Page 68 of Property of Thrasher
The word twisted inside me, both terrifying and freeing.
Because it was true.
I was with him.
No matter where this road led.
19
MELODY
Tiny died three days after Lyric.
When the call came from the ICU, I already knew. His machines had been humming a fragile rhythm, keeping him tethered to this world when his body was too broken to do it on its own. I had sat by his bed with Thrasher more than once, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, whispering to him about Lyric, hoping he would hold on for her.
But he didn’t.
The nurse’s voice was gentle, practiced, as she told us the bleed had worsened, that he slipped away in his sleep. She said it like it was a mercy, but all I heard was finality.
Gone. Just like Lyric.
The only thing I could hold onto was that they were at least together in the afterlife.
The clubhouse turned into a cave of sadness. Every brother wore his grief in silence, their cuts hanging heavy on their shoulders, the weight of loss bending even the strongest of them. They didn’t cry, not out loud, but I saw it in their eyes, in the tight lines of their mouths, in the way they poured liquor like water and stared into the bottom of their glasses as if answers might float up from the dark.
For me, the grief came with guilt, a thick choking thing that settled in my chest and refused to let go.
Tiny and Lyric died because of me. I was sure of it. BJ wouldn’t have put forth the effort to find her. This was about my disobedience.
Logan and BJ had come for me. For the choice I’d made to run from the chains of the church. And instead of me, they’d stolen lives that weren’t theirs to touch.
I found Thrasher in the garage that night, hunched over his bike like it was the only thing keeping him from unraveling. His cut was tossed across a workbench, his forearms slick with grease. He didn’t look up when I walked in, but he knew I was there. He always knew.
“Tiny’s gone,” I whispered, as if saying it again would make it sink in.
His wrench clattered onto the concrete. He pressed his palms to the edge of the bench, head bowed. “Yeah.”
I swallowed, my throat raw. “It’s my fault.”
His head snapped up, eyes blazing. “Don’t you fucking say that.”
“It is,” I said, tears blurring my vision. “Logan, BJ—they came because of me. My past followed me here, and now your brother’s dead. I brought this into your world.”
He wiped his hands on a rag and stalked toward me, his presence so fierce it made the walls feel smaller. “You think you killed him? No. Tiny died because a couple of cowards ran dirty. They made that choice, not you. Don’t you dare carry that weight.”
“But it’s true,” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “Everywhere I go, they take something. They always take something.”
He cupped my face in his calloused hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Not anymore. You’re mine now. And mine means no one takes from you again. Not while I breathe.”
The vow in his voice seared into me, steady and unyielding.
Something inside me broke loose then, words I hadn’t even known I carried tumbling out. “Love is believing that someone will take care of all of it—the good, the bad, the ugly. I believe you’ll do that for me.” My chest heaved. “And I want to give that to you.”
His eyes softened just enough for me to see the man under the steel. He kissed me, deep and sure, tasting of grease and sorrow and promise. And for a moment, I believed him completely.
But belief wasn’t enough.
That night, when the clubhouse quieted and grief settled into restless silence, I slipped into an empty office and made the call I’d sworn I’d never make again.
