But I’d be lying if I said the club wasn’t part of it. Leah could open doors we couldn’t. Harris wouldn’t sit down with patched men.
And I hate that I need her like that.
Edge stands. “We go see her today?”
“No,” I answer immediately, like my body decided before my head could. Then I force myself to breathe. “Not today. Let’s find out what he’s up to first.”
Edge nods, satisfied, then pauses at the door. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“If she says no,” he starts, “what do you do?”
I stare at the wall past him, at the faded banner, at the patch that owned my spine. My club. My responsibility.
And then I see Leah’s face in my mind again—her eyes defiant as she flipped me off and stormed out of my room, and I felt the crack in me widen.
“If she says no,” I say slowly, “I’ll still keep her safe.”
Chapter Sixteen
Leah
Aweek passes. Two.
My life becomes something that I don’t recognize. I know the patterns. Wading through day after day, struggling to keep my head above the oppressive waves that threaten to drag me under, forcing a smile, pretending that everything is fine when I know that nothing is fine and never will be again. It is all second nature to me because I’ve been doing it all my life, and I hate myself for it.
I hate Steel too because he was right.
It only took me a few days to realize that I’d reacted like a hurt child, the spoiled brat he called me. He said I was entitled, and it was the truth. He said he wanted to protect me from the recriminations of the town, of people who would pick up rocks and not hesitate to hurl them at me, against my own family, because Donovan Harris is a monster and he hates me and worse, he hates Steel. Steel tried to get me to see reason, that someone like me couldn’t just walk into a clubhouse, into Steel’s own house, and stand at his side, his proud partner.
He wanted me to take things slow. To travel a path that would keep me safe and sheltered from the rain of angry words. He knew what it was to be an outcast and he didn’t want that for me. Not because he was ashamed of me, but because he cared about me.
I had to earn that position.
I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t know how. I’m so embarrassed at how I acted back there. On what should have been the most important night of my life I ended up makinga damn fool of myself. I could turn up at the clubhouse, or sit and wait outside his house like I did that last time, but that’d be like announcing my intentions all over town.
So, I wait in a state of agonizing limbo. I wait in my gilded cage, slowly gluing back together the pieces of a heart I shattered myself.
Finally, I know I can’t keep it up. I can’t keep ghosting through life. I have to go to him and tell him I’m sorry. That I haven’t changed my mind—about him or spying on my dad for the club. I have to tell him that I understand what he was talking about. I want to promise him that I won’t take foolish risks.
I don’t trust myself with the words. Because I know that as soon as I see him, I’ll fall all over myself and my tongue will be tied in its usual thousand knots. Instead, I sit down in my room and write. I pour out all my anguish and anxiety onto paper. I leave the mistakes. The cross outs. The blemishes. I don’t need it to be perfect. He’s never demanded perfection. I’ve never wanted it from him either. I want him, raw, blemished, flawed, just like my writing.
When I’m absolutely certain that both my parents are in bed, I throw on a black hoodie and dark jeans. I know exactly which boards to pick my way over to keep them from squeaking and giving me away. It’s just past two in the morning. The house is absolutely silent. There are lamps on here and there, hall lights, so that shadows dance over the woven rugs and expensive furnishings.
I pick my way through the living room after making it down the stairs. I tread carefully down the hall, my bare feet tracing every single board with the utmost care. My shoes dangle from my hands. The letter is gripped so tightly in the other thatI think I’ve crumpled the paper brutally. My palms are damp. I think, irrationally, of the ink smudging and all of this being for nothing at all. Which of course, is a silly, irrational thought.
I’m about to step out the front door when a noise behind me makes me freeze, turning just my upper body so that I don’t make a sound. I scan the hallway behind me, but it’s empty. Quietly closing the door behind me I tiptoe to the garage to get my bike.
Once I’m away from the house, I breathe out a sigh of relief and turn around.
To find my father standing in the open garage doorway. My fingers curl around the letter a little tighter. I curse myself for being so stupid. I should have folded it and tucked it into the pocket of my jeans. I glance back at the house not knowing what to do. Should I just head back, or try and make up some excuse?
“Two in the morning is quite late to be going out on a Wednesday night.” His tone is sleek. Greasy. He uses that tone to instill a fake sense of calm in the people who he wants to eventually squash. I’ve heard him use it a thousand times before. I know that he isn’t being patient or kind.
His cold eyes roam over me. Nothing flickers there in those depths. Not an ounce of humanity. He might as well be looking at a dog, not his own flesh and blood daughter. I can’t remember the last time he looked at me any other way.
“I- uh- I was just…”
