Chapter Two
Rancor
The soil slid between my fingers, dark and moist against my scarred knuckles.
Morning light filtered through the compound’s camo netting, casting dappled shadows across Sarah’s garden.
My garden now. Six years since I’d buried her, and I still thought of these neat rows of herbs and flowers as hers.
The mint had grown wild again, encroaching on the rosemary’s territory. Sarah would have laughed at that.
Just like you. Always trying to take up more space than you’re given.
I reached for the pruning shears. This morning ritual represented a kind of penance I performed to always remember. If it hadn’t been for Knuckles, Oktober, and Ranger, I’m not certain I’d have kept my sanity.
I knelt on the worn rubber mat I’d placed between the rows, careful not to compress the soil.
The burn scar on my right forearm caught the light, puckered flesh a shade paler than the surrounding skin.
A memento from my construction days, from before everything changed.
Before the night they broke into our home.
Before Sarah’s blood on our bedroom floor.
Before I beat a man to death with my bare hands.
The mint surrendered beneath my shears, trimmed back to give the rosemary room to breathe.
I collected the cuttings in a small basket.
The mint would be dried, stored in the glass jars that lined my kitchen window.
Sometimes I imagined I could still smell her on my fingertips after working with the herbs she’d loved.
She said her herbs helped her create meals for her hardworking man.
She said she grew them for me, but I knew better.
She found therapy in her garden. It never mattered what she had going on in her life, Sarah could come to her little garden, kneel in the cool earth, and tend her plants with loving care while peace filled her.
She called it finding her calm. I never understood why digging in the earth and helping plants to grow filled her with so much satisfaction.
Fucking shame it took her dying for me to figure it out.
“Dirt therapy again?”
I didn’t startle at Knight’s voice. I’d heard his footsteps approaching, the particular rhythm of his gait distinctive among the brothers. I didn’t look up, continuing to trim with the same measured pace.
“Not dirt.” I paused, scissors hovering over a particularly unruly stem. “Soil.”
Knight chuckled, the sound gentle despite his intimidating appearance.
His tattooed face and colored eyes made strangers cross the street to avoid him, but the brothers knew better.
Beneath the ink and modifications was a man who’d hack government databases without hesitation but couldn’t stomach killing a spider in the clubhouse.
“Soil therapy, then,” Knight conceded, shifting his weight. “Sorry to interrupt your” -- he waved his hand vaguely at the ground – “soil time, but we got a delivery at the gate.”
My hands stilled. Something shifted in my chest, a subtle change in rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. “The woman from last week?”
“Yep, Cora. The one with the blue eyes that had you looking like you’d seen a ghost.” Knight paused, immediately regretting the word choice. “Jesus. Sorry, man.”
I set the shears down with deliberate care, wiping my hands on the towel tucked into my belt. “Hannah handling it?”
“She’s with the kids at the shelter today. Knuckles took her.” Knight watched me stand. “I can take care of it if you’re busy.”
“No.” The word came out more forcefully than I intended. I moderated my tone. “I’ll get everything inside and put it away.”
Knight’s mouth twitched, a knowing look crossing his features. “Thought you might say that. She’s waiting at the gate.” He stepped back as I moved past him, giving me space. Knight always seemed to understand the need for physical distance, for the bubble of emptiness I maintained around myself.
“I’ll be right there.” I glanced in the direction of the front gate. I hadn’t meant to give away more interest than Knight already knew I had for the girl, but I’d never had much of a poker face.
I walked to the hose coiled neatly against the wall of the warehouse, where I lived in an apartment on the first floor in order to be close to the garden.
Turned on the spigot, washing the dirt from beneath my fingernails, from the creases of my palms. The water sluiced over the burn scar, momentarily cooling a phantom itch that sometimes plagued the damaged nerve endings.
Knight pulled out his phone, sending a text to whoever was manning the gate, most likely. I moved toward my bike, parked in its designated spot beside my door. The machine gleamed in the filtered sunlight, meticulously maintained like everything in my life.
I started the machine and the motor rumbled to life beneath me.
I guided the motorcycle through the compound, past the inner ring of warehouses, toward the gate.
The wind rushed against my face, cooling skin that felt unexpectedly warm.
I hadn’t felt this particular sensation in a long time, this anticipation.
I’d watched Cora drive away last time, the envelope of cash clutched in her hand, and found myself hoping she’d return.
Not just for the convenience of having someone willing to deliver to our compound, though that was rare enough.
But because something about her had pierced the carefully constructed numbness I’d maintained since Sarah died.
The gates appeared ahead, the metal barrier standing open. Beyond it, I could see her car. And beside it, Cora herself, one hip leaned against the driver’s door, her posture attempting casual confidence but betraying tension in the set of her shoulders.
I slowed the bike, approaching with deliberate care, not wanting to startle her with the engine’s roar.
She straightened as I drew near, those striking blue eyes meeting mine for a brief moment before sliding away.
The ghost of a smile touched her lips like an instinctive reaction quickly suppressed.
A feeling I thought long dead bloomed in my chest, an emotion I hadn’t allowed myself to feel since Sarah’s murder. If I embraced the emotions and let things progress naturally, I feared the danger I’d be putting my heart through.
I stopped my bike and killed the engine.
I parked a building away to keep the noise to a minimum.
The women thought we kept quiet so we didn’t scare newcomers or people around us who might not like noise or were afraid of bikers in general, but the truth was, we knew the less attention on us the better.
I found myself uncertain of what to say next, because as I approached and Cora straightened, her gaze focused squarely on me, something inside my chest snapped like an overstretched rubber band.
I knew beyond anything reasonable and sane, the woman standing in front of me would be mine.
She stood straighter this time, looking less timid.
The morning sun caught in her auburn hair, highlighting copper strands I hadn’t noticed before.
Her gaze met mine for a heartbeat longer than last week before darting away.
The blue of her eyes reminded me of a clear winter sky.
Today she wore jeans and a light blue T-shirt that seemed to match the color of her eyes perfectly.
Christ, could the woman be any lovelier?
“Hey,” she said with a small wave of her fingers.
I nodded, acknowledging her greeting without words. Silence had become my refuge in prison, a weapon and a shield. Six years inside had taught me the power of stillness, of making others fill the void with nervous chatter. But with Cora, I found myself wanting to speak.
She shifted her weight, one hand resting on her car door. The other played with her keys, a restless movement that betrayed the composure she tried to project.
“Hannah’s not here today?” she asked, though her gaze didn’t break from mine.
“She’s at Haven.” I was aware my voice was rough. I cleared my throat and tried again. “She helps at the women’s shelter on Tuesdays.”
Surprise flickered across Cora’s features, quickly masked. “It’s… really kind of her.” A pause, her gaze dropping to the ground between us. “Of all you guys. To help there. I’ve heard a couple of the women you’ve helped talk about how they’d never felt safer than when they stayed at Haven.”
I nodded solemnly. “We don’t like bullies here. Especially when they hurt women and children.”
She held my gaze for long moments before nodding. “You know, I think maybe I believe you.”
The space between us seemed charged, electric with a feeling I couldn’t really name and wasn’t sure I really wanted to try.
I cleared my throat, tried to remember how normal people conducted conversations.
Sarah had been the talker in our relationship.
I’d been content to listen to her voice fill our home.
“Follow me.” I gestured toward the compound interior. “To the kitchen. Around back.”
Relief softened her expression. Instructions. A clear path forward. Something concrete to focus on rather than this strange, unexpected tension humming between us.
“Sure.” She nodded, already moving around to the driver’s side of her vehicle. “Lead the way.”
I mounted my bike again, hyperaware of her watching me, of the engine’s rumble breaking the silence between us. Through the side mirror, I saw her slide into her sedan, both hands gripping the wheel. I pulled away slowly, conscious of her following at a careful distance.
I led her to the back of the main clubhouse where the kitchen entrance was, and led straight to a long counter I could set everything on before putting them away. I parked near the entrance and killed the engine, watching as she pulled in beside me.
When she emerged from her car, she moved with more confidence than before, popping the trunk and starting to unload.