Behind us, the clubhouse remains deceptively casual—TV still roaring with cage fight blood, bar stools creaking, bottles clinking—but the voices have dropped. Knox is listening without looking, Malachi’s expression unreadable, Nash watches me like he’s waiting for the aftershock, and Candace leans back, arms folded, observing.
Only Frankie and I understand the depths of this conversation. Only Nash truly gets it.
“You think I didn’t give a damn?” I ask, voice sharp now. “You think I ever stopped carrying it?”
Frankie exhales, tired. “She’s not a responsibility, East.”
“No,” I say, my conviction hardening. “She’s a promise.”
A beat of silence hangs in the air.
Then—
“I never said I was going with Frankie,” Darla cuts in. Her voice is quiet, but crisp. Final. We all turn to her.
She’s standing now, one hand still braced on the couch like she’s anchoring herself. Her blonde hair still damp, shoulders tight with tension. But her eyes? Steel.
“I’m going with East,” she declares, her tone firm. “So unless anyone wants to argue with me about my own damn life, maybe stop making it a group project.”
Frankie’s face shifts—frown tightening, but respect settling in just beneath it. She walks to Darla, laying a hand lightly on hershoulder. She says something low, too quiet to catch, but the warmth in her eyes shows it’s supportive.
Darla doesn’t flinch. Just closes her eyes for a moment, then nods, the resolve hardening in her. Frankie turns back toward the rest of us, her demeanor shifting as she adapts to the new dynamic. Then Ruby bursts in again, like she’s been waiting for a cue line.
“Okay, so guess who just texted me?” she announces, her energy infectious.
Frankie arches a brow, curiosity piqued.
“Sloane,” Ruby says, her eyes sparkling. “Green light’s on. Time to go mess with Trent.” She bounces on her heels, glitter eyeliner catching the overhead lights. “I’m thinking some noise complaints. A few pain med swaps. Maybe a ghost sighting or two. You in?”
Frankie hesitates, glancing between Ruby and Darla. Then her gaze lands on me.
She steps close again and lowers her voice, urgency in her tone. “Give her space. But don’t let her drift too far. She’ll convince herself she’s safest alone.”
Before I can ask if that’s a warning or a prophecy, she’s gone, following Ruby out the door like they’ve got spells to cast and retribution to deliver.
Chapter 17
Darla
Thetruckisablend of oil, worn leather, and the unmistakable scent that clings to East. Something raw and unrefined, a mix of sweat and engine grease that feels oddly comforting. It’s not cologne; it’s too real for that, too earthy. It’s a familiarity I wish I could shake off, but it anchors me in this moment where I should feel safe, yet the lingering shadows of my past whisper otherwise.
I sit rigidly in the passenger seat of the Outsiders’ shop truck. It’s a battered relic used for hauling parts and tools. The vinyl seats are cracked and faded, a testament to years of hard use, but at least it’s not the back of a bike. I can only imagine how the wind would whip against my bruised ribs, and the sharp,ugly memory of Trent's knee slamming into my side makes me flinch. I should feel grateful for this small mercy, but a wave of humiliation washes over me.
What is my father doing right now? Is he calling the police? Dispatching his own people to hunt me down?The thought gnaws at my insides like a predator stalking its prey. Safety feels fragile, temporary—a thin veneer that could shatter at any moment.
East is being overly cautious, almost as if he thinks I’m made of glass. He opens the door for me like I’m a delicate flower, his movements deliberate and slow. His voice drops to a near whisper when he speaks, as if raising it might shatter something fragile between us. A part of me bristles at the thought. I’m not breakable. But maybe, just maybe, he’s right. Maybe I need this caution, this care… even if it feels like a different cage.
The silence envelops us as we drive away from the clubhouse, not uncomfortable or strained, but thick with unspoken words. It feels like there’s a chasm between us, filled with everything we’re avoiding. I risk a glance at him, watching the way his jaw tightens as he focuses on the road, and I wonder if he feels it too—this weight that clings to us like a second skin.
He taps the screen mounted on the dashboard, and I watch as he makes a call, his expression shifting to something more serious. “Sloane,” he says, his tone steady, betraying none of the turmoil swirling beneath the surface.
“What's up?” Sloane’s voice crackles through the speakers, sharp yet calm.
“Do you think you could swing by my place and check on Darla?” he asks, concern threading through his words. “She’s still hurting.”
I turn to him, surprised by his thoughtfulness. It’s a side of him I didn’t expect, and it catches me off guard. He doesn’tmeet my eyes, staring straight ahead, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
Sloane hums thoughtfully. “We just made Trent’s stay a little more interesting. I’ll bring Knox. Be there soon.” There’s a pause before she adds, “Take care of her, East.”
