Page 34 of The Bastard's Lily
I should feel good. Relief, maybe. Satisfaction. But my brain’s already spinning somewhere else.
Calla.
She tried to say no when I asked her to dinner. Wasn’t surprised. She’s been living in fight mode too long. Always thinking of Beaufirst. Always calculating risk. But then Grimm stepped in, all charm and menace, and offered to watch the kid himself.
“You deserve one night,” he told her. “He’s already glued to me, anyway.”
That was the moment she caved. Not for me—for Beau. Or maybe for Grimm. I’m not stupid. I know this dinner is a test. Not just of me, but of who I am outside the club. Outside the shit I’ve done and the blood I’ve spilled. It’s a toe-dip into normalcy.
A candlelit restaurant. Maybe a laugh. Maybe her letting her shoulders down for longer than ten seconds.
But there’s a kid involved now. A kid who looks at me with wide eyes and doesn’t call me anything yet. Not “Dad.” Just “Rook.” He just watches me. Quiet. Like he’s not sure if I’ll vanish or stay. And truth is, I don’t blame him.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I can strip an engine, patch a bullet wound, disappear a body—but I don’t know how to be the man a kid like Beau deserves. Still. I’m trying.
I open the throttle, the engine snarling as I fly down the trail. Fast and loose. Just the way I used to ride when none of this mattered. When love was a myth and family was whoever didn’t shoot you in the back. But now? Now I’ve got dinner in fifteen hours. With a girl who owns my fucking ribs. And a kid who might one day call me “Dad.”
If I don’t fuck it up first.
I roll back into the compound just as the sun starts clawing over the tree line. That watery New Hampshire light cuts through the last of the shadows, bouncing off the rows of bikes parked out front. No one else is awake yet, but the scent of stale beer and burned coffee lingers in the air like ghosts from last night’s bullshit.
I kill the engine, swing off the quad, and stretch my back until it pops. Drop’s done. Package delivered. Payment in hand. Another favor for the table tallied in bloodless ink.
I take the long way around back, cut through the mechanic bay, and slide the envelope under Vice’s office door. He’ll count it later—trusts me enough not to check in front of me anymore. Not because I haven’t given him reason to doubt in the past.
Church is in less than an hour. I don’t even bother showering, just rinse my face at the sink and grab a black tee from the stash in my room. The rest of the guys are already filtering in by the time I hit the main room—leather kuttes, yawns, coffee mugs the size of soup bowls.
“Where the fuck you been?” Wren grunts around a mouthful of donut.
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter, brushing past him.
Ash’s already in the chapel when I push the door open. The table’s round, carved with our sigil—wings and wheels scorched into oak. The air smells like motor oil, tobacco, and steel.Familiar. Solid. Ridge, Boar, Frost, and Grimm file in behind me. Vice and Wren drag ass but take their usual seats.
Ash bangs the gavel once. “Church is open.”
His voice cuts through the static in my head, but I’m only half there. We go over numbers, parts orders, a busted meth deal someone tried to run through our west route—idiots didn’t get far. Grimm handled it with his usual brand of violence and flair. We vote on a protection gig for a local tattoo parlor. Boar raises concerns about a rival crew sniffing around our territory again.
It’s business as usual. But I can’t stop thinking about dinner. About how Calla hesitated before saying yes. How she still looks at me like she’s not sure if I’m a ticking bomb or something she could build a life around. How Beau never calls me anything. How I want to earn it anyway.
I shift in my seat, leather creaking under me, eyes flicking to the clock. Church drags. My leg bounces. Grimm narrows his eyes at me once, sharp and quiet. I nod once, an unspokenI’m good.He lets it go.
But I’m not good. Not really. Because tonight, I’m sitting across from the only girl who ever mattered, and I don’t know if it’s a fresh start… or a goddamn farewell tour.
Grimm’s boots crunch beside mine on the gravel as we cross the lot. It's that magic hour where the sun’s almost gone but the dark hasn't quite taken hold. Smells like motor oil, leather, and pine out here—home.
“You’re awfully quiet for a guy about to get a second shot at the one that got away,” Grimm says, smirking.
I grunt, adjusting the cut on my back as we walk toward the bikes. “Don’t start.”
He snorts. “What? I’m just sayin’. Calla Blake… the same girl you used to sneak off to the riverbank with back when your voice still cracked.”
“Grimm.”
“Rook.”
He grins like the devil, and I shake my head, but there’s a stupid smile twitching at the edge of my mouth.
“You nervous?”
