Chapter Thirteen
Callie
The morning dew caught sunlight as I snipped basil leaves from the small clay pots lining our porch railing, transforming ordinary herbs into something precious.
Three months at the compound, and I’d created this tiny garden.
It wouldn’t be long before the weather cooled, but for now, everything was growing well.
I inhaled, breathing in the scent of rosemary and thyme mingling with motor oil and leather that drifted from the garage area.
My safe place. My choice. My home now. I breathed deeply, filling my lungs with the contradictions that had somehow become perfectly natural: delicate herbs and rumbling motorcycles, my soft sundress and the hard men who nodded respectfully as they passed our cabin on morning patrols.
I set my scissors down and brushed soil from my fingers, the silver bracelet at my wrist catching the light. It sat looser now. Beneath it, the scars had faded to thin white lines, visible only if you knew to look for them. Like so much of my past, they were still there but no longer defined me.
Sometimes it felt like yesterday I’d been in the courtroom.
Davis had lost his badge and his power. But since that day, I’d been able to walk without fear.
I ran my thumb along the bracelet’s twisted silver strands, remembering Samson’s words when he’d clasped it around my wrist: Not because you’re mine, but because we chose each other. Equal ground. Equal choice.
Across the compound, Prospects washed motorcycles outside the garage while patched members gathered near the clubhouse, coffee mugs in hand as they discussed the day’s business.
I recognized each face now, knew their road names and habits -- which ones took their coffee black, which ones would nod politely, which ones would grin and tease me about “taming the beast” as they called Samson behind his back.
They’d become my strange, leather-clad extended family, protective and loyal in ways I’d never experienced before.
“Those herbs are getting more attention than some of the Prospects.”
I turned to find Lyssa approaching, two steaming mugs in her hands and a smile on her face. Beast’s old lady carried herself with an easy confidence I still sometimes envied -- the surety of a woman who knew exactly where she belonged and never questioned her worth.
“That’s because the herbs don’t talk back,” I replied, accepting the coffee she offered and inhaling the rich aroma. “Though they might grow better if they had Viking yelling at them to stand straighter. I was sorry to see him leave.”
Lyssa laughed, the sound bright in the morning quiet. “Mind if I join you?” She gestured to the porch swing Samson had hung last month, after finding me sitting on the railing one too many times.
“Please.” I settled beside her, the swing creaking gently as we found our rhythm. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Least I could do after you saved my ass with those insurance forms yesterday.” She bumped my shoulder lightly with hers, the casual touch no longer startling me as it once would have. “Beast said he’s never seen the garage paperwork so organized. You’re a miracle worker with numbers.”
I shrugged but couldn’t hide my smile. The small office in the clubhouse had become my domain, the ledgers and receipts slowly yielding to order under my hands. It wasn’t just busywork or charity -- I was good at it, better than most of the brothers who viewed paperwork as a necessary evil at best.
“It’s nothing special. Just applied what I learned in college.” I sipped my coffee, letting the warmth spread through my chest. “Though I’m still trying to convince Beast and the other officers that spreadsheets work better when they’re actually organized in rows and columns.”
“Good luck with that.” Lyssa snorted.
We settled into comfortable silence for a moment, watching as two brothers emerged from the clubhouse, heading toward their bikes with purpose in their stride. The morning sun caught on leather and chrome, painting the compound in shades of gold and black.
“So.” Lyssa turned toward me. “The gathering next weekend. I could use your help with planning.”
I raised an eyebrow. “My help? You’ve been organizing club events since before I knew the Reckless Kings existed.”
“True.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“But I’ve never had someone who could actually balance a budget while I handle the chaos.
Plus…” She hesitated, glancing at me with unusual uncertainty.
“The women respect you. They’ve seen how you handle yourself, how you work with the club without losing yourself. ”
The compliment caught me off guard, warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with the coffee. I’d worked hard to find my place here -- to contribute without surrendering my independence, to respect traditions without being consumed by them.
“I’d be happy to help,” I said, meaning it. “Just tell me what you need.”
Lyssa’s expression brightened. “Great. I thought we could meet tomorrow, go over supplies and numbers. It’s the first big gathering since…” She trailed off, but I knew what she meant. Since Davis. Since the courthouse. Since I’d officially become part of the Kings’ extended family.
“Since I arrived,” I finished for her. “It’s okay to say it. I’m not fragile, Lyssa.”
She studied me for a moment, then nodded. “No, you’re not. Never really were, I think. Just needed time to remember it.”
The truth of her words settled into me, quiet affirmation of something I’d been slowly relearning.
I hadn’t been broken by what happened -- bent, perhaps, scarred certainly, but never truly broken.
Every morning I spent on this porch, every day I worked in the office, every night I slept peacefully beside Samson proved it.
“We’ll make it the best gathering the Kings have seen,” I promised, already mentally calculating supplies and costs. “I bet we can even convince Beast to approve the band you want.”
Lyssa’s eyes widened. “How the hell do you plan to manage that? He’ll say they’re too expensive.”
I smiled innocently. “Turns out their manager owes the club a favor. And I plan to point out that the garage profits are up twenty percent since we reorganized the parts inventory.”
“Damn, woman.” Lyssa laughed, shaking her head. “Remind me to have you negotiate my anniversary present.”
The cabin door opened behind us, and I turned to find Samson filling the doorway, his hair still damp from the shower.
He wore only jeans and a faded T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, but the sight of him still caught my breath -- this man who had found me broken on a dark road and never once made me feel less for it.
“Morning, ladies.” His deep voice carried easily across the porch. His gaze found mine immediately, warmth kindling in their depths as he took in the scene -- me on the swing, coffee in hand, comfortable in the home we’d built together.
Lyssa rose smoothly, the swing rocking gently with her departure. “And that’s my cue. I’ll see you tomorrow about the gathering, Callie. Thanks for the gardening tips.”
I hadn’t given her any gardening tips, and we both knew it. But Samson just nodded as she passed him, his attention already fixed on me. The look in his eyes was the same one I’d seen that morning, when I’d finally said the words out loud: I love you.
“Was I interrupting something?” he asked, crossing to take Lyssa’s abandoned spot beside me.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” I replied, leaning into his solid warmth as his arm draped naturally across my shoulders. The herbs could wait. The planning could wait. For now, this was enough -- the morning sun, the scent of coffee and clean soap, and the man who had shown me what safety really meant.
* * *
I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear as I sorted through the stack of gas receipts, organizing them by date and location before entering the numbers into the spreadsheet I’d created.
The clubhouse office -- my office now, in all but name -- had transformed from a paper-strewn disaster into an organized space where I could actually find things.
Sunlight streamed through the window I’d insisted on uncovering, illuminating the desk where ledgers and folders now sat in neat stacks rather than haphazard piles.
The club’s finances were slowly coming into focus under my hands, revealing patterns and possibilities the brothers had missed for years.
Numbers didn’t lie, didn’t hide, didn’t threaten -- they simply waited for someone who could understand their language.
Since starting my work for the club, I’d uncovered both problems and opportunities hidden in the club’s haphazard bookkeeping.
The legitimate businesses were profitable but inefficient, bleeding money through inventory mismanagement and untracked expenses.
The brothers were brilliant at many things, but systematic record-keeping wasn’t among them.
That’s where I’d found my place -- the quiet power of organization, of bringing order to chaos.
“Knock knock,” Lyssa’s voice came from the doorway. “Got time for a cookie break?”
I looked up to find Beast’s old lady holding a plate of chocolate chip cookies, still warm enough that I could smell them from across the room.
She’d changed from her casual morning outfit into slim jeans and a fitted blouse, her club role as visible in her appearance as the men’s cuts were to them.
“For homemade cookies? Always.” I set aside the receipts and cleared a space on the desk. “Those smell amazing.”
“New recipe.” She set the plate down and took the chair across from me. “Whisper’s been teaching me to bake. Says it’s good therapy.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Beast says it’s not good for his waistline, but he’s not complaining.”