Page 5 of California Wild

Jesse leaned against his truck, arms crossed, the cool San Diego air skimming over his skin. The last of the crowd from The Black Coast drifted down the block, their voices loud, carefree. Music still vibrated faintly from the venue behind him, but he wasn’t hearing it anymore.

He was somewhere else entirely.

Back in a shitty one-bedroom apartment, three years ago. Fluorescent light buzzing. Smell of stale beer and smoke in the curtains. Her silhouette in the hallway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, hair a wild mess from the night before.

That was the last time he had Hayley Fox up close.

And fuck, he hadn’t forgotten a second of it.

He could still see the way her hand trembled when she zipped up that bag, like she’d run out of fight. She didn’t yell. Didn’t throw things. Didn’t cry.

She just… looked at him.

Like she didn’t even recognize the man in front of her.

“You really think this is what you need?” he’d said, trying to sound casual, like his voice wasn’t cracking, like his gut wasn’t in knots. His arms had been crossed then too—like he could keep it all in if he just clenched hard enough.

She laughed. Low and bitter. “What I need?”

Her eyes had burned. Not with rage. Not even sadness.

Just tired.

“Jesse, you barely show up for anything outside of fucking,” she’d said. “You gonna pretend like this is some kind of shock?”

And he hadn’t said shit.

Because there wasn’t anything to say.

When not deployed, he was high half the time, drunk the rest. Spinning out, pretending he wasn’t. Women in and out. Drugs on the counter. Late nights that bled into worse mornings. And Hayley—God, she had tried. Had held him up longer than she should’ve. But even she couldn’t carry dead weight forever.

He let her leave.

Just watched.

Let her walk away like she was just another chapter in the disaster that was his life back then.

And now here he was, three years sober, leaning against a truck outside a venue where she’d just lit the entire fucking room on fire with her voice—and he didn’t even have the balls to say hi.

Jesse rubbed the heel of his hand against his chest, like that might quiet the ache.

He knew, without looking, that Isaac wouldn’t push him. Wouldn’t needle or pry. That’s not how their brotherhood worked.

They’d go into battle together. Spill blood together. Bury secrets and ghosts deep in the dirt.

But feelings? Fears? That shit stayed locked down.

Jesse’s sobriety? Isaac never asked.

Neither did Dom.

But they always had his back. No drinks shoved into his hand. No judgment. Just silent understanding. That’s how men did it.

But Hayley?

Hayley had seen him.

Not just the surface. Not the tough, inked-up SEAL with a guitar and a mouth full of charm.

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