CHAPTER 6 — THE ESCAPE

Sable

Halloween hit the clubhouse like a Molotov cocktail—orange lights strung across the gate, kids darting around in cheap costumes, music thumping from the garage. The air reeked of bonfires, burnt sugar, and spilled whiskey.

And there she was.

Cassandra. Center stage. Wearing yellow lace and red lipstick, handing out caramel apples like she wasn’t the fucking reason everything went to hell.

Of course, she was.

Luke stood near the front steps, crouching to help Jack into a turtle shell two sizes too big. His expression was unreadable. Blank. Cold. A man who’d been dead behind the eyes long before I ever met him.

Jack’s plastic sword slipped off his belt, the mask drooping sideways.

Cassandra swept in like a fucking Hallmark villain.

“There. My brave little ninja,” she crooned, fixing his mask, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder like she earned the right.

The three of them stood there—him, her, and Jack—like a twisted magazine ad for the happy family I never got.

And me? I was the ghost in the frame. The one they’d already cut out.

Perfect.

They didn’t see me step back. Didn’t notice when I turned toward the side door. Didn’t give a shit that I was leaving. That was the moment I’d been waiting for.

My bag was already packed.

A couple shirts. Jeans. Cash I’d scraped from Luke’s safe. Burner phone. My ID. A photo of Steve crammed into the side pocket—creased, worn, precious.

I didn’t say goodbye.

I walked across the lot like I was heading to the corner store, boots hitting gravel with a rhythm that felt like freedom.

When I reached the gate, a busted gray sedan idled on the curb.

My Uber ride.

I climbed into the backseat without a word. The driver didn’t ask questions. Just nodded once and pulled off.

I watched the clubhouse vanish in the rearview mirror—flashing lights, fake laughter, and all.

Let them have their little Halloween fairytale.

I was done playing the villain in someone else’s script.

We crossed town fast—out of the familiar neighborhoods, into the ones that people pretended didn’t exist. Bars on windows. Spray paint on every dumpster. Streetlights flickering like dying stars.

The driver pulled up in front of a sagging one-story house with a crooked porch and an old Ford pickup parked half on the sidewalk.

The porch light buzzed. The front door creaked open. My dad stood there, wiping grease off his hands with a red rag.

“You sure?” he asked, eyes scanning the street.

I nodded. “It’s time.”

He didn’t argue. Just jerked his head toward the truck.

“It still runs. Brakes are shit. Tank’s full. You remember how to drive stick?”

I smirked. “Taught by the best.”

He gave me the keys. No lecture. No pity. Just a nod between warriors.

Inside, my mom hugged me tight, whispered, “Don’t look back.” Her eyes shone, but she didn’t cry. Not this time.

“I’m sorry I’m leaving you to deal with him,” I murmured.

My dad scoffed. “We’ve paid our debt, Sable. Three years of you being his puppet, plus your brother helping cover the rest. If Luke thinks we still owe him, that’s his delusion.”

“If he threatens you—”

“He won’t,” my mom said. “He kills us, he never sees you again. And he knows that.”

I nodded. “I’ll only be a town over. Thirty minutes. I’ll check in.”

“You better,” Dad growled.

I drove past everything that was familiar to me, the truck rattling beneath me like it had a soul of its own. Streetlights turned to nothing. The road narrowed. Houses got sparse. I hit the edge of the city, then dipped into the old outskirts where the lots were wide, the fences rusted, and no one gave a damn who you were.

Within thirty minutes I was pulling into the driveway of the old house.

The place looked like hell—roof sagging, porch tilted, siding peeling like sunburnt skin.

But to me?

It looked like freedom.

It was my dad’s before the MC days. Before he met mom and moved to “the safer town” to be with her. His little hideout from the world.

Now it was mine.

I stepped inside, dragging my duffel over warped floorboards. Dust choked the air. The water heater groaned when I flipped the tap, but it worked.

I unpacked. Made coffee. Lit a candle. Sat on the old couch that smelled like ash and leather.

For the first time in years, I wasn’t being watched.

No Cassandra smirking in the doorway.

No Luke checking where I was every five minutes.

No Jack asking questions I didn’t know how to answer.

Just me. And silence.

And something else.

A prickle ran down my neck. That feeling—when the hairs rise and your spine goes rigid.

Like being watched.

I looked out the window. Nothing but trees and gravel and sky.

Still, I whispered, “Not tonight. Whoever you are, fuck off.”

By morning, I hadn’t slept.

But I cleaned.

Scrubbed the counters. Washed the sheets. Beat the dust out of the couch. Wiped the mirror above the sink until I could see something that almost looked like me.

The kitchen faucet ran clean. The old stove clicked to life. A radio played from the solar battery in the window.

My mother had left it for me—along with a box of instant soup and a hand-written note:

“It’s not much, but it’s yours. – Mom”

I stepped onto the porch with a fresh mug, stared out at the woods, and took my first full breath in years.

The wind shifted.

And far off, quiet but unmistakable, I heard it—

That low, dangerous, familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine.

Somewhere out there, a biker was riding.

And I had a feeling he wasn’t lost.

I turned, stepped back inside, and locked the door.

Not because I was scared. Because I’d had enough of biker gangs for a lifetime.