"That's what Ruger said. Then Ellie pointed out that Ruger was stealing cars at sixteen, and he shut up real quick."
The image makes me smile.
Ruger, the club president, getting put in his place by his aunt. That's how it should be.
"What about Maddox?"
"Same as always. Quiet. He helped me clean out the storage room last week—found a box of your old stuff I didn't even know was there. Pictures, mostly. From before." Garrett's voice softens. "He didn't say anything. Just handed me the box and patted my shoulder. That man's got a heart of gold under all that muscle."
"And Ounce?"
Something flickers across Garrett's face. "Ounce is... Ounce. He's been keeping to himself more lately. I think he's got some stuff going on, but he's not talking about it."
I remember what Garrett told me about Ounce.
Former dealer. Knows the streets, knows the darkness that lives there.
He's the one who said recovery isn't a straight line.
"He understands," I say quietly. "What I'm going through. Doesn't he?"
Garrett nods slowly. "He's been where you are. Different substance, same demon. He got out. Built a new life." He pauses. "He asked about you, actually. Wanted to know how you were doing."
"Tell him I'm doing okay. Tell him I'm taking it one day at a time."
"I will."
We talk for another hour.
He tells me about the garage, about the bikes he's been working on, about the way the clubhouse smells like pine now because Aunt Ellie insisted on putting up Christmas decorations.
He tells me about church—the weekly meetings where club business gets discussed—and how Ruger's been talking about expanding their legitimate operations, maybe opening a second location for the garage.
"We had a vote last week," Garrett says. "Unanimous. Everyone wants to see the club grow the right way. Porter's been crunching numbers, looking at properties. There's an old building on the edge of town that might work—needs some fixing up, but the price is right."
"Porter's good with money?"
"Best we've got. Man used to be an accountant before he patched in. Now he handles all the club's finances, keeps us legitwith the IRS." Garrett shakes his head. "Never thought I'd be part of an MC that files taxes, but here we are."
The idea of outlaws filing taxes makes me laugh. "Times are changing."
"They are. Ruger's been pushing hard for it. He says the old ways don't work anymore—too much heat from the feds, too much risk. He wants the club to be something his future kids can be proud of someday. Something that lasts, but you and I know there will always be things that happen under the surface."
"Yeah, but he’s trying to have most of the club money be clean," I say. "As clean as you can, anyway."
"Exactly."
"So, you said future kids?"
"Tildie's not pregnant yet, but it's not for lack of trying." He grins. "Ruger's already talking about names. Thinks he's gonna have a whole baseball team."
The image of tough, scarred Ruger picking out baby names makes something warm bloom in my chest.
These men—these rough, dangerous men who would kill for each other without hesitation—they're building families. Building futures.
And I'm going to be part of that.
"I wrote to my father," I say suddenly.
