina tentatively touches the smooth wood of the dresser, tracing the grain as if memorizing her new reality.
I watch them, a lump forming in my throat at the vulnerability and acceptance in their eyes.
They’re so eager to please, so desperate for a routine to cling to after being displaced from everything they knew.
“I can do the hangers!” Boston announces, his voice regaining its natural exuberance now that he has a task he understands.
He begins pulling out stacks of neatly folded denim, his expression focused.
Carolina joins him, her movements becoming fluid as they work in their choreography of comfort, transforming the sterile guest room into a space that finally begins to breathe.
As I help guide them, I realize Slayer was right—they have a resilience that humbles me, a purity from being sheltered for most of their lives.
Once they’ve found their rhythm, I split the dresser in half, giving Boston the left side and Carolina the right.
Working together, we make a massive dent in the stack lining my hallway.
It’s a patterned, grounding process that seems to soothe the lingering anxiety in their gazes.
Boston takes great pride in aligning his shirts, each one spaced exactly an inch apart, while Carolina hums a low, sweet melody as she tucks away her leggings.
These small acts of organization are more than chores; they’re the foundation of their new world.
As the last suitcase is emptied, the room no longer feels sterile.
It smells of Carolina’s baby powder soap and the fresh laundry scent on Boston’s hoodies.
The vulnerability from an hour ago has softened into cautious curiosity.
I lean against the doorframe, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
This is just the beginning of their journey toward parenthood, and while the compound is a far cry from a traditional nursery, the love they share is stronger than any storm brewing at the clubhouse.
I visually peruse the room and notice another box tucked in the corner. “What’s in there?” I ask, pointing it out.
“It’s her scrapbooks!” Boston hollers, his volume loud and piercing.
Carolina’s face lights up at the mention of them, her hands fluttering in pure excitement.
I cross the small space and pull the box toward the center, the cardboard scraping softly.
As I lift the flaps, the scent of old paper and dried glue wafts up and settles into my nasal cavity.
Inside, several thick, colorful albums are stacked, their covers worn from years of gentle handling.
“She makes them all by herself,” Boston adds, his voice dropping as he settles onto the floor beside her.
“She puts in pictures, and tickets, and even pretty leaves we find. It’s like a story of everything we do.
” He looks at her with such pride it makes my heart pinch, his large hand reaching out to steady an album as she reaches for it.
Carolina pulls the top book into her lap, her fingers tracing the glittery letters. “This is for the baby,” she whispers, looking up at me with wide, earnest eyes. “I want the baby to have a story too. So they know they are loved, even before they get here.”
I swallow past the tears, watching as she opens the first page to reveal an ultrasound photo surrounded by hand-drawn hearts and star stickers.
In a world of leather and violence, this tiny, quiet corner of my trailer has become a place of hope.
I realize I’m not just teaching them how to be parents, I’m learning from them how to find beauty in the middle of anarchy.
Bending down to their level, I admit, “I have a secret.”
“What?” Carolina asks, leaning toward me, eyes alight with fervor.
“You have to keep it between us,” I say, winking at her.
“I won’t tell!” she avows.
“Me either,” Boston swears, crossing his heart and zipping his lips.
“I’m a scrapbooker too,” I tell them, my voice rising with exuberance.
The sheer delight that floods their expressions is the most rewarding thing I’ve felt since arriving here.
Carolina’s hands begin to flutter, not from nerves, but with unadulterated joy.
For a moment, the heavy shadows of our daily lives vanish, replaced by the simple, creative bond of three people who just want to preserve their stories.
“You have books?” Carolina asks, breathless with wonder. “Do they have glitter too?”
“They have glitter, stickers, and lots of colorful ribbons,” I promise, realizing I finally have a use for the craft supplies I’ve kept tucked away. I look at Boston, who is watching us with a protective yet soft smile. Slayer was right about his brother—he loves with a depth that is staggering.
“We can do it together,” I suggest, the idea taking root. “We’ll set up a big table, and every Sunday, we’ll work on our books. We can document everything... the walks we take, the new snacks we try, and every milestone for the baby.”
“Sunday is a good day,” Boston agrees, nodding his head with a serious expression. “It’s a quiet day.”
In this small, sunlit room, I feel the walls around my own heart start to give way.
The realization of our reality hits me like a sledgehammer—I’m not just their teacher or their guardian, I’m their friend.
As we sit there on the floor, surrounded by the remnants of their old life and the promise of their new one, I know that no matter what turmoil reigns outside these gates, we’re going to be just fine.