They grew up together in all the ways that mattered.First apartment that smelled like burnt coffee and motor oil.Late nights when he came home bruised and tired and she patched him up without asking questions.
She believed in him when believing wasn’t easy.Believed in the club, in the road, in the man he was trying to be.Havoc had never doubted they were endgame.
Death was supposed to come for them together, gray haired and stubborn, still bickering over stupid shit.Instead it came early.Cruel and sudden and unfair.
It stole her in a blink and left him standing there with blood on his hands and a future that felt hollowed out.Took the only person who ever made the noise in his head quiet.
The only one who could pull him back from the edge without trying.
Havoc finished the beer and crushed the can in his fist.The metal groaned, sharp edges biting into his palm.His knuckles ached, skin splitting just enough to sting.
It grounded him.Pain always did.
“Run’s clean,” he said finally to King.“Route’s clear.No tails.No surprises.”
King nodded.“Good.We’ve had eyes on the east side.Rival club’s sniffing around again.”
Havoc’s jaw tightened.“Which one?”
“Not sure yet.”
“Then I’ll be sure,” Havoc said.“I’ll ride it myself.”
King lifted a brow.“That’s my Road Captain.”
That earned him a glance.Not pride or satisfaction, just obligation.
Havoc pushed off the counter and headed for the stairs, boots heavy on concrete.His room was dark when he stepped inside.It was quiet, perhaps too quiet.There was no soft breathing.No life waiting for him at the end of a long ride.
He didn’t turn on the light.Havoc didn’t need to see it to know what was there.
The bed, untouched except by him.The empty side that stayed empty.The ghost of a life that had ended twisted and broken on a stretch of road not unlike the one he’d just ridden.
Havoc sat on the edge of the mattress and scrubbed a hand over his face.His chest tightened, breath going shallow for a heartbeat before he forced it back under control.
Weakness was a luxury he couldn’t afford.
Downstairs, the clubhouse was alive.He could hear it through the walls.Laughter, low and reckless.Music bleeding through worn speakers.The easy company of bodies that knew how to keep loneliness at bay for a night.
He could go down there.
There were women who wouldn’t ask questions, who knew the rules and the rhythm of the club.Women who’d slide into his lap, press close, offer warmth without expectation.He’d taken them up on it before, on the nights when the silence got too loud and the bed felt like a damn accusation.
It never helped, because the moment skin touched skin, his mind betrayed him.Libby’s laugh.The way she fit against him like she’d been made there.The way she used to curl into his side, stealing his heat and his breath in the same motion.Every time, the loneliness sharpened instead of dulled, carving deeper, leaving him more hollow than before.So he stayed where he was.
He lay back and stared at the ceiling, the faint hum of the clubhouse bleeding through the walls.Somewhere downstairs, someone laughed again.Somewhere outside, engines revved, hungry and impatient.Life went on.It always did, with or without him.
He closed his eyes and pictured the curve on the highway.The skid.The split second where everything could have ended.Metal screaming.Time stretching thin as a wire.
A small, dark part of him wished it had.Not because he wanted to die, but because he was tired of surviving without ever really feeling alive.
Tomorrow he’d ride again.Take another risk.Push it a little harder.Lean deeper into the turn.Ride faster, longer, closer to the edge.Until something gave or until something changed.
Havoc rolled onto his side and stared into the dark, his expression carved from stone.
If death came for him on two wheels, so be it.He’d meet it head on.And maybe, just maybe, on the other side of the road and the pain and the noise, he’d finally get to see Libby again.
