Chapter 32
Reagan
My mouth tastes like copper. My wrists ache, wrapped in gauze that’s too white, too clean, too much of a reminder.
I’m still alive.
The thought brings neither relief nor disappointment. Just a dull, hollow awareness that pain still haunts me like a ghost with a vendetta.
A chair scrapes against linoleum. Someone is here. I turn my head, expecting Shane. Maybe even my parents, although I know better than to hope for that.
It’s Mason.
Sandy blond hair disheveled. Dark circles under his eyes. His jaw tight with something between anger and concern. He’s wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
“You’re awake.” His voice is rough, like he hasn’t slept.
I stare at him, confusion clouding my already foggy brain. “Sorry to disappoint you. It wasn’t the plan.”
His brows furrow. “Seriously?”
There’s nothing more serious than suicide attempts from someone who is done crying for help. My gaze returns to the white ceiling. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but of all the people I expected to see, you’re the last. Why are you here?”
“You belong to me, ain’t it? Been that way for months. You and Blue made sure of it.”
Everything comes rushing back. The club. The photos. Shane. The lies that were put on my tongue. I want to sink into the mattress, disappear into nothing. “I told them you didn’t do it. I was going to tell the truth.”
“But he didn’t let you. I know. I was there.”
“Why didn’t you tell them what really happened? You could have exposed our secret, thrown Shane under the bus to save yourself.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he leans back in the chair. “No one would’ve believed me anyway.”
“You could’ve tried.”
“Blue made me look guilty. The photos, the timing, the way he set it all up. You told the truth, and he made them all think that you were just scared of me. He had them all wrapped around his finger. Blue, their fucking golden boy.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s not your fault.”
“Isn’t it? If I’d just listened to you…”
“You can’t keep beating yourself down like that. And this?” He points at my slit wrists. “How could you do this to yourself, Reagan?”
“How could I not?” The words sit heavily on my tongue. “After what happened… You say it’s not my fault. How come I was the one who got punished for it all?”
He just stares at me.
“You got a slap on the wrist and got exiled. Big deal.” My voice cracks. “I got kicked out of the clubhouse because it wasn’t safe for me anymore. As if my home was ever safe.”
Mason’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“The beatings came back.” I close my eyes, but that doesn’t stop the memories.
My mother’s fists. Her boots. The belt. The words that cut deeper than any physical wound.
“If I thought I had it bad before, it was ten times worse. She punished and blamed me for everything. For being a whore. For ruining her reputation. For existing.”
“Reagan—”
“And Shane.” His name tastes like bile. “He stopped protecting me. Stopped standing up to my mother. Stopped caring. Shane, who swore to protect me no matter what, who promised to take care of it all, he’s the one who told Prez to kick me out of the clubhouse.
It’s my punishment because I refused to lie to save his ass or give him the freedom to fuck whoever he wanted from the club bunnies without my knowing or nagging. ”
As if I wanted anything to do with him after what he’d done.
As if I could bear to look at him after—
Something inside my chest cracks wide open. The pain is so visceral, so consuming, I have to press my hand against my sternum to keep from breaking apart. I swallow hard, forcing down the grief that threatens to drown me. The loss that has no name. The pieces they ripped out of me.
“Reagan.” Mason’s voice is gentler now. He pulls the chair closer and sits, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Listen to me. What’s done is done, but you have your whole life ahead of you.
Summer is almost over. Junior year is a few days away.
You’ll have two years to get your diploma and get the hell out of there. ”
A broken, bitter laugh scrapes out of my throat. “Two years. You say that like it’s nothing. Like I can just suck it up for two years.”
“I know it’s not—”
“You don’t know anything. Two years might as well be two centuries.”
Mason reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key. He sets it on the table beside my bed.
I squint at it. “What’s that?”
“Key to my place. If things get rough—rougher than you can take—you can crash there anytime. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning. You need a place to go, you’ve got one.”
I stare at the key like it's an alien. “Why are you being nice to me? You don’t owe me anything, Mason. If anything, you should hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Reagan. You did nothing wrong. It was all his fault. You gotta start believing that.”
I reach for the key, turning it over in my palm. The metal is cold, solid, real. “Thank you, Mason.”
Pity drops from his gaze as he nods. I hate this feeling, being pitied, but beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, I see something else written all over his face.
A mutual enemy.
That is a power not to be underestimated.
However, I’ve learned my lesson. Favors aren’t free. You always have to give something in return. If you don’t decide for yourself what to offer, they’ll make that decision for you.
You don’t want that. You never want that.
“I want to make it up to you,” I say quietly. “I can tutor you. Help you get your diploma, too. It's the least I can do."
Mason raises an eyebrow. “You really think I'm going back to school?”
“You should. What else are you gonna do? Join another MC?”
“You don’t understand what exile is, do ya? I’m barred, Reagan.”
“Another reason to get out of here then. For that to happen, school gives you options.”
“I ain’t that smart, and I need a job to put food on the table. I’m fucking eighteen now. My aunt went home to her kids right after my birthday. Brother still in the army. Club ain’t helping anymore. No one is. I’m lucky I got that gig fixing cars at Bishop’s. Can’t lose it.”
“You’re smart, Mason. Smarter than you give yourself credit for. No one says you can’t finish high school and keep your job at the same time. With my help, you can do both. Wasn’t graduating your mother’s wish?”
Sadness touches his face. “Yeah.”
“You’re a junior, like me, right?”
“Ain’t fun at eighteen, ya know?”
“Well, if you let me tutor you, I promise you no more flunking. You’ll graduate with me. Then you can do whatever you want. Stay at Bishop’s, leave Jacksonville, go to fucking college, who knows?”
“College,” he scoffs.
At least, he doesn’t reject the whole idea like Shane. Mason contemplates it. “The sky is the limit. The point is, you get to choose.”
“That oughta be nice.”
I meet his eyes. “So what do you say, two years, graduation, together?”
He studies me for a while. “Only if you promise never to try that shit again,” he glances at my wrists one more time, “and to get outta here the second you hold that diploma.”
“Trust me. I can’t wait.”
“Alright.” He stretches out his hand. “Deal.”
“Deal.”