Chapter Six #2
“Marines,” I explained. “Made some bad choices, trusted the wrong people. Military justice isn’t known for second chances. I was only eighteen when I joined, got kicked out in less than a year.”
She returned to the shelf, photo still in hand, then moved toward the couch with the picture instead of replacing it. An invitation. I hesitated only a moment before joining her, maintaining enough distance to respect boundaries while close enough for real conversation.
“What happened after?” she asked, handing me the photograph.
I studied my younger face, recalling the rage driving me then. The humiliation. The bone-deep certainty life would never right itself.
“Drifted. Drank. Obviously not legally, not at first anyway. Fought anyone who looked at me wrong.” I traced the edge of the photo with my thumb. “Then one night picked the wrong fight with the wrong man in the wrong bar.”
The sunlight had shifted across the floorboards as we talked.
“Brick -- one of the original Kings founders,” I continued. “Could have killed me for the disrespect. Instead, he saw something worth salvaging.” The memory brought a rueful shake of my head. “Gave me a choice -- jail or prospect for the Kings. Wasn’t much of a choice.”
Callie had drawn closer as I spoke, the distance between us on the couch narrowing without either of us acknowledging it. “How old were you?”
“Twenty-three, days away from turning twenty-four.” Young enough to be stupid, old enough to know better. “Prospects were hell, but it was structure. Purpose. Something I hadn’t had since the Marines.”
“And you stayed,” she observed. Not a question.
“Earned my patch three years later.” Pride colored my voice despite the years between. “Been Samson ever since. Lyle Harker’s just a name on old paperwork.”
Callie’s gaze held mine, understanding shining in her eyes beyond simple sympathy. “Reinvention,” she said softly. “Starting over where no one knows your past mistakes.”
The insight startled me -- simple words cutting straight to truths I rarely acknowledged. “Something like that.”
She curled her legs beneath her on the couch, settling deeper into the worn leather, another small sign of growing comfort in my space. “I wanted that,” she admitted. “Before… before he started watching me. Just to go somewhere new. Be someone different.”
“And now?”
Her gaze drifted to the window, to the world beyond our temporary sanctuary. “Now I’d settle for being myself without looking over my shoulder.”
I wanted to promise her something better, but false comfort wasn’t my style. Instead, I let silence stretch between us, comfortable rather than strained. The clock on the mantel ticked away seconds, the only sound beyond our breathing.
“Never thought I’d claim anyone,” I said finally, voice low and earnest. “Didn’t think I had the right.”
Her gaze returned to me, questioning.
“Kings can claim women -- partners, old ladies. Something most brothers do when they’ve found someone they want to build a life with.” I set the photograph on the coffee table, facing down. “I watched brothers claim women, start families. I never saw myself in the picture.”
“Why not?” she asked.
I weighed the question, searching for an honest answer without giving away too much. “Too much baggage. Too many years alone.” The real reason stayed buried -- something in me had fractured long before the Kings found me, something I’d never trusted anyone else to touch.
Callie nodded, accepting the answer without pressing. No demands for more. No hollow reassurances. Just quiet understanding, easing the tightness in my chest.
“Would you like coffee?” I asked, needing movement suddenly.
“Yes, please.”
I rose, moving to the kitchen with practiced familiarity.
The routine of measuring grounds, filling the reservoir, hearing the first gurgle of brewing helped settle my thoughts.
When I returned with two steaming mugs, Callie accepted hers without hesitation, fingers brushing mine intentionally rather than accidentally.
“Thank you.” I knew she meant for more than the coffee.
I settled beside her again, closer than before.
The light deepened to amber, painting the cabin in warm tones, softening edges and blurring boundaries.
Beyond the windows, the compound continued its daily rhythms -- distant sounds of motorcycles, occasional voices carrying on the air.
Within these walls, something new took shape between us, fragile but growing stronger.
“Your turn.” I nodded toward her mug. “Your story.”
She smiled, small but genuine, the first real smile I’d seen from her. “You already know the worst parts.”
“Tell me the before,” I suggested. “Who you were before he saw you.”
She considered this, fingers wrapped around her mug, drawing warmth and perhaps courage from the familiar gesture. Then she began to speak, voice growing stronger with each word, rebuilding herself in the telling.
* * *
Evening settled over the compound, drawing shadows long against the cabin walls.
I built a fire in the river stone hearth, muscle memory guiding my hands in the familiar ritual -- kindling laid just so, larger pieces arranged to catch flame without smothering it.
Behind me, Callie moved quietly in the kitchen, the domestic sounds of plates and utensils creating a rhythm I’d never expected in my solitary home.
The fire caught, flames licking upward, transforming the cabin into a space of warmth and shifting light, softening the hard edges of our reality.
“You’re good at that,” Callie observed, pausing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, a dish towel in her hands.
I sat back on my heels, watching the flames strengthen. “Spent enough winters here to learn.”
She stepped closer, drawn to the warmth.
The firelight played across her features, catching gold in her hair, softening the sharp angles of cheekbones still too prominent from days without proper food.
In the dancing light, the bruises at her temple seemed less stark, healing rather than fresh -- a visual reminder of her resilience.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she said. “Hope it’s okay I used what was in your fridge.”
“My cabin is yours,” I replied.
Something flickered in her eyes -- recognition of the deeper meaning neither of us was ready to name. She nodded once before returning to the kitchen, leaving me to tend the fire and wonder at how quickly the unfamiliar could begin to feel like home.
The simple meal she’d prepared -- pasta with jarred sauce, garlic bread from a loaf Lyssa dropped off earlier -- filled the cabin with comforting scents, changing the feel of the space.
We sat at the worn wooden table, shadows sliding across the walls as the fire shifted in the hearth.
Conversation came easier now, flowing between us like we’d shared a hundred meals.
“I never understood why they call you Samson.” Callie twirled pasta around her fork. “Your hair isn’t even long.”
The unexpected observation startled a laugh from me.
“Not about the hair,” I explained. “First run I went on as a Prospect, we got jumped by some Outlaws at a gas station outside Memphis. I pulled a support beam down to block them from following us.” The memory remained sharp despite the years.
“Brick said I was strong as Samson bringing down the temple. Name stuck.”
Her smile reached her eyes this time, transforming her face in the firelight. “Better than some of the road names I’ve heard.”
“Truth,” I agreed, returning her smile with one of my own. Strange how natural it felt, this simple exchange, a moment of lightness amid everything pressing in on us.
As we ate, I found myself sharing stories I rarely told -- runs gone sideways, brothers who’d come and gone, the strange family the Kings had become for me.
Callie listened with genuine interest, asking questions, proving she truly heard me instead of just waiting for her turn to speak.
Between us, something built slowly, a bridge forming one plank at a time.
When dinner ended, we moved by unspoken agreement to the couch facing the fire. Evening chill crept through the cabin’s insulation, and Callie shivered despite the warmth from the hearth. Without thinking, I reached for the flannel shirt draped over the armchair beside me.
“Here,” I offered, holding it out.
Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, the brief contact sending awareness through me like a current.
She slipped it on over my T-shirt she still wore, the sleeves falling past her wrists, the hem reaching mid-thigh.
Something possessive stirred in my chest at the sight of her wrapped in my clothes, wearing my protection in layers against her skin.
“Better?” I asked, voice rougher than intended.
She nodded, pulling the collar closer around her neck, inhaling subtly. “Smells like you,” she observed quietly.
The simple statement hung between us. Her gaze met mine across the small distance on the couch, firelight reflecting in eyes shaped by pain yet still capable of warmth.
Slowly, giving me time to pull away, she reached toward me. Her fingers hovered near my collarbone, close to the worn neckline of my T-shirt where the upper edge of an old scar showed -- a jagged line vanishing beneath the fabric.
“Is this part of your story too?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, holding perfectly still as her fingertips finally made contact with my skin. “Bar fight in Knoxville, second year with the Kings. Broken bottle.”
Her touch traced the visible portion of the scar with gentle curiosity. “You have others,” she observed. Not a question.
“We all carry marks,” I replied. “Some visible. Some not.”
Her eyes met mine, and we understood each other without a word. She knew what invisible scars could do -- how they shape you, control your reactions, decide how close you let anyone get.