Chapter 21
One week after Jessup died, Bethany asked Trawler to take her to Port Mason.
He didn't question it—just nodded, handed her a helmet, and led her to his bike. She'd gotten better at riding behind him, learned to lean into the curves instead of fighting them, to trust his body to guide her through the motion.
The coastal highway was quiet this early, morning mist still clinging to the marshes as they rumbled toward the place where her old life had ended.
She wasn't sure what she expected to find. Closure, maybe. Some final piece of the grief puzzle that would click into place and make everything feel finished.
What she found was a vacant lot.
The debris had been cleared—insurance requirement, probably—leaving nothing but scorched earth and a few scattered foundation stones. No neon sign, no weathered siding, no jukebox that only worked when it felt like it. Just empty space where The Rusty Hook used to stand.
Trawler killed the engine and let her dismount first. She walked toward the center of the lot, boots crunching on gravel that looked wrong without the building to anchor it.
"It's smaller than I remember," she said.
He came to stand beside her, close enough to touch but giving her space. "Buildings always look smaller when they're gone."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Doesn't have to."
She laughed, the sound catching unexpectedly in her throat. Not quite tears, not quite amusement—something in between. "I thought I'd feel worse. Coming back here. Seeing the empty space."
"How do you feel?"
She considered the question seriously, turning it over in her mind.
The grief was there, yes—a quiet ache for the years she'd poured into this place, the memories that had burned along with the walls.
But it wasn't the sharp, consuming agony she'd felt watching the news footage, standing in fresh ashes with vengeance burning in her chest.
"Like saying goodbye to an old friend," she said finally. "Someone who was important once but isn't part of my life anymore. Sad, but not... devastating."
"That's good."
"Is it? Sometimes I feel like I should mourn harder. Like I'm betraying something by moving on."
Trawler's hand found hers, fingers intertwining. "You're not betraying anything. You're surviving."
She squeezed his hand and let herself look—really look—at the empty lot. Remembered the bar as it had been: sticky floors and cold beer and Mickey's terrible jokes. Remembered herself as she had been: stubborn, scared, alone.
That woman felt like a stranger now.
"Thank you," she said softly. "For bringing me here. For letting me have this."
"You needed it."
"Yeah." She turned to face him, finding his dark eyes already watching her with that intensity that still made her breath catch. "I think I'm done now. Ready to stop looking back."
"And start looking forward?"
"Something like that." She rose on her toes to kiss him—brief, sweet, a seal on the farewell. "Take me home?"
His smile was soft. "Which home?"
"Ours."
They didn't go straight back to the compound.
Trawler took a detour along the coast, and Bethany didn't ask where they were going.
She'd learned to trust his silences, to let him lead when words weren't necessary.
The bike hummed beneath them, salt wind whipping through her hair, the Chesapeake glittering like scattered diamonds in the morning sun.
He pulled off at a waterfront overlook she'd never noticed before—a small gravel turnout with a weathered bench facing the bay. The kind of place tourists drove past without seeing, hidden in plain sight.
"How'd you find this?" she asked as they dismounted.
"Used to come here. Before." He led her to the bench, settling beside her with an ease that spoke of familiarity. "When I needed to think."
"And now?"
"Now I wanted to share it."
Something warm bloomed in her chest. This quiet man, who hoarded his words like precious coins, was giving her pieces of himself she suspected no one else had seen. Secret places, hidden thoughts, the vulnerable underbelly of the mountain.
"It's beautiful," she said, because it was. The bay stretched out before them, morning light painting the water in shades of gold and blue. A heron picked its way along the distant shore. Somewhere, a boat engine coughed to life.
"You're thinking loud," Trawler observed.
"I'm always thinking loud. It's kind of my thing." She leaned into his side, letting his arm come around her shoulders. "I'm thinking about the compound bar. About what it could be."
"Tell me."
So she did.
The words came easily—they always did—tumbling out in a stream of ideas and plans and half-formed dreams. She talked about expanding the selection, bringing in craft beers from local breweries.
About organizing events—poker nights, cookouts, celebrations that gave the brothers something to look forward to.
About making the space feel welcoming not just for the men, but for their families too.
"Kids run around that compound," she said. "Old ladies need somewhere to gather that isn't just standing around the garage. I want to make it a place, you know? Somewhere people actually want to be, not just somewhere they end up."
"You've been thinking about this a lot."
"I've been thinking about it nonstop." She twisted to look at him. "Is that crazy? The bar's been my life for so long, and now I'm planning to do it all again, just... somewhere else. With different people."
"Not crazy. Smart." His thumb traced circles on her shoulder. "You know what you're good at. Why not do it somewhere you actually belong?"
"Do I belong? Sometimes it still feels surreal. Like I'm going to wake up and realize the last two months were some kind of fever dream."
"You belong." His voice was certain, absolute. "The brothers see it. Their women see it. I see it."
"What do you see?"
He was quiet for a moment, and she knew better than to rush him. When Trawler spoke, he meant it. The waiting was part of the gift.
"I see a woman who walked into a world that should have terrified her and decided to make it home," he said finally.
"Who held a rifle during a firefight and a bar rag two days later, and did both like she'd been doing them her whole life.
Who makes people feel seen just by remembering what they drink. "
Her eyes stung. "Trawler..."
"I see someone who fills silence because she's afraid of what lives there, but who's learning that some silences are safe." His hand came up to cup her face. "I see my future. And I've never seen anything more clearly."
She kissed him because she couldn't not kiss him—deep and thorough, pouring everything she felt into the contact. He responded in kind, his other hand tangling in her hair, holding her close like she might disappear if he let go.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, she laughed against his mouth.
"You're getting better at words."
"You're a bad influence."
"The worst." She nuzzled into his palm. "Tell me more things. About us. About what you see."
"I see Sunday mornings where you make terrible coffee and I pretend to like it."
"My coffee is not terrible—"
"I see you behind the compound bar, running the place like you were born there. Brothers coming in just to hear your voice."
"Now you're just flattering me."
"I see us." His voice dropped, roughened with emotion. "Ten years from now, twenty. Still here. Still together. You talking enough for both of us, me listening because I'll never get tired of the sound."
She blinked back tears that were definitely happy, definitely not grief for anything she'd lost. "That's a long time."
"Not long enough."
"God." She pressed her forehead to his. "I love you. I love you so much it scares me sometimes."
"Don't be scared." His arms tightened around her. "I've got you. Always."
They sat there until the sun climbed higher, wrapped around each other on the hidden bench overlooking the Chesapeake.
She filled the comfortable silence with more plans—a Christmas party for the compound, a spring cookout, ways to help the prospects feel less like outsiders.
He listened the way he always listened, like her words were worth something, like her dreams mattered.
It hit her then, watching the light play across the water, feeling his heartbeat steady against her back: this was his love language. Not words—attention. Not grand gestures—presence. He showed up. He listened. He stayed.
And that was worth more than a thousand pretty speeches.
The ride back to the compound felt different.
Not rushed, not fleeing—just going home. Bethany pressed her cheek against Trawler's leather-clad back and let the rumble of the engine sink into her bones. The coastal highway unfurled beneath them, salt wind carrying the promise of something new.
She thought about Port Mason, about the empty lot that used to be her life. Thought about the compound waiting for them, full of dangerous men who'd somehow become family.
Thought about the man beneath her hands, solid and warm and hers.
The grief was there still—would probably always be there, a quiet corner of her heart that remembered what she'd lost. But it wasn't heavy anymore. Wasn't a weight dragging her down.
It was just... part of the story. The chapter that led to this one.
When the compound gates appeared, something in her chest unclenched. The lot was full of bikes, brothers moving through the morning routines of a life she was still learning. Smoke rose from somewhere—Carly making breakfast, probably, or someone firing up the grill early.
Home.
Trawler pulled to a stop and killed the engine. She climbed off, helmet in hand, and found herself smiling for no reason she could name.
"What?" he asked, catching her expression.
"Nothing. Just..." She looked around at the compound—the converted processing plant, the garage full of chrome and leather, the fire pit where she'd learned that dangerous men could also be family. "I never thought I'd end up somewhere like this. With someone like you."
"Having regrets?"
"Having gratitude." She stepped into his space, pressing her palm flat against his chest. "I found where I belong, Trawler. Against all odds, through fire and violence and everything that should have broken me—I found it."
His hand covered hers. "We found each other."
"Yeah." She rose on her toes to kiss him, soft and sure. "We did."
The compound hummed with life around them, the ordinary rhythms of a world she'd chosen to join.
Tomorrow there would be work—the bar to organize, plans to implement, a future to build.
But right now, there was just this: salt wind and solid warmth and the bone-deep certainty that she was exactly where she was supposed to be.
Bethany Cole had finally found her place.
And she was never letting go.