Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38856 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 194(@200wpm)___ 155(@250wpm)___ 130(@300wpm)
The silence stretches between us, filled with what I'm not saying.
"From the Ashby place?" He finally asks, judgment thick in his tone.
"Yeah. Bring the Charger, not your bike."
Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing his response.
"Trouble?"
I close my eyes, seeing Savannah's face when she wakes to find me gone. Seeing Mercy's when she realizes I've left again.
"No. Just time."
Diesel breathes into the phone, understanding what I mean. The club doesn't require explanations. Doesn't demand justifications for the damage you carry. My demons fit there, contained within rules, and hierarchy, and purpose.
"Leavin' now. Be there in forty," he says, and the line goes dead.
I replace the receiver and stand in the perfect kitchen where I don't belong. Where I've never belonged.
Then I leave without saying goodbye.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I walk the quarter-mile drive. I pull a crumpled pack of Marlboros from my pocket, bummed earlier from one of the ranch hands. Light one, the flame briefly illuminating my face in the darkness. The first drag burns all the way down, sharp and familiar.
Halfway to the gate, I stop and turn. The mansion sits dark and silent on its perfect hill, framed by mountains that have watched over this valley for centuries. All that money, all that history, all that fucking privilege—and it couldn't save any of them.
Not Eleanor from her obsessions.
Not Savannah from her mother's plans.
Not even Cash from whatever eats him inside out.
Tomorrow morning, Savannah will wake alone. She'll search the house, calling my name. Then she'll understand.
I exhale a cloud of smoke that disappears into the night air. She'll hate me for this. Mercy too, eventually. The thought settles in my chest like a stone, heavy but necessary. Better they hate me than watch me drag them down. Better they build something without me than burn trying to save me.
I reach the gate and punch in the code. The mechanism clicks, and I push it open manually instead of waiting for the automatic swing.
Stepping beyond the boundary, I leave Ashby land behind. The moment my boot touches public dirt, I feel lighter. Like I've shed something I was never meant to wear.
Then… it's nothing but waiting. Thirty long minutes before I hear the rumble of Diesel's 1970 Dodge Charger in the distance. It grows louder as it climbs the county road toward the ranch. The sound is a promise—of brotherhood, of purpose, of the only family that ever wanted the real me, not some version they could fix, or change, or use.
The headlights appear around the bend, cutting through the darkness with twin beams. I drop my cigarette, crushing it under my heel as the car pulls to a stop beside me. Diesel leans across to push open the passenger door.
My Badlands cut lies folded on the seat, the skull wrapped in barbed wire visible even in the dim light. I pick it up, feeling the weight of it in my hands. The leather is cool against my fingers as I shrug it on, settling it across my shoulders like armor. The brand on my chest seems to pulse beneath my t-shirt, a reminder of blood oaths and promises made.
I slide into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind me. I don't look back at the mansion as Diesel pulls away. Don't need to. I've memorized every inch of what I'm leaving behind—Savannah's skin in moonlight, Mercy's smile when she thought we might be a family, the taste of something I was never meant to keep.
"You good?" Diesel asks, eyes on the road ahead.
I nod once, settling deeper into the seat.
Maybe a better man would stay, but I’ve never been the better man.
"Yeah," I tell him. "I’m good."