Nine
How many times does one need to count to ten before losing their shit?
S torming out of the clubhouse away from her, I make a straight shot for my bike because I'm seconds from detonating. My boots slam against the pavement like thunderclaps, louder than the chaos inside my head. Every step is a warning. A threat. A damn declaration. I clock the looks. Raised brows. Curious eyes. A couple of my brothers open their mouths to ask questions, until they catch the fire behind mine. That’s all it takes.
They back off. Scatter like cockroaches under a kitchen light.
Good.
Let them stay the hell out of my way.
I don’t want their concern, their advice, or their brotherly bullshit. Not now. Not while I’m unraveling like a live wire wrapped in gasoline. Even the ol’ ladies go quiet, all wide eyes and whispers like I’m deaf. Like I don’t know, I’m bleeding fury out of every goddamn pore.
Let them whisper. Let them flinch. Let them stare like I’m a bomb about to go off.
They don’t know what’s clawing at me from the inside out. What it feels like to have seventeen years carved out of your chest in one blow.
I’m spiraling. If I’d stayed in that clubhouse one second longer, I’d have flipped one of the weight benches through the damn drywall. I know I should’ve stayed—faced it like a man, talked it out, kept my shit together. But fuck that.
I needed out. Air. Distance. Sanity.
And right now? I’ve got none of that.
The second I break into the open, I can almost breathe. Almost. Not enough to stop the shaking in my hands. Not enough to silence the war in my head. My control’s hanging by a thread, soaked in gasoline. One spark and I’ll burn everything in my path to the ground.
I know the drill. I know what’s expected.
Stand tall. Own your shit. Handle it. But I couldn’t do it.
Not with every damn person in that room looking at me like I was a ghost of the man I’m supposed to be.
I could feel their judgment. Their pity.
The weight of everything I’ve failed to be presses down on my chest.
My jaw’s locked so tight I can feel the pop in the hinge. My fists are clenched, knuckles white, veins bulging like they’re trying to escape my skin. I’m right on the edge—one push from tearing something apart.
I glance back.
Just for a second.
The clubhouse is still buzzing, full of noise, stares, and people who don’t get it. My brothers are watching me like I’m some wounded animal they can’t decide whether to help or put down.
I slap my helmet on like it owes me something, throw a leg over the bike, and fire it up.
I don’t say a word. Just peel out, tires screaming like the inside of my head.
I don’t have a destination. Don’t want one.
I need the road, the speed, the wind tearing at me like it can rip the pain off my skin.
Because fuck me sideways…
I’ve got sons.
Two of them.
Two seventeen-year-old boys who looked at me today like I was the devil himself. Strangers. With my eyes.
And they fucking hate me.
I grip the bars so hard that it feels like I might snap them off. The truth is a fist in my throat. I can’t breathe around it. Seventeen goddamn years. She kept them from me.
When she vanished, I let her. I didn’t chase.
Didn’t beg. I let my pride steer the ship and sailed me straight into hell, into an illusion.
And now? Now the truth’s a blade. Serrated.
Ripping through everything I thought I knew.
She walked into my world today like she never left.
Looked me in the eye. Told me I’ve got sons, like she was giving me the fucking weather report.
Then turned her back and left me choking on the fallout.
And the kicker? Today is Luna’s birthday.
Of all fucking days.
I don’t even remember turning the throttle. I just know I’m going faster. Trying to outrun a past I buried alive. Trying to drown out the sound of everything I lost without knowing it.
Then there’s Heather.
She’s probably at the clubhouse losing her damn mind because I left without checking in. Because I didn’t perform in a way that made her feel important. Her meltdowns are damn near theatrical. And right now? I don’t have it in me to give a shit.
I didn’t leave because I wanted to hurt her. I left because if I stayed, I’d have broken something. Maybe someone. I couldn’t pretend with this kind of betrayal, splitting my ribs open from the inside. Couldn’t fake sanity when all I wanted to do was scream until my throat bled.
And the truth?
She knew.
Heather fucking knew. All this time. She knew about Gabriella. About the boys. And she never said a goddamn word. Sat at my table. Slept in my bed. Played house like she hadn’t helped erase my bloodline.
How do you come back from that?
How do you look at someone you once trusted and not see the knife in their hand?
Gabriella walked away. But Heather? She helped bury the truth.
And me?
I handed her the shovel.
Heather’s been good to Luna. I’ll give her that. She loves her. But she’s always needed to be the center of the goddamn universe. And now I see just how far she was willing to go to protect her throne. I cared about her. She gave me my daughter. But love?
I never loved her. Not really.
Not once in seventeen years.
I never said the words because they wouldn’t have been true.
That day—the day Gabriella left—is burned into my mind like a brand.
She stood in the doorway, bag in hand, eyes conflicted but determined.
And I stood there. Frozen. Waiting for her to beg.
Half-hoping she wouldn’t. She didn’t. She walked, and I didn’t stop her.
I told myself she’d come back. That we just needed space.
That I wasn’t ready. All lies. Then Heather slithered in with her soft voice, sweet lies, and gentle hands, and I let her.
I let myself forget. I stopped fighting.
Stopped searching. And when I found that empty house, no one could tell me where Gabriella had gone?
I gave up.
That’s on me.
I want to blame Heather for everything. But the truth?
I stopped giving a damn. I closed that chapter and let it rot.
That makes me just as guilty. The memory hits me like a steel-toed boot to the chest—Gabriella’s back turned, the quiet click of the door.
The sound of goodbye, I was too stubborn to hear.
And she took my sons with her.
I never even knew.
And now? I’ll never get that time back. Never get to hear their first words. See them ride their first bikes. Teach them shit I had to learn the hard way. All because I let my pride win, and Heather made damn sure I never saw the truth.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
What in the actual fuck?
My bike jerks to the side, tires skidding, and it takes my brain a beat too long to catch up to what the hell’s happening. My fingers tighten around the bars, trying to steady the sway.
I flick my eyes to the side mirror.
Two bikes. Fast. Closing in hard, weaving through traffic like they don’t give a single fuck about consequences. One of the riders lifts his arm and—fuck me—I know exactly what’s in his hand. Glock. Maybe a SIG. Doesn’t matter.
They’re armed, and they're shooting in broad daylight.
Motherfuckers.
I narrow my eyes, adrenaline spiking, the roar of their engines closing in. They cut lanes like sharks moving in for the kill.
Pop.
Pop.
Shots crack again. I don’t feel the first hit, not right away.
But I feel the second. White-hot fire punches through my side, then my shoulder almost instantly after.
The burn is instant. Deep. Searing. My whole left side lights up with agony.
I curse, swerving hard to stay upright. My bike bucks under me, tires shrieking.
I fight to keep it steady, but everything’s off.
My balance is shot. Pain is clouding everything.
“FUCK!”
I grit my teeth, my throttle hand twitching. Gotta move. Gotta get the fuck out of here. This shit is bad—real bad.
My mind flashes to the club. To my brothers.
They’re going to lose their shit.
They hate when I go anywhere without one of my Enforcers riding shotgun.
Calls it “reckless.” I call it “breathing room.” But this?
This is what they mean. This is the exact kind of bullshit he tries to keep me out of, and now it’s biting me in the ass.
I swerve again, too hard, and almost eat a damn guardrail.
I yank the bike back into control, cursing under my breath as I scan the road ahead, heart slamming against my ribs.
Think. Move. Survive.
I’m not dying on this stretch of highway. Not like this. Not today.
Not-fucking-today.
I lift my left hand off the bars—pain shoots through me like lightning—and yank the bandana from around my wrist. I shove it under my cut, pressing it hard against the bullet wound in my side.
It’s sloppy, half-assed, but it’s all I’ve got.
I fumble with my zipper, pulling my cut tighter to press it into place.
Ma’s voice flashes through my mind—“That thing’s getting snug. You need a new one.”
Thank fuck I didn’t listen. The damn thing’s tight as hell.
It’s the only thing keeping my insides from spilling out right now.
I can’t do shit about the shoulder. Can barely move that arm.
But I force my hand back onto the bars and gun it, the engine roaring beneath me like it knows I’m bleeding out and pissed off.
My head spins. Black spots flash at the edges of my vision.
Stay up. Stay focused.
I don’t know how I’m still on the bike. Maybe adrenaline.
Maybe sheer fucking rage. But I’m riding.
I’m alive. And I’ll be damned if I let one of these bastards take me out before I get answers.
I’m not far from town, but far enough from the clubhouse to know that’s not an option.
If I try to make it back there now, I won’t make it.
I take the next exit, tires screeching, heart pounding in my ears.
I need help. I need backup.
I reach for my phone in its holder, hands slick with blood.
It slips—twice. The third time, I catch it before it falls completely.
I almost laugh from the frustration. Almost. I try to hook it to my Bluetooth helmet, but the damn thing’s backward in the holder.
Can’t get a signal. No voice activation.
No, nothing. My fingers won’t stop slipping.
Blood coats everything. The touchscreen laughs at me with every useless swipe.
Fuck.
I growl, teeth grinding together, fury mixing with panic.
No one knows where I am. No backup. No weapons.
Nothing but this bike and the half-fucked-up body I’m riding it with.
I recheck the side mirror—those bastards are still on my ass.
I don’t have time to figure out my comms. I only have one option now.
The hospital.
It’s a gamble. If I slow down, I might get shot again.
But if I pass out while doing 90 on a bike, I’m a dead man either way.
I bite down on a groan as the pain throbs, worse with every bump, every lean.
My side is soaked, the bandana useless now, blood seeping through the fabric like ink through tissue.
But then—there. A sign.
Hospital – Emergency Room →
Relief washes through me too fast. Too soon. I make the turn. The parking lot looms ahead. I try to slow down, but everything inside me crashes at once. My vision blurs. My fingers go numb. My grip slips.
And then—darkness.
I feel the handlebars disappear from my hands. I hear the metal scream as the bike skids across the pavement. I feel the pain before I feel the ground—sharp, brutal, all-consuming.
And then?
I feel nothing.
Just weightlessness.
Like I’m floating.
Like maybe this is it.