Page 44 of Brazen Being It

Back home, the night is quiet. We eat leftovers, trade a few tired jokes, try to pretend the world isn’t circling the drain outside our door. She sketches in her book while I fix a squeaky hinge. We move around each other like we’ve been doing this for years. There’s a peace in it, even when everything else is chaos.

It’s after midnight when I finally crack the folder open.

The trailer is silent, shadows stretching across the carpet. Cambria’s asleep on the couch, a blanket tucked up under her chin, sketchbook open and pencil still in her hand. Her hair falls across her cheek, one curl tangled against her mouth. The lamplight pools over her, warm and golden. She looks peaceful. Untouchable.

I feel like a traitor.

I shouldn’t open this. What we have isn’t about her past. It’s about right now—about the way she laughs when she thinks no one’s listening, the way she always finds the sunny spot to sit in, how she touches me like I’m something precious.

But I’m club first, always. I have a responsibility to protect my patch. Even from the people I love.

Inside the folder are photocopied records—juvenile files, arrest sheets, counseling notes. Most of its old. Petty theft. Loitering. A note from a school counselor saying she was found sleeping in a stairwell. My throat goes tight at that, thinking of her, small and scared, cold on a concrete floor.

And then there’s a police report.

That one stops me cold.

A minor. Injured. Witness statement clear as day. Her name listed as a victim.

My stomach twists. The skeletons in her closet aren’t her shame—they’re her scars. She didn’t make the mess. She lived through it. She survived.

I close the folder, stare at the wall, trying to find my breath. I want to burn the damn thing, to erase every piece of pain in those pages.

Instead, I kneel beside the couch, brush a strand of hair from her face.

“You did what you had to do,” I whisper. “You survived. This is behind you.”

She stirs, but doesn’t wake.

I tuck the folder deep in the bottom drawer of the catch all drawer in the kitchen, under old receipts and worn-out gloves. It doesn’t have a place out front and center here.

She doesn’t need to relive any of it. And I sure as hell don’t need to question what I already know—she’s mine, and I’ll protect her from everything.

Even her past.

The next morning, Rex calls a sit-down. Not a full sermon, just a small meet with the officers and a couple senior members. I’m there. Axel’s there, arms crossed and scowling, his own brand of support. Toon’s lounging in his seat, grinning like it’s poker night and not the kind of meeting that decides men’s fates.

Rex lays it out, no bullshit. “We’ve had Frankie on our radar since last week. According to Saint’s Outlaws, he’s nothing but a low-level dealer and pimp in Arkansas. I want to know why he’s still sniffing around.”

“He’s not just here for Cambria,” I say. “He’s making a play.”

Rex nods. “That’s my thought too. Word is, he’s linked up with Salentino. Using your connection to Cambria and claiming she’s his daughter. That’s how he got the new ride. Moved up from low-level pimp to full-on cartel man wanting to make waves against the Hellions for Salentino.”

The room goes tight. Toon whistles low. “Didn’t think that asshole would roll in on Hellions.”

Shooter nods. “Thought he was behind us after we refused his last transport. Must’ve seen us head to Saint’s, saw you pick up Cambria. Did some digging. Frankie’s tied in with Salentino since you left with your ol’ lady. Been spotted at a few gun shows asking questions.”

“About us?” I ask, jaw tense.

“About her,” Rex says. “And by extension—about you.”

Axel leans in, voice clipped. “This thing you got with her, it matters. You ready to see it through?”

I stare him down. “You got something to say, say it.”

He shrugs. “I’m saying she brought heat. You haven’t known her long. You wanna cut her loose, we’ll back the play.”

I bite back a retort, but the words come out bitter. “Says the man who claimed a cartel boss’s daughter after a single run. A man who went toe-to-toe with her father with less than a week together. Don’t come at me, brother. She’s not a stray. She’s my wife.”

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