Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Brandy
I woke to sunlight streaming through my childhood bedroom window, the kind of soft golden light that only existed in early morning. My body ached—a deep, satisfying soreness that reminded me of everything Torment and I had shared the night before. Every muscle felt used, claimed, thoroughly loved.
The bed beside me was empty, the sheets cool to the touch. Torment was gone.
I sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the pull in my thighs, and found a note on the pillow where his head had been. His handwriting was surprisingly neat, precise—the handwriting of someone who’d spent years writing clinical notes and therapy reports.
Didn’t want to wake you. Montana called—club business. Your dad’s in the barn. I’ll be back soon. T
I smiled despite myself, folding the note carefully and setting it on my nightstand. Club business. The words that used to fill me with dread, now just felt like... life. Reality. The world Torment lived in; the world I was choosing to be part of.
The world my father had once lived in too.
I got out of bed carefully, my body protesting the movement, and pulled on a pair of sweatpants and one of my old high school hoodies.
The bruises Stone left were still visible on my arms and ribs—ugly purple and blue marks that would take weeks to fade.
But they were just marks. Just evidence of survival. They didn’t define me.
Nothing defined me except the choices I made going forward.
I made my way downstairs quietly, my bare feet padding softly on the worn wooden steps. The house smelled like coffee and cinnamon rolls—my mother’s comfort food, the kind she made when she needed to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied.
She was standing at the kitchen counter when I entered, her back to me, rolling out dough with practiced efficiency. She didn’t turn around, but I saw her shoulders relax slightly when she heard my footsteps.
“Morning, baby,” she said softly.
“Morning, Mom.”
She turned then, her eyes moving over me with the careful assessment only a mother could manage—checking for new injuries, for signs of pain, for anything that might indicate I wasn’t okay. When she seemed satisfied, she smiled gently.
“Your father’s in the barn,” she said, answering the question I hadn’t asked yet.
I nodded, understanding passing between us without words. She knew I needed to talk to him. Knew that whatever conversation was about to take place needed to happen without her presence, without anyone else’s presence. Just father and daughter, finally being honest with each other.
“Go on,” she said, gesturing toward the back door with her flour-dusted hand. “I’ll have breakfast ready when you come back.”
I crossed the kitchen and kissed her cheek, leaving a smudge of flour on my lips that I wiped away with the back of my hand. “Thanks, Mom.”
“I love you, Brandy Lynn,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “No matter what. Always.”
“I love you too.”
The morning air was crisp and cool, carrying the scent of dew-wet grass and distant pine trees.
There was something else too—a hint of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney, mixed with the earthy smell of turned soil from the garden my mother had been tending the day before.
The sun was still low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold and amber, casting long shadows across the gravel driveway and making the weathered wood of the barn glow like it was lit from within.
It was the kind of morning that felt like a fresh start, like the world was offering a second chance, like anything was possible if you were brave enough to reach out and take it.
The barn doors were open wide—both of them, which was unusual—and I could see my father standing inside, silhouetted against the morning light.
He was beside the motorcycle—the one he’d kept hidden under a tarp my whole life, the one that represented everything he’d left behind when he’d decided to become the man everyone expected him to be instead of the man he actually was.
The bike gleamed, even in the shadows. He must have been up for hours, polishing chrome and cleaning leather, preparing it for this moment.
Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the open doors, creating tiny galaxies of light and shadow that swirled and shifted with every breath of wind.
The barn smelled of old wood and motor oil and memories—the kind of smell that transported you back in time whether you wanted to go or not.
It was the smell of Saturday mornings from my childhood, of my father teaching me how to change a tire, of simpler days before I understood that adults carried secrets too heavy to speak aloud.
My father looked different somehow. Older, maybe, with the morning light highlighting the silver in his hair and the lines around his eyes.
Or perhaps just... lighter. Like a weight he’d been carrying for decades had finally been lifted from his shoulders, like he could breathe fully for the first time in years.
He wasn’t hiding anymore. Wasn’t pretending.
Wasn’t playing the role he’d been assigned by circumstance and fear and other people’s expectations.
He was just... himself. And somehow, that made him look younger than I’d seen him in years.
The worn leather ledger was visible in the open saddlebag, its edges cracked and faded with age, the spine split in places where it had been opened too many times over too many years.
He wasn’t trying to conceal it. Wasn’t trying to protect me from the truth anymore.
The pages were yellowed, some of them dog-eared, and I could see his handwriting—that familiar scrawl—covering line after line.
Records of things I wasn’t supposed to know.
Things he’d kept hidden for my entire life.
I approached quietly, my bare feet silent on the cold concrete floor.
The barn smelled of oil and dust and old memories, the kind of smell that clung to a space that had been closed up for too long.
He turned before I reached him, not surprised to see me, as if he’d been expecting this moment.
A gentle smile crossed his weathered face—the kind of smile reserved for daughters, for the people you’d die to protect, for the ones you’d burn the whole world down to keep safe.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice soft in the morning stillness, barely louder than the sound of birds beginning their dawn chorus outside.
I shook my head, wrapping my arms around myself against the chill. “Wanted to find you.”
He nodded, understanding without needing more explanation, and turned back to the motorcycle.
His hand rested on the seat, calloused fingers tracing the worn leather with something that looked like reverence.
Or maybe regret. It was hard to tell with him sometimes.
He’d always been good at hiding his emotions, at keeping things locked down tight where no one could see them.
“I thought I’d never touch this thing again,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of years.
“Thought I’d let it rot under that tarp until it was nothing but rust and memories.
Thought maybe if I ignored it long enough, pretended it didn’t exist, I could forget who I used to be. What I used to do.”
I moved closer, standing beside him, our shoulders almost touching, looking at the bike with new eyes.
It was beautiful in a dangerous, predatory way—all chrome and black leather and raw power, like a coiled snake ready to strike.
The kind of machine that demanded respect and took no prisoners.
The kind of machine that could kill you if you weren’t careful, if you didn’t treat it with the seriousness it deserved.
I could see why he’d loved it once. Could see why it terrified him now.
“But you kept it,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper in the stillness of the garage.
“Yeah.” He exhaled slowly, the breath seeming to carry years of weight with it.
“I kept it. Couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it completely.
It was... it was part of who I was. Who I am.
And you can’t just erase that, no matter how hard you try.
” He paused, his hand resting on the leather seat.
“I thought about selling it a hundred times. Must have written ads, started to make phone calls. But I always stopped myself. Always found some excuse.”
I reached out and touched the handlebars, feeling the cold metal beneath my palm, the slight texture of oxidation that had formed in places despite his care.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it. Even in its aged state, covered in rust and memories, the motorcycle had an undeniable elegance.
You could see the craftsmanship, the love that had gone into maintaining it for so many years.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw something shift in his expression. Recognition, maybe. Or acceptance. Understanding. Whatever it was, it felt like a door opening between us that had been closed for far too long.
“I should have protected you better,” he said, his voice cracking slightly on the words, each one seeming to cost him something.
“I should have taught you how to navigate that world, how to stay safe in it. How to recognize the dangers before they found you. Instead, I just... I hid everything. Locked it all away and hoped you’d never have to face any of it. ”
“Dad—”