"Turned out to be a gang." He says it casually, but there's weight behind the words. History. Regret. "That's a whole different subject though. Not great breakfast conversation."
A gang. Nash was in a motorcycle gang.
That explains so much—the leather jacket that looks lived-in rather than fashionable, the way he moves with that contained danger, the scars I noticed on his knuckles at breakfast, the edge underneath his smooth lawyer exterior.
I'm intrigued—dying to ask more questions. How did he get out? Was it dangerous? Is that how he met Grayson and Theo? But something in his tone tells me this isn't the time. Maybe it's a story for when we know each other better. When trust has been built and secrets don't feel so dangerous to share.
So I just nod, looking out the window as the landscape rolls by.
"Let's drop your stuff at the house first," Nash says, changing the subject smoothly. "Then we'll make our way to the next town for shopping."
"Sounds good."
The truck settles into a comfortable rhythm on the highway.
The heater blows warm air that carries the faint scent of pine—probably from the little tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror alongside fuzzy dice that look like they've been there since Nash bought the truck. Christmas music plays softly from the radio. Mariah Carey is back for the millionth time today, telling everyone what she wants for Christmas with that powerhouse voice.
I lean back in the seat, watching the world pass by through the passenger window.
Snow-dusted fields stretch endlessly on both sides of the highway, rolling gentle hills that go on forever. Farmhouses dot the landscape—some already decorated with Christmas lights twinkling despite the daylight, strings of colored bulbs outlining rooflines and wrapping around porch posts. Others remain plain and functional, maybe belonging to people who don't celebrate or just haven't gotten around to decorating yet.
Cattle huddle together in pastures for warmth, their breath visible in the cold air, creating little clouds around their massive heads. A red barn in the distance has a faded Coca-Cola advertisement painted on its side—the kind you see in old photographs, a remnant of a different era when companies paid farmers to turn their barns into billboards.
Fence posts line the highway, many leaning slightly from years of harsh weather and settling ground. Some have been wrapped with garland and red bows—festive touches in an otherwise stark winter landscape. Bare trees reach skeletal branches toward the pale gray sky, creating intricate silhouettes against the overcast backdrop.
This is so different from the cramped apartment I've been living in for the past year. Different from the bars and businesses and crowded streets of downtown Oakridge Hollow where everything is packed together and noise never stops. Out here, everything is open. Spacious. Room to breathe without feeling like walls are closing in.
The sky stretches forever, no buildings blocking the view.
I pull out my phone without thinking. The urge to document this moment is automatic after years of content creation. The landscape is beautiful—would make great B-roll for a video. Or a photo series about leaving one life behind and starting another.
But then I hesitate, thumb hovering over the camera app.
With Kael's pack, every time I tried to film or take photos, there was commentary. Mocking laughter. Questions about what I was doing, said in that tone that implied I was wasting time on something stupid. Eventually I stopped creating content around them entirely.
But Nash said to focus on my game plan. Said they'd help me take this seriously.
I open the camera app and angle my phone toward the window. The fields blur past—golden browns and whites, baretrees creating stark lines against the pale sky. I take a few photos, adjusting the exposure to capture the winter light properly. Then I switch to video for some movement shots, holding my phone steady despite the truck's vibrations.
"What are you doing?" Nash asks, his voice curious rather than judgmental.
I tense anyway, ready for criticism.
"Just getting some footage. For content. I can stop if it's?—"
"You should get shots of the house too," he interrupts. "When we get there. The property looks good on camera—Grayson's done lots of work on the landscaping. He'd probably love to see it featured in your content."
I blink at him, surprised.
"Really?"
"Why do you keep sounding surprised when we offer to help?" He glances at me, eyebrow raised. "This is your career. Document whatever you want. We'll help however we can. If you need us to hold props or move furniture or whatever influencers do, just say the word."
My chest feels warm.
"Thank you. That means more than you probably realize."
He just nods, turning his attention back to the road.
