Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 252(@200wpm)___ 201(@250wpm)___ 168(@300wpm)
That’s when I move.
Quick. Hard.
My fist balled up in his shirt and I slam him back into the SUV. The folder drops, forgotten, a yellow splotch on gravel. Frankie’s eyes go wide, the smirk draining away.
“You don’t look at her. You don’t talk to her. You forget she ever existed.”
He tries for bravado, but his breathing’s fast now, pulse jumping under my hand. “You hit me, and I press charges.”
“You show up again, and I won’t stop with a hit.”
Rex is behind me, arms folded, voice like gravel. “You heard the man. You’ve been warned. This is the only pass. Next time, you leave in a body bag on the way to the morgue.”
Frankie smooths his shirt, pride wounded, face pale. He leaves the folder where it fell and slides back into the SUV, silence stretched tight as wire. He doesn’t say another word. Engine starts, tires spit gravel, and then he’s gone.
But I stand there long after he leaves, boots rooted to the spot. Because trouble doesn’t just vanish.
It recedes.
Waits.
Watches for its moment. And when things get quiet? That’s when you need to worry.
I don’t tell Cambria about the folder. Not yet.
It isn’t because I don’t trust her. It’s because I need to know what’s inside before it can blow up in our faces. I’d rather be the one carrying that weight, at least until I know what the hell I’m up against.
The folder sits on my workbench all afternoon, glaring up at me every time I pass. The cover is torn at the edge, curling like an old scab that’s dying to be picked. Part of me wants to burn it, unread. The other part? I owe the club answers. I owe myself some peace.
Rex doesn’t push. He gives me space. His silence says what he won’t: whatever’s in there, it better not break me. I finally have my footing in this club. After years of feeling like the outsider, the tagalong, the brother who always came in second to Axel, I’m finally solid here. He doesn’t want to watch me unravel. Neither do I.
Cambria finds me in the garage a little before dinner. She’s quiet, eyes searching my face for clues. She knows something’s off. She always knows.
“Everything okay?” she asks. She tries to keep her tone light, but I see the worry creeping in around the edges. “He came for me, didn’t he?”
I nod. “He did. But he’s not getting you.” I try for a smile, raising my eyebrows. “Unless you want to go with him, that is.”
Her eyes go wild, panic sparking, then dying just as fast. She shakes her head, fierce. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m not gonna keep you here against your will, Cambria. I want you with me. I’m willing to take this to war for you.”
She takes a step closer, voice soft. “Yesnia said that today. She said the whole club will keep me safe from him, from my past.”
“We will.”
She nods, lets herself believe it, at least for now. “You talk to him?”
“Didn’t give him much chance.”
She leans against the wall, arms folded, watching me. She doesn’t press, doesn’t prod. Maybe she’s used to men lying to her, or maybe she just knows I’ll talk when I’m ready. Either way, I’m grateful. It’s the not-pushing that makes me want to spill everything.
Back home, the night is quiet. We eat leftovers, trade a few tired jokes, try to pretend the world isn’t circling the drain outside our door. She sketches in her book while I fix a squeaky hinge. We move around each other like we’ve been doing this for years. There’s a peace in it, even when everything else is chaos.
It’s after midnight when I finally crack the folder open.
The trailer is silent, shadows stretching across the carpet. Cambria’s asleep on the couch, a blanket tucked up under her chin, sketchbook open and pencil still in her hand. Her hair falls across her cheek, one curl tangled against her mouth. The lamplight pools over her, warm and golden. She looks peaceful. Untouchable.
I feel like a traitor.
I shouldn’t open this. What we have isn’t about her past. It’s about right now—about the way she laughs when she thinks no one’s listening, the way she always finds the sunny spot to sit in, how she touches me like I’m something precious.
But I’m club first, always. I have a responsibility to protect my patch. Even from the people I love.
Inside the folder are photocopied records—juvenile files, arrest sheets, counseling notes. Most of its old. Petty theft. Loitering. A note from a school counselor saying she was found sleeping in a stairwell. My throat goes tight at that, thinking of her, small and scared, cold on a concrete floor.
And then there’s a police report.
That one stops me cold.
A minor. Injured. Witness statement clear as day. Her name listed as a victim.