Chapter 31-Bit
It starts as just another quiet afternoon at Jersey Iron Ranch.
The kind that hums with peace.
Angie’s in the kitchen humming along to an old country song, rolling out pie dough like she’s in a contest with herself. I’m in the sewing room, sunlight spilling across the table, piecing together a new order for the online shop I finally launched—Lil Bit O’Love.
It’s silly, maybe, but every sale notification that pings my phone feels like proof I’m really doing this. Building something that’s mine.
Sawyer called this morning.
He sounded tired but good, his voice a steady rumble that I’ve started to crave like coffee.
He said the Arizona run was going smooth. He’d be home soon.
I wanted to tell him about the call with my mom, but that’s a conversation we should have in person.
He should know what I come from.
What I might become one day—no—I push that thought away.
It’s ugly, and I don’t believe it for a second.
Not anymore.
I stretch and look around and for the first time I get what folks mean when they say everything feels right.
Because for the first time in my life, it does.
Until it doesn’t.
It’s subtle at first—the kind of quiet that prickles at the back of your neck.
The music cuts out.
The air feels wrong.
It’s too silent, too still.
Then, Angie freezes while making fresh dinner rolls, her hands white with flour.
“You hear that?”
I tilt my head. Nothing. Then—I do hear it.
A low, distant growl of an engine.
Not a truck.
Not a tractor.
A goddamn motorcycle.
My stomach drops.
“Get away from the window,” Angie whispers, voice barely audible over the pounding of my own heart.
She’s already wiping her hands on her apron, calm but sharp-eyed in that way only women who’ve lived through too much can be.
Before I can ask what she’s doing, she’s yanking open the drawer by the stove and pulling out the little pistol Sawyer insisted she keep close.
The sight of it makes my stomach turn.
“Angie—”
She shakes her head once. Firm. Final.
“No time. You get your purse. The one with the gun Sawyer made you keep loaded.”
I don’t argue. There’s no room for pride right now, no time to pretend I’m not scared out of my mind.
Alex and Diego are still somewhere on the ranch, but even if we call them now—it’ll take them at least ten minutes to get here.
Ten minutes is a lifetime when monsters are already outside.
Still, I see Angie grab the landline, pressing a button, her lips moving fast. Probably calling Diego. Maybe Alex.
Maybe Sawyer.
The sound outside grows louder—engines revving, tires skidding on gravel, the low growl of men laughing where no laughter belongs.
My heart climbs into my throat.
I grab my purse off the chair by the door, unzip it just enough to feel the cold metal of the gun inside.
My fingers are slick with sweat.
Then comes the sound that freezes the blood right in my veins—the crunch of boots.
Someone’s on the porch.
Angie presses a trembling finger to her lips.
We start to move toward the back door, slow and silent—BANG!
The front door slams open so hard the frame cracks.
“Afternoon, ladies,” a voice drawls.
I know that voice.
It’s him.
Roach.
The Hellbound Heathen who sent me running.
The piece of shit who called me his “old lady” like I was a trophy instead of a person.
He steps into the house like he owns it, a cigarette dangling from his lips and that same greasy smirk twisting his scarred face.
His cut catches the fading sunlight—black leather, red stitching, the words Hellbound Heathens MC.
Two more bikers follow him, their boots heavy on the hardwood, tracking dust and menace with every step.
“Where’s the cowboy?” Roach asks, sweeping his gaze around the kitchen like he’s casing the joint. “He around? Or did he finally get smart and leave his toys unattended?”
My heart’s pounding so loud I can barely think.
“Get out,” Angie says.
Her voice is steel. Steady.
She’s got the pistol aimed dead center at his chest.
Roach grins around his cigarette, smoke curling up toward the ceiling.
“Well now, that’s no way to treat guests.”
He takes one more step, and instinct takes over—I move, planting myself between him and Angie.
“Leave,” I bite out. “Sawyer’s not here. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go before he gets back.”
That earns me a low, mean laugh.
“Still got that mouth on you, huh, Bit? Gotta say, I missed it.”
“We spoke twice, and it was hardly worth remembering,” I snap.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “We had something special. I told you—you’re my old lady now.”
“You’re crazy!”
My fingers curl around the gun. My pulse is hammering so loud it feels like a countdown.
Roach chuckles.
“You gonna shoot me, Doll? Nah. You ain’t got it in you.”
He’s wrong.
I pull the gun out, hands shaking, and raise it level with his chest.
“Try me.”
For one breathless second—no one moves.
Then Angie yells, “NOW!”
She swings the cast-iron skillet she’d been holding, sending it flying toward the second biker’s head. He ducks, swearing, the pan smashing into the wall behind him with a deafening clang.
That’s when Roach pulls his gun.
He points it at Angie.
“Stop! Don’t shoot!” I scream, throwing myself in front of her.
“Come with me now,” he snarls, “and I won’t kill the bitch.”
“No, Bit! Don’t do it!” Angie begs, voice breaking.
But I’m already nodding.
Because what choice do I have?
If I run, he’ll shoot her.
If I fight, he’ll shoot her.
I can’t let him hurt her.
“Okay,” I whisper, lowering my gun. “Okay. Just don’t hurt her.”
Roach grins, teeth yellow under the flickering kitchen light.
“That’s right, you’re gonna be a real good old lady, ain’t ya?”
Before I can react, his hand shoots out—he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me forward, hard enough to make me stumble.
“Let her go!” Angie cries, going for her pistol again.
One of the bikers lunges forward and slams his arm into her wrist.
The gun clatters to the floor. Angie gasps, clutching her arm.
“ANGIE!” I scream.
Then the biker hits her.
A heavy, brutal strike across the face.
She crumples like a marionette with its strings cut, collapsing against the floor tiles.
Time slows.
Her apron shifts as she falls. Her hand twitches once, reaching—then stills.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. All I can do is scream.
“ANGIE!”
Roach yanks my hair again, dragging me toward the door, my feet slipping against the tile, my throat raw.
“Let’s go, bitch,” he snarls. “We got a date with destiny.”
And as the porch door slams shut behind us, the last thing I hear is the sound of my own heart breaking.