EPILOGUE

Rebel—

We’ve been in Birmingham for a week now, and I sit at a table in the rebuilt clubhouse, my knee nervously bouncing. The guys are right this minute in Church, and it’s taking forever. I know the deal was cast when Cole and my father shook on it, allowing Brayden to transfer, but I think they may be in there doing a ceremonial vote on it and giving him his new bottom rocker. The one that will replace the one he’s worn so long.

Bootsteps approach, and they all troop out, heading to the bar for a drink. Brayden comes to the table where I sit and drops the rocker on the table.

He shrugs out of his cut, lays it face-down on the table, pulls his knife out and begins cutting the threads that hold the CALIFORNIA rocker to the leather.

And suddenly, as I watch his face, I see it all hit home for him. There’s a glaze in his eyes, but his jaw is tight, and he keeps cutting.

“Oh, Brayden,” I whisper softly.

“Don’t,” he hisses. “It’s done, Rebel, and I don’t regret it. It’s just hard, ya know?”

I do know.

He continues until the last thread is severed. The leather looks sad with the patch missing. He folds the rocker and shoves it in the pocket, and I know he’s required to return it to his old chapter. I imagine his father will stick it in his top drawer or somewhere else safe and keep it for him, hoping maybe one day…

I can’t even think the words.

Neither of us knows what the future holds, but I plan to help Brayden’s adjustment be as easy as possible. Maybe someday soon, he won’t stare at the horizon, watching the sun slink beyond the western sky, and know it’s still daylight in California. Maybe someday soon, he won’t feel like an outsider in his own clubhouse. Maybe someday soon, I won’t worry I’ve forced him to do this horrible thing.

I want to cry, but I know I have to be strong. For him. For me. For us.

“Brayden,” my father calls out. “You can sew that on later. Come do a shot with us. You, too, Rebel.”

Brayden holds his hand out to me, and I slip mine in his grip. My father signals the prospect behind the bar, and he sets us up with two shot glasses, and Ghost fills them with tequila.

My father lifts his in the air. “To our new brother. May he be happy here. And to my beautiful daughter…” He pauses to wink at me. “She’s got some sewing to do.”

The men all chuckle, and Ghost lifts his glass.

“Here, here.”

We drink, and I feel out of place. This should be their time.

Ghost slaps Brayden on the shoulder. “Let’s play a game of pool.”

I watch them stroll away, and my father puts his arm around me. “It’ll be all right, Rebel. Stop worrying. He came, didn’t he? He just needs time to adjust.”

Laying my palms on my father’s cut, I nod, not feeling it, but hoping my father is right.

Tink walks up from the corner of the bar. “Hey, sweetheart. Come on. Let me give you a hand sewing that patch on for him. I’m pretty good with a needle.”

My father lifts his chin. “Go on. I’m gonna go join this pool game.”

I follow Tink to the table, and she pulls a small sewing kit out of her purse. We position the rocker over the bare spot. It doesn’t quite cover the same space because the new one is three letters shorter.

Tink notices my concern and covers my hand. “It’ll be okay. It’s not a bad thing he sees the old shadow. We don’t want to wipe it from his memory. It’ll be like a reminder.”

“But is that a good thing? A constant reminder?”

“You’ll see, sweetheart. He’ll fit right in.”

We start sewing, and with every stitch, I’m more worried.

“Rebel,” Tink whispers. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always go to California with him, right? I’m sure if you were both miserable here, Shades would let him go.”

“Do you think so?”

“Your father only wants you to be happy. If he sees it’s not working, I’m sure of it. But I think you both just need time.”

We sew until it’s finished.

Tink bites off the last thread and holds the cut out to me. “Now, put a smile on your face and go put this on your man.”

I take it, stand, and walk over to Brayden. I’m almost to him when he senses me and turns. I hold the cut up for him to slip his arms in. He meets my eyes for a split second, and I give him a big smile. He returns it and shrugs the cut over his shoulders.

“Thanks. You want to play, baby doll?” he asks, turning.

“Sure,” I say. “Who’s winning?”

“I am,” he replies, pulling me to him for a kiss. “And with you, love, I can’t lose.”

And just like that, everything in me settles into place.

We’re going to make it. I feel it in my bones.