I could learn something from that. From the resilience of Savannah Ashby. The girl who got drugged and tied to a bed, then came back swingin’.
Who got her videos leaked to the internet, then showed up at my side anyway.
Who watches me leave over and over, but never stops opening the door when I come back.
She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for. Stronger than me, maybe.
I light a cigarette with shaking hands. Take a drag, inhaling my own regrets. My bike's waiting where I left it. Matte black that sucks up the moonlight instead of reflecting it. I swing my leg over. Fire it up. Let the rumble vibrate through my bones like a second heartbeat.
Then I ride.
Back toward the compound. Back toward Brick and his Feds and the twenty-five grand I don't have. Back toward the hell I built with my own two hands.
The road unspools beneath me. Empty. Dark. Just me and the wind and the ghosts I carry.
I try to remember her poem. All of it. The way she did with mine.Let them come with judgment, sword, and chain?—
But the words are already slipping. Fragmenting. I catch pieces but lose the whole.
We'll build our kingdom from the ash and pain. That part I remember. Because it sounds like something I'd say if I knew how to make words beautiful instead of blunt.
When all is lost and even angels fall?—
The highway blurs. I blink hard. Blame the wind.
You'll still be mine. I'll still be yours. Through all.
Through all.
She means it too. I can tell. Savannah Ashby doesn't make idle promises or perform love for the cameras anymore. She burned that version of herself when she got my name tattooed on her wrist.
She's mine. I'm hers. Through whatever comes.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it just makes everything worse. Because in twenty-four hours, I might be dead. Or disappeared. Or broken in ways that don't heal.
And she'll still be there. Still waiting. Still believing in the poem she wrote like it's scripture.
The rage hits me in the middle of the midnight nowhere. Slammin' into my chest like a fist.
Three years.
I did three fuckin’ years for Brick Ransom.
The memory rises sharp and bitter. Vehicle registered in my name. Product found during a traffic stop I wasn't even part of. Burner phone in the glove box with my fingerprints because Brick asked me to grab it that morning.
Feds offered deals. Tried to flip me six different ways.
I said nothing.
Signed the plea agreement. Took the conviction. Went to Whitefall and kept my mouth shut for thirty-six months while the brothers on the outside got to ride free.
Because that's what you do. You take the fall. You protect the club. You come home with your patch and your head high because loyalty means something.
Except, it doesn't.
Not anymore.
Brick sold out anyway.
