I laughed, sharp and ugly. “No, I think you care about being the hero. I think you want to die for something because it’s easier than living with me.”
He closed the rest of the distance, slow and deliberate. “You don’t get to decide who I fight for.”
I matched his stare, pulse loud in my ears. “You don’t get to die for me. Not when I can stop it.”
He looked at the duffel, then at my face, then at the clubhouse behind us. “If you walk out that gate, you’re not coming back,” he said.
I set my jaw. “I know.”
He nodded, once, like he’d already written this scene and just wanted to see if I’d change the script.
“Then run,” he said, voice flat. “But don’t think for a second that I’m going to stop fighting. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
I hesitated, just for a second. “I love you,” I said. It came out small, weak.
He didn’t answer, not with words. Just stared a hole through me, as if maybe that would keep me rooted to this shit-pile of a town forever.
I turned, swung the duffel over my shoulder, and pushed through the gate.
But I could feel his eyes on me, the whole way down the road.
***
It’s true what they say about running—doesn’t matter how fast you are, your ghosts always keep pace. I’d made it maybe half a block past the compound when the sound of boots came up behind me, steady and pissed off, crushing gravel like vertebrae. For a second, I thought about picking up speed, but it was no use. Augustine always found me, even when I didn’t want to be found.
He grabbed my shoulder, hard, spinning me around so fast the duffel nearly flew off my back. He didn’t say a word, just marched me back through the dark, up theloading ramp, past the line of silent bikes, and into the half-lit corridor by the garage. The air inside was stale with cigarette smoke and Lysol, and the linoleum stuck to my boots with every step. He didn’t stop until he’d backed me against the cinderblock wall, the duffel pressed between us like a bomb.
“Want to try that again?” he said. His voice was a razor, but his eyes were on fire. “Tell me what the fuck you’re thinking, Mel.”
I tried to wrench away, but he had both arms caging me in, big as they were. The veins in his forearms stood out, pale blue against the bruises and tattooed names of men who’d died for less. I pushed at his chest with the heel of my hand, but it was like trying to move a statue.
“Let go,” I snapped. “This isn’t your problem.”
He laughed, a single breath with no humor in it. “Bullshit. Everything about you is my problem.”
I could smell the bourbon on his breath, the sweat in his shirt, the iron tang of blood from the cuts he’d barely bothered to bandage. “If you care, you’ll let me go. I’m giving you a free pass. You can walk away from this.”
His face did a slow twist, like he was chewing through every stupid decision that led him here. “You think I want a pass?”
I looked away, not trusting my voice. “I think you deserve one.”
He reached up, snatched the duffel out of my grip, and chucked it across the hall. It hit the wall with a thud and tumbled to the floor, spilling a pair of socks and the notebook I’d written his goodbye in. I made a move to grab it, but he stepped in, closing the gap, his body hot against mine.
“Don’t you get it?” he said, quieter now. “The only thing that keeps me going is you. You want me to stop fighting? Fine. But don’t you dare pretend I’m doing this for the club.”
His hands went to my face, gentle but shaking, like he was afraid I might evaporate if he let go. I could feel the scrape of his calluses on my cheeks, the old scar on his thumb brushing my jaw.
I wanted to say something mean, something that would push him away for good. But what came out was a whimper, small and pathetic. “I can’t watch another man I love die because of my father.”
The silence was instant and brutal. Augustine’s face went blank for a second, then he exhaled, slow, like he’d been punched in the ribs. The hands that had been holding my face slipped down, bracing on my shoulders.
“You love me?” he said, almost a joke, but his voice cracked just enough to break my heart.
I bit my lip until I tasted copper. “I’m fucked up, Augie, but yeah. I do.”
He rested his forehead against mine, both of us shaking like dogs in a thunderstorm.
“I’ve been fighting my whole life, Mel,” he whispered. “Never had something worth fighting for until you.”
