Chapter Eighteen
Kath
The afternoon rush at The Grindhouse had finally died down, leaving Kath alone behind the counter with nothing but the hiss of the espresso machine and her own racing thoughts.
She wiped the whole length of the counter, her movements mechanical.
Days of silence from Chase. Days of her brain cycling through every possible reason why he’d gone quiet after that perfect call from the bus.
Every scenario ended the same way: She’d gotten too close, let herself hope, and now he was pulling away.
She hated how much it hurt.
Her phone buzzed in her apron pocket. Not Chase. Just a reminder that her shift was over. She let out a shaky breath, untied her apron, and clocked out.
The ride home felt longer than usual. The blue-and-white bike roared beneath her, but even its familiar thunder couldn’t drown out the anxious spiral in her head.
By the time she pulled into the driveway, her chest was tight with dread. She sat there for a moment, staring at the dark house. Maudie’s car was gone. Again.
Inside, she dropped her helmet on the desk chair in her bedroom and sank onto her bed, pulling out her phone. She needed to hear a friendly voice before she completely unraveled. She hit Emy’s contact for a video call.
Emy answered on the second ring, her face filling the screen with familiar concern.
“Uh-oh,” Emy said immediately. “You’ve got that ‘I’m spiraling but pretending I’m fine’ face. What happened?”
Kath tried to laugh, but it came out weak.
“I think I’m losing him, Em. Chase. He was so excited after their Michigan show, calling me from the bus, telling me everything.
Then...nothing. No calls. No texts. He’s just gone quiet.
Totally ghosting me. I keep thinking maybe I scared him off.
Or maybe his world is too big and I’m just... me.”
Emy’s expression softened. “Kath. Baby. You said yourself that boy was treating you like he liked you too. Guys don’t fake that kind of thing. Something else is probably going on.”
“I know. I just...” Kath’s voice cracked. “He felt like one of the best things I’ve ever had in my hands. And now it’s slipping away, and I don’t even know why. I’m so scared I’m going to end up just like—”
She cut herself off, but Emy knew.
“Like your mom,” Emy finished gently. “You’re not. You’re nothing like her. You’re careful. You’re strong. You’re—”
A sound from the front of the house made Kath freeze.
Footsteps. Heavy. More than one person.
Her stomach dropped. Maudie’s car wasn’t here. That meant...
“Shit,” Kath whispered. “Someone’s in the house. I think it’s Tony again. I gotta go deal with this.”
“Kath, wait—” Emy started, but Kath was already ending the call.
She stood up, phone in hand and heart pounding, and moved towards the living room. If it was Tony, she was done playing nice. She was tired of him thinking he could come and go like he owned the place.
But when she stepped into the room, it wasn’t Tony.
Two men she’d never seen before stood just inside the front door.
Both were big. Both were watching her with cold, assessing eyes.
One had a scar across his cheek. The other held a phone like he’d just taken a picture of the interior.
His other hand casually held a gun, almost as if it were a part of him.
Kath’s blood turned to ice.
She wasn’t dealing with Maudie’s asshole ex.
This was something else entirely.
And she was alone in the house with two strange men who had just let themselves in.
Her mind raced, calculating the distance to the back door, to anything she could use as a weapon. She knew she wasn’t going to come out of this well if it turned ugly.
Not against two of them.
The man with the scar smiled slowly, like he could read every terrified thought crossing her face.
“Well,” he said quietly. “You must be Kathleen.”
She lifted the phone to dial 911, and he reached out and plucked it from her fingers.
“Nope. That would be rude, and you don’t want to be rude, trust me.”
***
Chase
Chase lifted his hand, knuckles pausing about two inches from the wooden door in front of him.
The familiar grain of the office door at the Fort Wayne clubhouse felt heavier than usual tonight, like it carried the weight of everything he’d been avoiding saying out loud.
He blew out a slow stream of air, trying to steady the restless energy still buzzing under his skin from the long day that had left him hollowed out and wired all at once.
Just knock, idiot. He’s your dad. Not a firing squad.
Three robust fist pounds—less than a cop knock but more than a gutter salesman. Solid. Respectful. The kind of knock that said he wasn’t a scared kid anymore.
“Come,” Mason’s voice came from inside, brusque but not unkind.
Chase opened the door and stepped into the small, familiar office.
The scent of coffee, gun oil, and old leather wrapped around him like it always did.
Mason sat behind the scarred wooden desk, a half-empty mug of coffee in front of him, eyes sharp even at this hour.
He looked tired but alert—the president persona firmly in place.
“Chase, what’s up?”
Chase closed the door behind him with a soft click and stood there for a beat, hands shoved in his pockets so his father wouldn’t see them tremble. What’s up? That was a loaded question his dad probably didn’t know could hurt the way it did.
He sat, then shifted his weight, the worn chair creaking under him in the quiet of Mason’s office. The weight of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours pressed down on his shoulders, but this felt heavier somehow. He met his dad’s steady gaze and forced the words out.
“Mason...Dad, I want to tell you about someone I care about. See how much danger you think she’d be in if I reached out and let her know I’m okay.” Chase huffed out a heavy breath, the admission scraping raw against his throat. “She matters to me, Dad.”
Mason didn’t answer right away. He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes sharp and assessing in that way that always made Chase feel seen straight through to the bone.
The silence stretched, heavy but not unkind—his father weighing every angle the way he always did when club safety was on the line.
“Tell me about her,” Mason said finally, voice quiet and intense. “Who is she? How deep does this go?”
Chase exhaled, some of the tension easing at the question. He told his father the truth—how he’d met Kath at the diner, the bike, the quiet conversations that had turned into something real. How she wasn’t connected to the club but could be pulled in anyway because of him.
When he finished, Mason was quiet again, processing. Then he gave a slow nod, the hard lines of his face softening just a fraction.
“She’s not club,” Mason said carefully. “That makes her safer in some ways, more exposed in others. The threat’s being handled for now, but old ghosts like Diamante don’t always stay buried.
If you reach out, you do it smart. Short message.
No details. Tell her you’re okay and you’ll explain when it’s safe.
Nothing that paints a bigger target on her back. ”
Chase felt the knot in his chest loosen. “So, I have your permission?”
Mason’s mouth twitched—the closest he came to a smile.
“You’re a grown man, Chase. You don’t need my permission to care about someone.
But you do need my advice on how to keep her safe while you do it.
” He leaned forwards, eyes locking with his son’s.
“Go ahead. Reach out. Just be careful. For both your sakes.”
The simple approval felt like a weight finally lifting. Chase swallowed hard and nodded. “Thanks, Dad.”
Mason studied him for another long moment, then added quietly, “And Chase? Don’t shut her out completely. If she matters that much? Then she deserves to know all about the man who’s choosing her. Not just the parts you think are safe.”