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FIVE

CAMbrIA

Every new beginning comes after something else ends.

I wake up in a different world. After a long day on the road, we arrived in some town named Catawba in North Carolina. The guys were both nice the entire trip always asking if I needed to stop to use the facilities or if I wanted to eat.

I couldn’t eat even if I had wanted to. My nerves are at an all time high. Have I lost my mind? This might just be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. Yet, the little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me, the flip side of this, it might just be the best thing I’ll ever do.

He is right. Drew is. About my mom. The woman in that hotel room, didn’t even care that I said I was leaving. In fact, she encouraged me to go and have a life without looking back. She said there is nothing for me with her.

I still don’t know how to process that. Even if deep inside I know it’s true, I never ever wanted to hear my own mother tell me there is no life for me with her.

Now, I’m in Drew’s home, trying to calm my anxiety enough to maybe eat.

The sheets are clean. The air smells like man and pine instead of mildew and old cigarettes. There’s no neon sign blinking through the window, no thump of bed springs from the next room, no muffled screaming or distant sirens.

It’s quiet.

Peaceful.

Terrifying.

Little Foot’s place isn’t fancy—it’s a trailer, small, lived-in—but to me, it might as well be a castle. A safe, still space where no one’s yelling, no one’s crying, and the door actually locks.

He’s not here when I open my eyes, but there’s a note on the counter.

"Back soon. Coffee’s in the pot. I’ll bring home creamer. –Drew"

I don’t even actually drink coffee, but I pour myself a cup anyway just to feel normal. Like someone who has a routine, a place, a purpose. I told him I liked it with more creamer than coffee because the few times I’ve tried the stuff it’s been gag worthy unless I drown in it in milk or one of the fancy flavors.

I sip it black. It’s awful. Determined, though, I drink it anyway.

My duffel bag is in the corner where I dropped it last night. I kneel and pull out the few things I own—two shirts, a pair of jeans, two bras, four pairs of panties, and a torn paperback I’ve read six times, and a picture of me and Momma from better days. She was beautiful back then. She was whole. Now, she’s a shell of the woman she once was.

I swallow hard and tuck the photo under the edge of the mattress. Then I dig deeper in the bag until I find the little pouch of makeup I’ve carried for years. It’s not much—a cracked mirror, mascara, lip gloss. But I put it on like armor.

I need to feel like I belong here.

Like I’m not just some stray Little Foot dragged in off the street.

I open his closet, find a black tank top that smells like him—a hint of smoke, leather, and something warm underneath—and slip it on. Then I find a pair of his sweatpants and roll the waistband.

By the time he walks in, I’ve cleaned the trailer, made the bed, and started a load of laundry.

He stops in the doorway, helmet in hand, brows lifted.

“You do all this?”

I shrug. “Felt weird just sitting around.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He nods, but I can tell he doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s used to girls who expect things. Not ones who clean up first.

I walk over to him, eyes searching his. “What now?”

He exhales. “Now, we make them believe it.”

“Believe what?”

“We’re together.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “This feels scary,” I tell him the truth. “I don’t have any guarantee. I can’t even get back home if I wanted to. I have nothing but you, you’re a stranger.”

“Then marry me.”

It’s a statement not a question. “What!” I can’t hold back my shriek.

“Marry me. Then I’m not a stranger, I’m your man. No one can question whether you belong. You can have access to my money, my house, my rides. You wanna go home, I can arrange it or have Dre do it. I told you when we pulled in, if you didn’t want to stay here, I would take you to my sister’s.”

“I know you did, but Drew I don’t know her either. This feels insane.”

He smirks, “because it is. Look, I gotta take you to the clubhouse at some point because this is my life. I don’t want you uncomfortable and I don’t want you questioning if you belong. We tell everyone we got married, eloped. See how they take it. Then you can decide if you want to really take the leap. If not, I can tell them I got it annulled and you went home. If things work out then I’ll make sure we do the real thing and I’ll make you my wife.”

“You make this sound simple and it’s anything but.”

“The marriage?”

“Yeah. It can be easy or it can be complicated, that’s up to you.” He shrugs.

He never pressures me. It’s like he knows what he wants, but he’s not going to push. I can figure this out at my own pace. I nod. “Okay.”

He touches my jaw, just a light brush. “You sure about this?”

No.

But I nod anyway.

Because I need this. I need a new start. And maybe pretending to be someone’s wife isn’t the worst way to begin.

Besides, if I’m going to play the part...I’m going to play it right.

Who knows maybe in the end we will want this? If not, at least I have a way out having access to his money. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to force me into something.

Even though I really have no experience with men, I trust my gut in this.

* * *

After breakfast, Little Foot takes me to the compound.

The clubhouse sits at the center of the property like a fortress—low brick walls, tall pine trees lining the edge of the lot, and rows of bikes that shine under the sun like black and chrome warhorses. There are men already outside, smoking, drinking, working on their rides. They stop what they’re doing the second we pull in.

Little Foot doesn’t flinch. He rides straight up the middle like he owns the place.

I stay behind him, hands on his waist, trying to mimic the confidence he wears like a second skin. But my stomach twists as I see the way the others look at me—curious, suspicious, a little predatory.

He parks near the garage and helps me off the bike. I smooth down the tank top and adjust the waistband of his sweats, trying to hide how nervous I am.

“Just stay close to me,” he says under his breath. “You don’t owe them anything.”

A man with a man bun, arms thick as tree trunks walks over. He’s got a patch that says REX and another one President. His eyes are a blend of green and blue like water in a river and a stare so intense I feel like he reads my very soul.

“So this her?”

Little Foot nods. “This is Cambria. My wife.”

Rex looks at me like he’s trying to see through me, figure me out. “You look young.”

I square my shoulders. “I am eighteen. But when you know you know.”

That makes him smile. Just barely, but there is a smile.

“She’s got teeth,” he says, glancing at Little Foot. “Might be the best thing you’ve brought back yet.”

What the hell? I’m confused. Some of the other guys chuckle.

“Just don’t bite any of my brothers,” Rex adds to me.

“No promises,” I say trying to match the energy around me.

That gets a real laugh, and the tension breaks.

He claps Little Foot on the back and walks off, barking orders at a couple of prospects near the loading dock.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

“You did good,” Little Foot says.

“I didn’t faint, if that’s what you mean.”

He grins. “That too.”

He introduces me to a few others—Hawk, who gives me a once-over and a nod of approval; Smoke, who has Nomad on his patch, who just grunts; and a prospect who has no name according to him, who stares at me like I’m a UFO. I wave at him and he nearly trips over his own boots.

By the time we head back to the trailer, I’m exhausted. It’s been so much change in a short amount of time. And I hate to admit it, but I don’t know the last time I really felt safe enough to sleep, really sleep, not just a cat nap or a doze.

I flop on the bed, stretching out like I haven’t slept in a year. Little Foot kicks off his boots and sits beside me, quiet.

“Think they bought it?” I ask.

He nods. “They’ll talk, but yeah. You held your own.”

“That was the easy part,” I murmur. “The hard part’s going to be pretending I know how to live here.”

“You’re doing fine.”

He leans back, arms folded behind his head.

I turn toward him, resting on my side. “Why me?”

He glances over. “What do you mean?”

“You could’ve picked anyone. Some club girl. Someone who knows how to play house in this world.”

“I don’t need a woman. I don’t know, Cambria. I can’t explain it. I’ve always been the wild one. I go with my gut no matter what. I don’t want just anyone,” he says simply. “I want real. You, baby, are real. No thought to even try to play games or use someone.”

I blink. “I’m not even sure I know what that means.”

“You’re not trying to be something you’re not. You just are. That matters.”

I lay there for a moment, letting the quiet fill the room.

No one’s ever said something like that to me before.

Later, we eat dinner on the back steps. Just peanut butter sandwiches and beer for him, water for me, watching the sun dip behind the trees. He tells me about the club—how it started, what it stands for, the brothers he trusts and the ones he doesn’t. I listen, memorizing names, trying to file every detail away so I don’t embarrass him.

When it gets dark, he builds a small fire in a rusted barrel and we sit beside it, passing a stick with marshmallows between us as he builds me smores until I feel like I might puke.

“I know it’s just pretend,” I say, staring into the flames, “but thank you for bringing me here.”

He passes me the bottle. “You’re welcome. But it’s your pace. You don’t want pretend, we see where this goes. It doesn’t have to be pretend. I am for real. You wanna get married to have security, we can go to the courthouse tomorrow.”

I look at him, heart pounding. “It doesn’t have to be pretend?” I ask feeling overwhelmed. This is crazy.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I think it stopped being pretend the second you climbed on the back of my bike.”

We don’t kiss now nor before. How can he be so sure?

“You’re impulsive.”

“You have said that and,” he smiles, “I’ve been told that more than once before.”

“We haven’t even kissed, Drew. How can you want to make me your wife?”

“Not yet, we haven’t. It isn’t time. As for making you my wife. I trust my gut. Always follow it. I fuck up, it’s on me and I’ll eat the crow for it. But this feels right.”

Not yet. He said we haven’t kissed yet. He wants to kiss me. He wants this to be real. He wants to let me into his world. It’s so much to understand.

I fall asleep next to him that night feeling more wanted than I ever have in my entire life. And when I wake the next morning, I don’t panic.

I just breathe.

Because for the first time, this life might actually belong to me.

The next few days pass in a blur.

Little Foot doesn’t leave me alone—not in a suffocating way, but protective. Like he knows this place could swallow me whole if he’s not watching. He brings me to meals at the clubhouse, keeps me close during runs into town, walks me around the edge of the property like he’s drawing out the map of my new life.

Some of the women start to take notice.

They’re not club girls—not in the way I expected, hang around hoes is what Drew calls them. They keep their distance. A few are old ladies like I’m supposed to be, they embrace me.

“You’re Little Foot’s?” a woman named Yesnia asks.

I nod, trying to keep my chin up.

“It’s a lot to take in.” She smirks. “You’re not what I expected.”

I shrug. “You either.” I say it softly because she’s not being bitchy and I don’t want to come off wrong. “I don’t know what to expect though, so you have one up on me to have an expectation.”

She laughs at that and tosses me a towel. “Good. You’ll need a backbone in this place. Clean dishes or someone’s gonna bitch. Welcome to the family.”

I join her at the sink, and we fall into a rhythm. She doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t offer answers.

But for the first time, I feel something that almost resembles friendship.

That night, Little Foot brings me to a firepit behind the clubhouse. There’s music, beer, grilled meat, and a crowd of bodies moving in time to the bass. It feels like a celebration, but no one says why.

“You okay?” he asks as he hands me a drink.

“I think so.” I nurse the beer like I know what I’m doing.

“You’re doing good. I know it’s a lot of people.”

I sip and glance around. “They’re still looking at me like I might explode.”

“Let ‘em. You’re here because I said so. That’s enough.”

I nod, grateful.

He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it.

It’s warm. Strong.

Real.

Later, as the fire burns low and the crowd thins, I lean into him and say, “I don’t know how to be what they want. What you want.”

“You’re not here to be what they want,” he whispers. “You’re here to be mine. And I want you exactly as you are.”

And something inside me breaks. Not in a bad way. But in that way where things finally start to heal. Where someone finally gives a damn. Where I realize this might not just be survival anymore. It might be the beginning of something real.

Eventually we leave the party and come home. We don’t sleep right away. We talk—about nothing, about everything. I tell him about the music I used to love, the books I hid in bathroom cabinets so Frankie wouldn’t steal them. He tells me about his first ride, about crashing a dirt bike when he was ten, about how everyone thought he’d end up in prison before he turned twenty-one.

I tell him he’s a better man than he thinks. He tells me I’m stronger than I know.

We fall asleep with our fingers tangled and the sound of the woods outside the trailer whispering secrets.

Morning comes and I take it all in.

I’m still here. Still his. Still pretending. But maybe not so much anymore. With every passing minute, I feel this connection to the man beyond being saved from my past.