“What’s wrong with David?” I asked. I’d been on two dates with him too—dinner and a documentary screening. Both perfectly pleasant, if not particularly thrilling.
“Nothing’s wrong with David,” Emma said carefully. “He’s just... practical. Safe. The kind of guy you date because it makes sense, not because he makes your heart race.”
“And Vaughn makes your heart race?” Sarah asked, studying my face.
I thought about the way Vaughn played guitar, about his laugh, about how he’d kissed me goodnight after our last date—gentle but with an underlying heat that promised more if I wanted it.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “He does.”
“Then forget David and focus on the hot musician,” Emma declared. “Life’s too short for practical when you can have passion.”
“Amen to that,” Sarah said.
As the night wound down and we paid our tab, I checked my phone and saw a text from Vaughn:Thinking about you. Can’t wait for Friday. Maybe after the gig we could grab late-night tacos and you can tell me more about that campaign that’s been kicking your ass?
I smiled and texted back:It’s a date. Fair warning: I might talk about target demographics for an hour.
His response was immediate:I’m a middle school music teacher. I once listened to a 45-minute debate about whether BTS or Stray Kids is better. I can handle marketing talk.
“That smile,” Emma said, pointing at me. “THAT is the smile of a woman who’s moved on. I’m so proud of you.”
“Me too,” I said.
Dutch was my past. Vaughn, and David, and James, and whoever else I might meet—they were my present. My choice. My life.
And it felt damn good.
Chapter 11
?
— Dutch —
The mattress was heavier than I’d expected. The fabric snagged on the doorframe, and the smell of stale sweat and cheap perfume hit me as I wrestled it through. Three months since I’d walked away from this place to get my head straight, and this was the first thing I wanted to do now that I was back.
After leaving Florida, I hadn’t been ready to come home. So I’d taken the long way back.
A week in Savannah with the Devil’s Sons chapter, helping them sort out a territorial dispute with a rival club. A week in Asheville smoothing things over with the Mountain Ghosts after the disaster of a meeting I’d shown up to half-drunk back in October. Another week riding solo through the Blue Ridge, sleeping in roadside motels and small-town bars, thinking about the man I’d been and the man I wanted to become. Then two more weeks in Atlanta, handling some business deals that had been neglected while I was falling apart. The rest of the time I spent on the road between stops, riding until my ass was numb and my head was finally quiet.
Three months of putting myself back together, one mile at a time.
I dropped the mattress in the middle of the parking lot with a thud that echoed off the surrounding buildings.
“What the fuck are you doing, Prez?” Handful called out from the clubhouse steps, where he and Holden had been sharing a morning beer.
“Burning the past,” I said, pulling out my lighter and touching the flame to the corner of the mattress. “Should have done this months ago.”
The fabric caught quickly, orange flames licking up the sides. Within minutes, the whole thing was engulfed, sending a black plume of smoke into the clear morning sky.
“Jesus, Dutch,” Holden said, jogging over. “You could have just put it in the dumpster.”
“Nah.” I stepped back from the heat, watching the flames consume everything. “This needed to burn.”
The mattress where I’d fucked countless club girls. Where I’d betrayed Indira without even thinking about it. Where I’d acted like the worst kind of man because that’s what I thought being a man meant.
“That where you used to take Crystal?” Handful asked, and I could hear the nervous edge in his voice.
“Crystal. Candy. Tiffany. Whoever.” I shrugged. “I’m done with all that.”
