If I could start over. Be fourteen again. Before Eleanor really got to me. Before she haunted my mind with truths and consequences. Before the club. Before I convinced myself that power and brotherhood were the only things worth having.
Would I do it different?
I press my forehead against the tile.
Yeah.
Yeah, I would.
I'd take Savannah's hand that first day in the silo and tell her the truth. That I already loved her. That I'd always love her. That whatever happened, she was the only good thing I'd ever touch.
I'd keep my distance from Badlands. From Brick's offers, and Diesel's knowing looks, and the magnetic pull of belonging to something bigger than myself.
I'd work honest jobs. Save money. Buy that farmhouse she imagines when she's riding me slow and looking at me like I'm the answer to prayers she didn't know she was saying.
At the very least, I'd make myself something she could take home. A man who wouldn't embarrass her. I'd be the man she deserves, instead of the demon she settled for.
But I can't go back.
Can't undo the choices that carved me into this shape.
Can only stand here under cold water and wish I was someone else.
The water turns warm. Then hot. I scrub myself clean with bar soap that smells like nothing. Rinse. Turn off the spray and dry off with a towel that's rough from too many industrial washings. Then I pull on the only clean sweats I've got left—gray, worn soft, hanging low on my hips.
Back in the main room, I dig through my jeans pocket until I find the pack of cigarettes. Shake one loose. Light it up and lie down on the bed.
Then… I stare at the ceiling.
I smoke.
Ash into the empty beer can on the nightstand.
Try to sleep.
Can't.
Tomorrow changes everything.
One way or another, when dawn church convenes, and Brick calls my name, and asks if I've got his money?—
Which I don't, so…
So what. What's gonna happen tomorrow? I haven't really let myself think about it, but obviously, the fine is a way to get me to cave. To accept the rats and work for them. Spy, or whatever the fuck it is they're doing.
That's how fines work. You pay, one way or the other. If a brother owes a fine and misses his deadline, depending on the amount, he might get roughed up a bit or he might get put in the ground.
Twenty-five grand is an obscene amount of money to owe.
I roll over. Try to find a position that doesn't make the brand ache. My elbow hits something.
I freeze, my hand closing around something hard and lumpy beneath the pillow—something that definitely wasn't there the last time I was in this bed.
"What the fuck…" My voice comes out rough, edged with exhaustion and suspicion. It better not be a goddamn mouse that crawled under there to die, or I swear to Christ I'll burn this whole bed.
I sit up fully, joints protesting the movement, and reach back under the pillow with more purpose this time. My fingers findfabric and I pull it out into the dim light filtering through the blinds.
A drawstring sack. Canvas. Worn smooth at the edges like it's been used before, handled plenty. And heavy.
