Epilogue
Dixon
After years of feeling empty, like there was nothing to my life except executing the club’s orders and tempering the pain inside with the black hope that someone, or something, might end my life, it feels wrong to have a life that’s full. To wake up in the morning without a sense of regret, but hope instead. Men like me don’t get these kinds of endings that feel like beginnings. We end in blood; we end in pain; we die — alone.
It’s almost enough to make me forget about everything that happened before.
Almost.
As time goes on, as the months of Rafael’s trial draw to a close and it’s only a matter of whether he gets sentenced to double or triple digits in prison, that almost is something that I know I’ll be leaving in the past, too.
One day, I wake up with the golden sun rays streaming through the slats of my window shade and I roll over to see the spot next to me empty. The pillow’s warm, but barely. This isn’t like Alexandra; she still works late, pouring drinks at the bar because it’s something she enjoys and she’s as addicted as I am to having her days free for long rides.
I sit up, stretch, and slip out of bed.
“Alex?”
“In here,” she calls out. There’s a strange note in her voice. A wavering. Part excitement, part fear, entirely foreign.
It sets the hair on the back of my neck up.
The bathroom door is shut, and I approach it and knock.
“You OK?”
“I’m not sure.”
The hair standing on the back of my neck is joined by the rest of my hair everywhere. My fists clench, my jaw, too. My mind goes somewhere dark — is Rafael trying to strike back at us from prison? The DEA rolled up his drug organization like a fucking cheap rug, thanks to the information we gave; the Crimson Fury broke apart, thanks to the infighting that arose in the wake of Rafael’s capture and Mateo’s death, as the members with actual backbones and senses of decency chased out anyone that was loyal to Rafael. Still, it wouldn’t shock me, even now, if Rafael were to try something desperate. Some last fuck you to the people responsible for causing his shitty empire to crumble into dirt.
“You hurt?”
“Uh, no. No, not hurt.”
“What is it?”
“You need to see this.”
“Look, I’m not coming in there to see how big of a—”
“It’s not that. Ew, gross.”
I pause. Why else would she be calling me into the bathroom to see something?
“Then what is it?”
“I peed on something and you need to see it.”
I pause, thinking. “Is it a distance thing? Were you sniping? Because I can appreciate that.”
“Sniping? What do you mean?”
“It’s where you pick a far away target, you aim, and you fire.”
“I wish I could snipe like that. You men are so lucky — to be able to write in the snow, cross the streams, stuff like that. But it’s not that. Just come in here and look.”
”If you’re calling me in there to look at something you peed on, and it isn’t a sniping thing, then I’m going to get a mop first. I don’t see why you sound so upset, though. Accidents happen. Fuck, I’ve pissed in a sink from time to time when I’ve had too many, and—”
“Please stop talking about peeing in the sink, which is something that I really don’t need or want to know about, considering we share a sink. Just come in here, OK?”
I cut my ramble short and push against the bathroom door, its hinges seeming to groan in the tense silence that has fallen over us. As it swings open, Alexandra stands there, a look of contained chaos on her face, clutching one of those plastic sticks I”ve only ever seen on TV commercials and in the aisles of drug stores.
“What is it?”
Her eyes meet mine, and they”re big, round saucers filled with swirling emotions. She holds the stick out towards me like a crucifix to a vampire. Part of me realizes what this is and what it means, and it sends my heart into hopeful overdrive, while the rest of me — the part of me that’s lived in such pain and darkness for so long and believes that men like me don’t deserve hope or love or new beginnings — struggles against the reality that I see in front of me.
”I... woke up feeling sick, and then I had a suspicion, and then I… well, Dixon, look,” she says, her voice trembling like leaves in a gentle wind. “I peed on it, and it did this.”
I take the plastic stick from her hand — it’s the Hey baby, hey baby, hey brand by Gwen Stefani — and I take half a second to register what it is: a pregnancy test. But it isn”t the piece of plastic that”s got me immobile, it”s the two lines. A double stripe declaration that things are about to change again.
”Is this...” My voice trails off as I struggle to find the words, as if they”ve been sucked out of the room along with all the air. “Did you…?”
”Yes,” Alexandra whispers. ”I”m pregnant.”
The world stops spinning for a moment.
I can hear my heartbeat thumping in my ears like the distant roar of motorcycles on an open highway. This isn”t terror or excitement; it”s both — mixed in a potent cocktail that leaves me dizzy and grinning like a lunatic.
Pregnant. We”re going to be parents.
Alexandra”s gaze searches mine, looking for answers to questions neither of us has dared to ask out loud.
”How do you feel about this?” Her voice is barely above a whisper. There’s a flicker of a smile and curious hope gleaming in her eyes.
I set the stick down on the sink counter as if it were made of glass and might shatter at any moment. Then, I feel something expand in my chest — it forces my lips wide in a grin and every other thought, every vestige of regret, of pain, of trauma, is all pushed aside in the face of one beautiful truth. A laugh follows my grin, and then I kiss her with every ounce of strength in my soul.
“Holy fuck, I feel good. I’m going to be a dad. A fucking dad, Alex. And you’re going to be a mom. We’re going to be fucking parents.”
Alexandra’s laughter joins mine, the sound echoing against the tiled walls with a warmth that feels like it could chase away any ghost of our pasts. Her arms wrap around me tight, as if she could hold this moment, preserve it, keep the reality of our future together safe from the world outside.
We stay there for what seems like hours, holding each other.
The morning light catches in her hair, turning strands into spun gold. There”s something about seeing such strength, such fierce independence, cradled in vulnerability that makes me want to promise the earth and stars to her. Eventually, we break apart and Alexandra’s eyes are wet with tears, but they”re bright — so damn bright.
”We”re actually doing this,” she murmurs, a hand instinctively going to her stomach.
”Yeah,” I say. “We are.”
And I can’t help but think this — this right here — is the most real thing I”ve ever felt.
With an unspoken agreement, we move back into the bedroom. She sits on the edge of the bed and I kneel before her, resting my hands gently where our future grows. Words feel clumsy and inadequate for what thrums between us, for this new life we’ve begun weaving with threads of love and hope.
“So,” I start, my voice steadier than I expect it to be. “I guess we need to think about names?”
Alexandra chuckles softly and nods. “And probably about a million other things.”
“We can handle it,” I say with a confidence that surprises even me.
She nods, then kisses me. “But as far as names go, I already know.”
“Yeah?”
“If it’s a boy, I want to name him Lucas.”
I smile. “I think that’s the perfect name.”