The women were staring at me intently.
“Yet I couldn’t do something as simple as leave the man who was beating me,” I whispered.
Caroline was the first to respond. Probably due to her previous job, she was used to processing things quickly, coming up with a response, a follow up.
“Honey, leaving a man who is beating you is the furthest thing from simple.” Her voice was firm. Sure. “And it has absolutely nothing to do with strength.”
“Living through that for the amount of time you did, being able to be kind, trusting, loving, to bring up your daughter… That takes strength,” Freya added, her eyes shimmering.
“And though I did a great job of making it look differently, I did not handle being over there in the middle of warzones well,” Caroline shared. “I survived it, sure. But I broke down in my hotel room countless times after interviewing women who were beaten, raped, who walked miles carrying a dead child. Seeing what humans do to one another,” she shivered. “I still have nightmares about it. But that’s how we know we’re human. That we carry around our wounds, that they define us. They can either make us softer or harder.” Her gaze gentled. “Please don’t measure yourself up against what you see in us right now. It’s taken us years to get to the places you see. It’s taken finding our men, for me the second time,” she grinned. “And it’s taken a fight. For this life. We’ve fought. Just like you. And you’re finally coming out the other side.”
“As for the ridiculous concept that we think differently, somehow less of you,” Macy interjected, “That is impossible. If anything, we think more of you, knowing what you survived. You’re family to us. And as with your stubborn man, this thing is for life. And we aren’t going to let you talk down to yourself. To blame yourself. To downplay the strength it took to stand right here,” she pointed to the ground. “One more thing… You’re gonna take the help we’re offering. It doesn’t come with strings, requirements. It comes because we adore you, and we want to help you rise up.”
“It’s selfish, really,” Freya giggled. “We’re trying to build our girl gang, and you’re the perfect addition. We don’t want you going anywhere.”
My throat was burning, my eyes were misty and my heart heavy in a way that felt restorative.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I croaked out, my voice thick. But certain.
I was sure, for the first time in my life, beyond any reasonable doubt, that right there was where I was meant to be.
SWISS
It was the first time I’d been back at the club alone since we’d found Kate. After she gave me that ultimatum, I’d had to escape. I’d rode for hours. Fucking hours.
Up and down the interstate. Then I’d parked outside the house I had managed to convince the owners to sell to me.
For an above market price.
Money didn’t mean shit to me, I had plenty of it. Years I’d been with the club, different charters, doing various, mostly illegal, shit. And mostly illegal shit paid pretty fucking well. Lifestyle I lived wasn’t exactly lavish. All I needed was my bike, handful of shit to wear and not much else. I paid my taxes like any good, law-abiding citizen. But that tax was on whatever meager salary I’d earned from whatever legitimate business the charter I was running with owned.
Currently, I was a mechanic.
A mechanic without rent, without utilities, any of that shit.
So in short, I had a lot of money. Enough to pay cash for the house, the six acres of land around it, and have plenty left over.
Enough to take care of Kate.
Take care of Violet, if need be. Her college or whatever the fuck. That was when I’d been planning on killing Preston. Sure, he probably had a fuckload in the bank, and Violet was taken care of, but I wanted to cover my bases. Anything Kate needed or wanted.
Which was all I fucking needed.
I’d stared at the house for a long time.
Big. Kind of quirky, Spanish inspired with trees bordering the long driveway. Huge pool ’cause it was my goal to see Kate in as many swimsuits as possible. Greenhouse. Garden.
And the kitchen... Fuckin’ huge. An island, gas range, fancy fridge. All the shit Kate had practically drooled over that first night at the club. The night she made pasta while wearing my tee.
The night I fell in love with her.
I imagined her cooking for us in that kitchen. Then I imagined fucking her on that counter. And on pretty much every other surface in the house. And in the large bedroom that had a view of the mountains, the desert and nothing else.
I imagined a life outside of the one I’d lived for years. A home. Something I also hadn’t had in years. Something I hadn’t had since I held my dead daughter in my arms.
I might’ve sat there all day except there was church.
You didn’t miss church unless you were missing a limb, and even then, you were expected to cauterize it and get your ass in the chair.