Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Jordyn

Blake's words still echo in my mind as I watch Bama, his ocean-blue eyes clouded with something dark and stormy.

The clubhouse buzzes around us—clinking glasses, rough laughter, the low hum of engines outside—but all I can focus on is him.

"Come on. Talk to me." I plead, trying to catch his gaze.

He looks away, jaw tight, and runs a hand through his short, golden curls.

It's like he's trying to bury something deep, something he doesn't want me to find out about.

My heart pounds against my ribs, a mix of fear and curiosity clawing at me.

"Come on, please," I push, keeping my voice gentle but firm. "I need to know what he meant."

Bama's shoulders tense, and for a moment, I think he's going to bolt. But then he takes a deep breath and meets my eyes.

There's a flicker of vulnerability there that makes my chest ache.

He's hiding something big, something that's tearing him apart from the inside.

His voice is rough. "I don't want you to look at me any differently."

"There's nothing that could ever cause me to do that."

He swallows hard, and I see the muscles in his neck strain.

His hands tremble slightly as he grips the edge of the table, knuckles white.

Whatever this is, it's ripping him open.

"Please, Bama," I whisper, reaching out to touch his hand. His skin is warm, almost burning. "Trust me."

His eyes lock onto mine, and for a second, everything else fades away.

The noise, the people, the chaos—it's just us.

He looks like he's about to shatter, and it breaks my heart.

"Okay," he finally says, voice barely above a whisper. "But promise me something first."

"Anything," I breathe, leaning closer.

"That you won't, you won't look at me differently. You'll know I'm still the same man who would move mountains for you." he pleads, eyes desperate.

"I won't," I assure him, squeezing his hand. "Just tell me."

He closes his eyes, takes another deep breath, and begins to speak.

He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

For a heartbeat, I think he might clam up again, but then he lifts his head and meets my eyes.

"My father," he starts, words coming out slow and jagged, "he slit his wrists. That's how he died."

The room spins for a moment, the weight of his confession crashing over me like a wave.

I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, trying to process what he's just said.

It's not what I expected, not by a long shot.

"Slit his wrists?" I echo, voice barely audible. "But . . . why?"

Bama's face hardens, a mask of old pain and simmering anger. "He was a bastard. A drunk, a cheat . . . he made our lives hell."

I furrow my brows, feeling the confusion and doubt swirl inside me.

There's something in his eyes that doesn't sit right with what he just said.

The tension between us is thick, almost suffocating. I need the truth.

"Tell me the truth, Bama," I insist, my voice steadier than I feel. I reach out, placing my hand on his. His skin is warm, rough from years of hard living. "Please."

His eyes flicker to mine, searching, pleading.

He takes a deep breath, the kind that seems to draw strength and resolve from somewhere deep within.

"Jordyn," he says, his voice low and gravelly. He looks up, locking his gaze with mine, ocean blue depths pulling me in. "Don't look at me differently. Please."

I swallow hard, my fingers tightening around his hand. "I'm not going to." I promise, even though the words feel like they're hanging in the air, waiting to see if they'll hold. "But I need the truth, Bama."

His eyes flicker with something I can't quite name—fear? Shame?

He looks away for a moment, staring at the floor of the clubhouse.

The silence stretches thin, taut like a wire about to snap.

"All right," he says finally, voice rough as gravel. "You want the truth? Here it is."

He takes a deep breath, and I can almost see him pulling the memories from some dark corner of his mind.

His face tightens, jaw clenching like he's bracing for impact.

"My mom . . . she overdosed on heroin," he starts, his eyes distant, lost in the past. "I came home that night, found her . . . cold, lifeless. Empty eyes. My old man wasn't there. Probably at some bar, or with some other woman."

My heart aches at the pain in his voice, but I stay silent, letting him continue.

"He came back hours later. Stumbled through the door, reeking of booze and cheap perfume. I told him she was dead, Jordyn. Told him my mother was gone." His voice cracks, and he pauses, swallowing hard. "You know what he did? Nothing. Not a damn thing. Didn't care. He said she was a waste of space."

The anger in his voice is palpable now, simmering just beneath the surface.

I can almost see the young boy he must have been, standing there, shattered by grief and rage.

"All he ever did was drink, beat her, cheat on her," Bama continues, his voice trembling with emotion. "Every day was a nightmare. And seeing him stand there, so indifferent . . . I lost it, Jordyn. I lost control. I was furious."

His words hang heavy in the air, the weight of them pressing down on us both.

I squeeze his hand, trying to anchor him, to let him know I'm here.

"That's the truth," he finishes, eyes locking onto mine, ocean blue depths swirling with torment. "That's what happened."

I nod slowly, my mind reeling from the intensity of his confession.

I can't change his past, can't take away the pain he's endured. But maybe, just maybe, I can help him carry it.

Bama's hand trembles beneath mine, the rawness of his confession hanging between us like a storm cloud ready to break.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" My question comes out sharper than I intended, but I can't help it. My head's spinning.

"How could I?" He looks down, shame flooding his features. "It's not exactly first date material, you know?"

"Still . . ." I trail off, struggling to reconcile the Bama I've known with the one sitting before me now.

"Jordyn, please," he whispers, eyes filled with torment. "It's ugly, but it's the truth."

"Tell me why," I say, voice steadier now. "Why'd you slit his wrists?"

"To protect myself. To make sure no one would ever suspect a scared, broken kid did it." He swallows hard, the weight of his actions dragging him down. "It worked, or at least I think it did. I haven't heard anything."

"Wow." I draw in a shaky breath, trying to process everything. Bama's past is a dark labyrinth, filled with shadows and secrets.

Yet here I am, standing at the entrance, unsure if I want to venture inside.

I pull my hand away like I've been burned.

The warmth of his skin replaced by a cold shock running down my spine.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing the disbelief coursing through me.

Murder. Bama, my Bama, capable of murder.

"Anyone else know what you did?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, yet sharp enough to cut through the thick tension between us.

He looks down, the weight of his confession pressing his shoulders low. "Zorro knows," he mutters. "And Zorro told Zane."

The names hang heavy in the air. Zorro, who has been part of the club for years, and Zane, my cousin, the President.

The revelation slices through me, leaving me raw and exposed.

They knew. They all knew.

"Jordyn," Bama's voice is a rough plea, his ocean blue eyes searching mine for any sign of understanding or forgiveness.

But all I can see is red. Red like blood, like the rage that must have consumed him that night.

The night he became someone I didn't recognize.

"Why?" I manage to choke out, my throat tight with emotion. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because," he breathes, stepping closer but stopping when he sees me flinch, "I didn't want you to look at me like this. Like I'm some monster."

"How am I supposed to look at you, Bama?" I snap, the anger bubbling up despite myself. "You killed your father. You made it look like suicide. And then you let everyone believe it. That's why I'm . . . like this right now. You could have told me all of this in the beginning and you didn't. The fact is, I'm not angry about what you did. I'm angry about how I know you weren't going to mention any of this to me."

He runs a hand through his golden curls, frustration etched into every line of his face. "I did what I had to do. He was a bastard, Jordyn. He deserved it."

"Maybe he did," I admit, hating the truth of it. "But that doesn't change what you did."

"Do you hate me?" His question is a whisper, a fragile thing that could shatter with the wrong answer.

I don't know what to say. My mind is a whirlpool of thoughts, dragging me under.

Hate? No. Fear? Maybe. Confusion? Definitely. But love . . . love is still there, buried beneath the rubble of this revelation.

"Jordyn, please," he begs, taking a tentative step toward me. "I get this is a lot to process. Just don't walk away from me right now, okay?"

I stand there, staring at the space between us.

The air feels heavy, like it's pressing down on my chest.

My mind's a mess, tangled with thoughts that refuse to untangle.

"Jordyn," Bama's voice breaks the silence. "He was a horrible man."

"Yeah, I'm sure he was," I manage to say, my voice sounding foreign to me. Hollow. "But I'm tired, Bama. I just . . . I need to go to bed."

His eyes search mine, desperation flickering in those ocean-blue depths.

I can see he's hurting, but damn it, so am I. Everything feels upside down now.

"Can I stay?" I ask, my voice softer, trying to bridge the gap that's formed between us. "With you, I mean?"

His face softens, relief washing over him.

Maybe he understands that staying means I'm not running. Not yet, anyway.

He nods, stepping closer, his movements slow and cautious.

"Of course," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

We move through the clubhouse and head upstairs. His arm is around me the entire way up, and we walk slowly, sure not to push my body too hard, too fast.

Once we get to his room, I sit on the edge of his bed, feeling the exhaustion seep into my bones.

He stands by the door, watching me like he's afraid I'll vanish if he blinks.

"Come here," I say, patting the space beside me.

Bama hesitates for a second before crossing the room.

When he sits, the mattress dips under his weight, bringing us closer together.

I lean back slowly and very carefully, letting myself fall into the comfort of the pillows, and after a moment, he does the same.

"Thank you," he whispers, turning his head to look at me. His face is inches from mine, and I can see every line, every shadow that tells the story of his pain.

"Don't thank me," I murmur, closing my eyes. "Just . . . let's sleep. We'll figure it out tomorrow."

"Okay," he agrees, his voice a gentle rumble.

As I drift off, I feel his hand find mine under the covers.

His grip is firm, as if he's holding onto a lifeline.

He might have done something horrible and kept it from me, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't care about this man more than anything else in the entire world.