Page 42 of My Ex-Military Biker

"Need you at the clinic. Perry's asking for you."

"On my way."

I hang up. Look at Natalie. "I need to go."

"I know. I heard."

"You'll be okay here?"

"I'll be fine."

I grab my keys. Stop at the door. Turn back. "Natalie?"

"Yeah?"

"You're not leaving while I'm gone?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"I'm sure. I'll be here when you get back."

"Good."

I leave. Get on my bike. Ride toward the clinic.

But the whole way there I'm thinking about her in my house. In my shirt. Waiting for me to come back.

And for the first time in eight years, I'm not just going through the motions of living. I'm actually living. Actually wanting something beyond function.

Actually choosing something for myself.

Her.

And I'm keeping her.

Epilogue — Natalie

Three Years Later

I hear the bike before I see him pull into the driveway.

It's after ten. Later than he said, but club business doesn't run on schedules. I learned that the first month.

I'm at the kitchen table with my laptop, reconciling accounts for the hardware store on Main, when the front door opens.

"Kitchen," I call out.

He appears in the doorway. I look up.

Blood on his right hand. Split knuckles, two of them, still seeping.

"Sully?" I ask.

"Yeah."

"He win?"