Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 218(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Because of her. I hated that a phone was my life line to her, our only connection right now.
Three days went by like that—club chaos layered over the quiet pulse of something new. Nita and I talked at night.
Sometimes it was ten minutes. Sometimes it was an hour. She would sit on her couch, I could hear the city through her window, distant sirens and the low hum of traffic. I would sit on the porch of my small cabin the quiet of the night around me. And every time her voice hit my ear, something in me unclenched.
On the third night, she laughed at something I said, an actual laugh, not the polite kind, and I found myself smiling at the dark like an idiot.
“What?” she asked.
“I feel,” I started, then stopped.
“Feel what?” she pressed.
I exhaled. “Relaxed.”
Silence. Then softer, “You? Relaxed? That’s new.”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I didn’t realize how tight I’ve been living until,” I paused. “Until you.”
Her breath came through the phone, slow. “That scares me.”
“Me too,” I shared honestly.
She didn’t tease me for it. Didn’t make it into a joke. She just let it be true. And that, that shit did something to me.
Two nights later, Gonzo told me there was a run to Arkansas. Club business. A meet that needed muscle just by showing up, a reminder to some people out there that Saints didn’t move light. We were taking Wrath’s back and since the man ran a tight club, we needed to be there. It was reciprocated. Anytime we needed something Wrath and the Bella Vista chapter would drop everything for us.
This was the kind of thing you didn’t turn down. I called her before we left, leaning against my bike while men loaded up.
“Arkansas?” she repeated. “That’s a ride.”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll be careful.”
“I always am,” I stated, and then added, because I’d learned she needed the truth, not the script, “But I’ll stay in touch. Whenever I can.”
“I don’t need constant check-ins,” she shared. “You’re a grown man. Do what you do, Dante. I’ll be here. I don’t have to talk to you every day, even though I do like it.”
I smiled. “I do. I need the check-in because I don’t want you to slip away.”
She huffed softly. “Of course you do.”
I could hear the smile in her voice when she said it.
The run was long and loud and full of that brotherhood energy that had saved my life more times than I could count. We rode in staggered formation, engines eating up the miles. Gas stops that smelled like hot dogs and cheap coffee. Motel parking lots where men stood around, smoking cigarettes, and talked shit like it was a language.
In Arkansas, the air felt different—flatter, open, a wind that never stopped moving. The meet went smooth for the first day. Handshakes. Eyes measuring. A couple tense conversations where the wrong word could’ve turned into a gun.
I kept my phone close anyway.
Called her when I could—short calls from behind a building, leaning against brick, scanning shadows out of habit. Sometimes she was in between meetings. Sometimes she was cooking. Once she was folding laundry and I pictured her in that soft, domestic moment and it hit me like a punch how badly I wanted to be there.
“How’s work?” I asked one night.
“Busy,” she shared. “But manageable.”
“You eating?” I pressed.
“Dante—” she challenged.
“Answer.”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Sleeping?”
“Some.”
I heard the smile again. “You’re not my dad.”
“No,” I explained. “But I’m still gonna make sure you’re good. Make sure you’re taking care of yourself.”
She went quiet a beat. “I’m good.”
“You better be,” I murmured.
The next call, she sounded off. Something wasn’t quite right. Not dramatic. Not panicked. Just less jovial. Like her voice had an edge that hadn’t been there the other nights.
I noticed because I paid attention. Because she mattered. Because my whole body had tuned itself to her, the way men in my line of life tuned themselves to danger.
“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.
“Nothing,” she replied too fast.
I stepped away from the guys, walking toward the edge of the lot where the motel lights died off into darkness. “Nita.”
She exhaled. I could hear her shifting, like she’d moved somewhere more private.
“Someone at work made a comment,” she shared finally.
My spine went tight. “What kind of comment?”
She hesitated. “About the Saints.”
I stopped walking. The night got quieter, like the world leaned in. The club saved me. When I left DC and faced the monster inside me that could kill a man with my bare hands and still sleep easy, Gonzo and the Saint Outlaws accepted the part of me I was coming to terms with myself. Crossing the line from law abiding to one percenter was different and meant changing some of my ways of thinking. I found acceptance, brotherhood, and family with these men when I couldn’t find my footing in the world anymore.