Chapter Twelve
Slaughter
I didn’t remember getting on my bike.
Didn’t remember starting the engine or pulling out of the Diamondback clubhouse lot.
One moment I was standing behind that garage, staring at Hope’s face.
Her wide, devastated eyes, the way her lips were still swollen from another man’s kiss, and the next I was on the highway, the speedometer climbing past ninety as I tore through the Oklahoma darkness like the Devil himself was on my heels.
Maybe he was. Maybe I was running from myself.
The road stretched out before me, endless and black, the white lines blurring into a single ribbon of light as I pushed my bike harder.
Faster. The engine roared beneath me, vibrating through my bones, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the truth that kept hammering against my skull with every mile I put between myself and that clubhouse.
Hope.
Not Julie.
Hope.
The woman I made love to under the stars, the woman I whispered promises to, the woman I called by my dead wife’s name while I moved inside her—Jesus Christ. My stomach lurched, and I had to swallow hard against the bile rising in my throat.
What the fuck had I done?
The wind tore at my hair, my clothes, my skin, but I couldn’t feel it. Couldn’t feel anything except the crushing weight of realization pressing down on my chest until I thought my ribs might crack from the pressure.
Shadow’s sister.
I slept with Shadow’s sister. The thought hit me like a freight train, and I nearly lost control of my bike.
My hands tightened on the handlebars, knuckles white, as the full scope of my fuckup crashed over me in waves.
No condom. No protection. No fucking thought beyond the desperate, grief-stricken belief that Julie had come back to me.
What if she were pregnant? What if I had gotten Shadow’s baby sister pregnant while calling her by another woman’s name?
My panic was a living thing now, as it clawed its way up my throat, making it hard to breathe.
I sucked in air through my teeth, but it wasn’t enough.
Nothing was enough. The Oklahoma landscape blurred past me.
Flat fields, scattered trees, the occasional farmhouse with its porch light glowing like a beacon in the darkness, but I didn’t see any of it.
All I could see was Hope’s face. The way she’d looked at me that night at the pond, her eyes soft and trusting even as I whispered Julie against her skin. The way she touched me, held me, let me take everything she had to give while I grieved for someone else.
And she knew. She had known the whole time that I thought she was someone else, and she let it happen anyway. Why?
The question burned through me, sharp and relentless. Why would she do that? Why would she let me call her by another woman’s name? Why would she give me her body, her trust, her—Oh God!
Her virginity. The blood on my fingers. The way she tensed when I first pushed inside her. The soft gasp of pain she tried to muffle against my shoulder. I had taken her virginity while calling her Julie.
My bike swerved as my vision blurred, and I had to blink hard to clear it. My chest was so tight I thought I might have a heart attack. Maybe that would be better. Maybe dying out here on this empty highway would be easier than facing what I had done. But I didn’t get to take the easy way out.
I never had.
The miles stretched on, endless and unforgiving, and I rode until the adrenaline faded, until the panic gave way to a bone-deep exhaustion that made my hands shake on the handlebars.
I needed to stop. Needed to think. Needed to figure out what the hell I was going to do before Shadow found out and demanded my head on a platter.
The sign for Medicine Park appeared in my headlights like a lifeline, and I took the exit without thinking.
The small town was quiet. Most of the shops and restaurants had already closed for the night, but I found a motel on the outskirts.
A run-down place with peeling paint and a flickering neon sign that read “VACANCY.”
Good enough.
I pulled into the lot and killed the engine, sitting there for a long moment in the sudden silence. My ears were ringing from the wind and the roar of the bike, and my body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.
The motel clerk barely looked up when I walked in—just slid a key across the counter and took my cash without comment.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor, found my room, and stepped inside.
It was exactly what I had expected: sparse, anonymous, forgettable.
A double bed with a faded comforter. A small TV bolted to the dresser.
A bathroom with cracked tiles and a shower that probably hadn’t been updated since the eighties.
But it had a window.
I crossed the room and pulled back the curtain, staring out at the darkness beyond.
In the distance, I could just make out the silhouette of the Wichita Mountains and the low, rolling peaks that were nothing like the Smokies back home in Tennessee, but close enough to make my chest ache with homesickness.
I came here looking for mountains. For something familiar.
For a piece of home that might ease the relentless pain of being so far from everything I had ever known. But it didn’t help.
Nothing helped.
I let the curtain fall and turned away from the window, pacing the small room like a caged animal. My mind was racing, thoughts tumbling over each other in a chaotic mess that I couldn’t untangle.
Shadow would find out. Of course he would.
Hope would tell him, or Kansas would put the pieces together and demand answers.
And when Shadow found out, he would come for me.
He would demand the Golden Line-Up—the brutal MC punishment reserved for brothers who violated the sacred code.
And Reaper, the Golden Skulls’ president, would back him up.
Because Shadow was a former brother, and Hope was his sister, and I had crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed.
I would be lucky if they just beat the shit out of me.
I would be lucky if he didn’t kill me.
My hand shook as I pulled my phone from my pocket, staring down at the screen. I needed to call someone. Needed to talk to someone who could help me figure out what the hell to do next.
But who?
Massacre would tell me I was fucked and offer to help me disappear.
Ravage would tell me to face it head-on and take whatever punishment came.
Reaper would—No. Not Reaper. Not yet.
My thumb hovered over Digger’s name in my contacts, and I hesitated. My brother would give it to me straight, no bullshit, no sugarcoating. But he would also tell Stella, and Stella would lose her goddamn mind.
Still, I needed to hear his voice. Needed someone to tell me I wasn’t completely losing my shit, even if I was. I hit the call button before I could talk myself out of it, pressing the phone to my ear as it rang once, twice, three times.
Please don’t let Stella answer. Please don’t let Stella answer.
“Slaughter?”
Relief flooded through me at the sound of my brother’s voice, rough and familiar and grounding.
“I’m in trouble, Dig.”
There was a pause, and I could hear the faint sound of movement on the other end of the line. Digger shifted, probably sitting up in bed. “What happened?”
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I did something stupid.”
He chuckled, the sound low and disbelieving. “That’s unlikely. I’m the one always screwin’ up.”
“I’m serious, Quinton,” I muttered, using his given name, letting him know how serious I was.
His chuckle died immediately. “Hang on,” he said, and I heard rustling, footsteps, the soft creak of a door opening and closing. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, more focused. “Alright. Let me have it. How bad are we talkin’, Chapman?”
I closed my eyes, pressing my free hand against my face, trying to find the words.
“I slept with Shadow’s sister.”
Silence. Complete, utter silence. And then: “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”
“Your hearing’s just fine.”
“Does Shadow know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Ghost know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it consensual?”
I growled, low and dangerous, and Digger quickly backtracked. “Sorry. It’s you. Of course it was. Did you wrap up?”
My stomach dropped. “I don’t know.”
“She on the pill?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jesus fuck, Chapman, what do you know?”
“I know I slept with Shadow’s sister,” I snapped, my voice raw.
“Which one? He’s got like fifty of them.”
“Four. And it was Hope.” I was getting annoyed now, the panic giving way to frustration. “Look, Quinton, I need help, not your commentary. My ass is toast when Shadow learns the truth. He’s gonna demand the Golden Line-Up, and Reaper is gonna back him up.”
“And that’s gonna be after Stella kicks your ass,” Digger said, his tone grim. “Sorry, bro, but you are up shit’s creek without a paddle. What the fuck were you thinkin’? You know the rules.”
“I wasn’t thinking,” I groaned, rubbing my hand down my face. “That’s the problem. I was drunk. I thought I was sleeping with Julie.”
The line went silent again, and I could practically hear my brother’s brain trying to process what I had just said. “You remember Julie died, right?” he asked carefully. “You didn’t hit your head and forget that?”
“Quinton, I swear to fucking God—”
“Fine,” he groaned, cutting me off. “Alright. Well, first things first, you need to see if there’s anythin’ to worry about.
Hate sayin’ this, but you’re gonna have to ask Hope if she’s on the pill.
If she isn’t, then it’s a waitin’ game. ’Cause until you know for sure you didn’t knock her up, you are livin’ on borrowed time. ”
My chest tightened. “I can’t just walk up to her and ask. She lives with Shadow. Everyone in the Diamondbacks saw what happened.”
“What happened?”
I sighed, sinking down onto the edge of the bed, and told him everything.
The barbecue. The flash of white fabric.
The way I had fought through the crowd, driven by the scent of jasmine and the desperate, irrational belief that Julie was there.
Finding Hope behind the garage with another man’s lips on hers.
The punch. The realization. The way I had walked away without saying a goddamn word.
Digger whistled low when I finished. “Jesus, Chapman. Look, my advice: lie low, find a way to speak with Hope without gettin’ yourself killed, and get some answers.
If she’s on the pill, beat feet home. If not, hole up somewhere safe until you know for sure.
But, brother, if she’s in the family way, you know what you’re gonna have to do, right? ”
I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see me. “I can’t marry her, Quinton. I’m already married.”
“No, brother,” Digger said quietly, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re not. You’re widowed.”
His words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
Widowed. Not married. Not Julie’s husband anymore. Just a man whose wife was dead and buried six feet under Tennessee soil.
I pressed the heel of my hand against my chest, trying to ease the ache that had taken up permanent residence there, but it didn’t help. Nothing helped.
“Chapman?” Digger’s voice was soft now, concerned. “You still with me?”
“Yeah,” I rasped, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m here.”
“Look, I know this is hard. I know you’re still grievin’. But you gotta face facts, brother. Julie’s gone. And Hope—Hope is real. She’s alive. And if you got her pregnant, you’re gonna have to step up and do right by her. You know that, right?”
I sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “I know.”
“Good. Now get some sleep. Figure out your next move in the mornin’. And, Chapman?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t do anythin’ stupid. You’ve already got enough shit to deal with.”
The line went dead, and I sat there in the silence of the motel room, staring at the phone in my hand.
Widowed. The word echoed in my mind, relentless and unforgiving.
I wasn’t married anymore. I was a widower.
A single father. A man who had abandoned his newborn daughter and run halfway across the country to escape the pain of losing his wife.
And now I had slept with another woman. A woman I’d called Julie’s name, a woman I had taken without protection, a woman who was the sister of a former club brother and under the protection of an allied MC.
I was so fucked.
I lay back on the bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling, and tried to figure out what the hell I was going to do.
But all I could see was Hope’s face. The way she’d looked at me behind that garage, her eyes wide and devastated, like I had ripped her heart out and crushed it beneath my boot. And maybe I had.
Maybe that was exactly what I had done.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the window in its frame, and I closed my eyes against the sting of tears I refused to let fall.
I was a widower. Not a husband. Not Julie’s anymore. Just a broken man who’d made a mistake he didn’t know how to fix. And somewhere in Lawton, Hope Owens was probably crying herself to sleep, wondering why the man who had touched her like she was sacred had walked away like she was nothing.
I didn’t sleep that night; I just lay there in the darkness, listening to the wind, and wondered if I would ever be able to look her in the eye again.