1. Emma #3
He’ll know I’m gone when he gets back, and he’ll know exactly where I’m headed.
My only option is to put as many miles as possible between Devin and us as quickly as I can.
I clutch Fijor tightly to my chest as I scan the parking lot for any sign that a Rider is watching me for Devin, then rush toward the car.
My heart thunders against my ribs as Fijor’s little arms wrap around my neck.
Every shadow in the parking lot makes me flinch, my eyes darting from one dark corner to the next, searching for any hint that a Rider might be lurking, relaying my movements to Devin.
My arms strain, every muscle trembling with adrenaline and fear, but I refuse to let him go.
I whisper soothing words into his hair, trying to keep him calm even as my own nerves threaten to unravel.
With each hurried step, the distance to the car seems to stretch farther and farther, but I push on, clutching him tighter, my grip almost desperate.
I glance over my shoulder, certain I’ll see movement, Devin or one of his men watching, waiting.
My hands shake as I fumble with the keys, trying to unlock the door without dropping Fijor.
I finally get the car door open and settle Fijor into his car seat.
He’s big for his age, making the task even more difficult as he squirms sleepily and asks if we’re going for a ride.
I wrestle with the straps, cursing softly under my breath when they snag, but I manage to click him in, double-checking the buckle with trembling fingers.
The silence of the empty parking lot presses in on me, and for a split second I freeze, thinking I hear something, listening for the rumble of Devin’s motorcycle or the heavy tread of approaching boots. I glance over my shoulder as my eyes dart around, trying to scan the lot.
When nothing comes, I force myself to move, slipping into the driver’s seat and slamming the door.
My breathing is ragged, and my hands still shake as I jam the keys into the ignition.
The engine roars to life. Without a second thought, I throw the car into reverse and peel out of the lot, tires squealing on the pavement.
Fijor's wild eyes stare at me in the rearview mirror. “Let’s go see Papa, kid,” I say, mustering as much fake enthusiasm as I can. He claps wildly.
“I love Papa,” he says.
“Me too, son.”
Speeding down I-40, heading back to where I vowed never to return, praying to anyone who will listen not to get stopped, I pass the green “Welcome to Oklahoma” sign two and a half hours into our trip.
I breathe a small sigh of relief, but I know my worries are far from over.
I aim for the only safety I have, my father.
I haven't been back since that summer, trying like hell to avoid all the unanswered questions and memories.
Trey made it abundantly clear where we stood when he went to prison.
I didn’t want to stir up drama in the club.
I didn’t want my father to force his hand.
I didn’t want to be anything like Donna.
The last time I saw Trey, I didn’t even know I was pregnant.
Coming home with the news Snake gave me, along with the child of a patched member, is going to cause an uproar, not just in the club but in my head. But what choice do we have?
At least with Trey still in prison, I won't have to face him just yet. Just his whole family and the memories. I cringe. I loved that man, and he ripped my heart out. I understand why he did it. He was only thinking of me, but it still didn’t make the heartache any easier to bear.
I glance in the rearview mirror and take a quick look at my sleeping son in the back seat.
He looks so much like his father, with his dark black hair and long eyelashes fanning his face as he sleeps.
I almost told my dad when he came to visit us in the hospital while I was in labor, but I kept my mouth shut.
The second they placed him in my arms, I was a goner.
I knew true love in that instant. I vowed to always put him first. I cried every night of my pregnancy, missing Trey, and holding my newborn in my arms only reminded me of the life we were going to build.
The life we would no longer get. I cried and stroked Fijor's little nose, mourning what could have been all over again.
Even as a newborn, he looked just like his giant father.
Dalton Anderson IV, Fijor to the rest of the world, came into this world kicking and screaming, bringing a small piece of his father to me, someone I so desperately needed.
***
Past…
I’m seated in the jail's visitation center, speaking with Trey through a glass partition.
The air carries a sharp bleach scent, mixed with recirculated air; you can almost taste the lack of fresh air.
The glass is smudged with fingerprints from past conversations.
Trey looks tense, his eyes darting as he talks.
His hands are still shackled to the table.
The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead, coupled with the chipped cream paint and cinderblock walls, only adds to the sterile atmosphere.
Guards patrol nearby, their expressions stern and watchful, waiting with an almost bored tone.
Everywhere I look, I’m reminded of the nightmare we’re in.
The sounds and smells are almost suffocating, but not as suffocating as the words coming out of Trey’s mouth.
“What do you mean you don’t want to see me anymore? Trey, please, you can’t be serious. I love you.” I plead, my mind struggling to catch up to what he’s saying. It’s a far cry from a few weeks ago, when we were in the truck the night before he was arrested. That night, he had promised me forever.
“You’re eighteen fucking years old; you have the rest of your life to live. Go back home, Emma,” he says sternly. Tears stream down my cheeks as I shake my head, not quite understanding or even believing what he says.
“No, you said you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me,” I plead with profound conviction.
This man loves me. I know he does. Why is he saying this to me?
Is this just some fucked-up thing he has to say around the guards or the other prisoners?
I know Trey is huge and can take care of himself, but is it some safety tactic he has to use?
Any minute now, he is going to give me a clue that he is just saying this because he has to, not because he really means it.
“Damnit, woman, look around you. At best, I go down for four years. If that fucker dies, I’m looking at twenty for manslaughter.
Do you want to be pushing forty the next time you get to fuck your old man?
For Christ's sake, half our lives may be gone by the time I get out.” He takes a deep breath, running his hand through his hair.
He closes his eyes for a second, then looks back at me with steely resolve.
The determination is clear. He’s hell-bent on getting me far away from him for my own good, even if it goes against my wishes. He’s not joking. He means it.
He takes a deep breath, looking at me. I see the muscle in his jaw twitch.
“I can't let you waste your life on a man like me, Pet. You need to leave and not come back. Go live your life with a man who isn’t going to rot behind bars. One day, when you’re happy with that family we always talked about, you’ll thank me.
Don’t contact me, Emma. I won’t answer.” He gets up to leave, taking my heart with him.
I drop the phone and slam the divider. “You piece of shit! How dare you! Get back here!” I scream at him, the words tearing raw and desperate from my throat.
My fists hammer the glass divider with increasing force, the jarring vibrations radiating up my arms as I struggle to make him turn around.
My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear my own cries.
“You don’t get to choose that for me!” I shout, my voice breaking as hot tears pour down my cheeks, blurring my vision.
I pound harder on the glass, each impact fueled by a surge of grief and fury, desperate to catch his attention before he disappears from my life for good.
Through the haze of my hysteria, I barely register the firm hands grabbing me from behind—one on my upper arm, another steadying my shoulder.
I thrash against the grip, desperate to break free, but I’m no match for the guard’s strength.
My body is dragged backward. Panic claws at my chest as I realize I’m being escorted out, my pleas echoing off the cinderblock walls.
“Trey! Trey, please!” I cry out, my voice cracking under the weight of everything we’re losing.
The only thoughts driving me are to reach him and not let him just walk out on me and the future we had planned together.
My mind races with memories—the laughter, the whispered promises, the safety of his arms—and now the unbearable ache of him refusing to look back.
Each step away from that room feels like a door slamming shut, a future unraveling thread by thread, leaving me hollow and gasping in the wake of what will never be.
***
Present…
The next morning, to add insult to injury, I learned I was pregnant.
The love of my life, the father of my unborn child, had removed himself from my life.
For the next six months, I tried to see him and write to him, but true to his word, he didn’t answer.
I was turned away at the visitor's desk by the guards.
All my letters were returned as undeliverable.
At a certain point, I realized he meant it. He was going to turn me away.