Page 40 of Slaughter
Hope’s face crumpled, and she covered her mouth with her hand, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “That’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Julie would’ve loved that.”
Something inside me cracked. Not broke—cracked. Like a dam that had been holding back too much pressure for too long, finally starting to give way. “I left her,” I said, the confession tumbling out before I could stop it. “Three weeks after Julie died, I left Aurora at the clubhouse and rode away. I couldn’t—” I stopped and swallowed around the lump in my throat. “I couldn’t look at her without seeing Julie. Couldn’t hold her without remembering what it cost to bring her into this world. So I left. I’m a fucking coward, and I left my daughter.”
Hope’s hand shot across the table, and this time, she didn’t hesitate. She grabbed my fist, her fingers wrapping around my knuckles with surprising strength. “You’re not a coward,” she said fiercely, her eyes locked on mine. “You’re grieving. You’rehuman. And grief—” Her voice cracked again, and she took a shaky breath. “Grief makes us do things we never thought we would do. It makes us run when we should stay. It makes us hide when we should face things head-on. But that doesn’t make you a coward, Slaughter. It just makes you someone who’s hurting.”
I stared at her, at the tears streaming down her face, at the way her hand was still holding mine, like she was afraid I would disappear if she let go. She wasn’t crying because I’d hurt her. She wasn’t crying because I called her Julie. She was crying because sheunderstood. Because she saw the pain I had beencarrying and instead of turning away from it, she leaned into it. Held it like she held me the night at the pond.
“Chapman.”
“What?”
“My name is Chapman Moore.”
She nodded, whispering my name as she wiped her tears away.
“Why are you crying?” I asked; my voice was rough and broken.
She let out a shaky laugh, wiping at her face with her free hand. “Because you’re in pain,” she said simply. “Because you lost someone you loved more than anything in the world. Because you’re sitting here blaming yourself for things that aren’t your fault.” She paused, her thumb brushing over my knuckles. “And because I wish I could take it away. I wish I could make it better.”
My chest tightened, and I felt something hot and unfamiliar prick at the corners of my eyes.
“You can’t,” I said quietly.
“I know.” Her voice was soft, sad, tinged with a quiet understanding that seemed to reach right through my defenses. “But I can sit here with you. I can listen. I can—” She stopped, her eyes searching mine, looking for something I wasn’t sure I could give her. “I can be your friend, Chapman. If you’ll let me.”
I looked down at our hands, still intertwined on the worn wooden table between us. Hers small and soft, pale against the dark grain; mine scarred and rough from years of hard work and harder choices. The contrast was striking. A visual representation of everything that separated us, everything that made this moment feel impossible. She was still holding on, even after everything I had told her. Even after the painful confessions that had spilled from my lips in the dim light of this quiet room. Even after knowing that I had been with her whilethinking she was someone else, calling out a ghost’s name in my moment of weakness.
She wasn’t running, though she had every reason to.
She wasn’t angry, though anger would have been justified.
She wasn’t disgusted or disappointed, or dismissive.
She was just...there. Present in a way that few people ever truly were. Compassionate without pity. Real without pretense. Solid and steady when everything else in my world felt like it was crumbling into dust. “I don’t deserve your friendship,” I stated, my voice barely a whisper, the words catching in my throat like broken glass.
“Maybe not.” She squeezed my hand gently. “But I’m offering it anyway.”
The dam cracked a little more.
I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. Her skin was warm. Her grip was steady. And for the first time in eight months, I felt something other than grief and guilt.
I feltseen. Not as the executioner. Not as the grieving widower. Not as the man who had abandoned his daughter. Just as Chapman. A man who was broken and hurting and trying desperately to find his way back to something that resembled life. “Thank you,” I said, my voice rough.
She nodded as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. “You’re welcome.”
We sat there in silence, our hands intertwined across the table, the coffee growing cold between us. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The coffee maker dripped. The world outside the diner kept moving. But in that booth, in that moment, everything was still. And for the first time since Julie died, I didn’t feel completely alone.
Chapter Sixteen
Slaughter
The first week, I told myself it was temporary.
Just a few more conversations. Just enough time to make sure she wasn’t pregnant. That I hadn’t completely fucked up. Then I would go back to Tennessee, back to the clubhouse, back to the tomb where men like me belonged. But temporary turned into days. Then weeks. And somewhere in the accumulation of stolen hours and whispered conversations, I stopped counting the days and started living them.
We were careful.So fucking careful.
I never showed up at the farm. Never called her phone. Never left any trace that could lead Shadow or Kansas or anyone else back to what we were doing. Hope would text me from a number I didn’t recognize—Closing at 10 tonight—and I would wait in the Medicine Park motel room until it was safe to ride to the diner. She would let me in through the back door after Stacey left, locking it behind us. We would sit in the same booth every time. The one in the far corner where the fluorescent lights flickered, and the vinyl was cracked from years of use. She would pour coffee. I would watch her hands move, steady and sure, and wonder how the hell I had gotten here.
