I want to believe him.
I want to believe that there's a version of this story where Vanna comes home healthy and whole, where we get to build the life we always dreamed of.
But I've been burned too many times.
Hope feels like a trap now, a pit I can't afford to fall into.
"I can't stop thinking about her," I admit. "Every second, I'm wondering if she's okay. If she's suffering. If she's—" I can't finish the sentence.
"I know." Ruger releases my wrist and sits back on his heels. "I've been there, brother. The waiting. The not knowing. It's torture"
"How did you get through it?"
He's quiet for a moment, considering the question. "I didn't, not really. I just... survived. One day at a time, until one day it got easier." He stands, brushing off his jeans. "That's all any of us can do, brother. Survive until it gets easier."
He leaves me with those words echoing in my head, and I go back to work on the bike, trying not to think about how many days I have left to survive.
Ounce finds me on day eight.
Our VP is a hard man to read.
He's been with the club for as long as me and Ruger, and in all that time, I've never quite figured out what goes on behind those dark eyes.
He's got secrets—we all do—but Ounce's seem heavier than most.
He doesn't announce himself.
Just appears in the garage doorway like a shadow, watching me work with an expression I can't decipher.
"Heard you've been living in here," he says.
"Beats the alternative."
"Which is?"
I don't answer.
We both know the alternative is lying in my room, staring at the ceiling, driving myself insane with worry.
Ounce moves into the garage, his footsteps silent on the concrete floor.
He studies the Shovelhead for a moment, nodding in appreciation. "Nice work. She's gonna be a beauty when she's done."
"Yeah." I wipe my hands on a rag, grateful for the distraction. "Should be ready to ride by spring."
"Vanna pick that color?"
The question catches me off guard. "Yeah. How'd you know?"
"She always did have good taste." Ounce leans against the workbench, arms crossed over his chest. "How you holding up?"
"Fine."
He snorts. "Bullshit. But I get it. You don't want to talk about it."
"Not much to say."
"Maybe not." He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is different. Softer. Almost gentle. "Detox is the hardest part, you know. The body fighting against itself. It's like being unmade and remade at the same time."
