Page 14 of Life After You

Inside, the club is a kaleidoscope of lights, colors, and pounding music. The main floor is packed with bodies swaying to the beat, while the upper levels pulse with a different energy. As we weave through the crowd, it’s impossible not to notice the attention Dean and Clay draw. Women openly stare, some smiling coyly, others bolder in their admiration. I even catch a girl glaring at me like I’ve declared war.

“Didn’t realize you guys were famous.” I tease as we climb the stairs to the VIP section. Dean smirks. “It’s not us. It’s the family name.” His tone shifts slightly, something colder beneath the surface. I decide not to press further. The VIP area is a differentworld, quieter but still buzzing with an undercurrent of energy. A woman, flawlessly dressed and exuding confidence, locks eyes with Dean and saunters over.

“Dean, darling. I thought you were coming alone tonight,” she says, her tone sweet but her gaze sharp as it flicks to me.

“And miss the chance to introduce Kayla to the finest club in town? Never,” Dean replies smoothly, slipping an arm around my waist. I resist the urge to laugh at the exaggerated display.

“Dance with me?” I ask, looking up at him. The corner of his mouth lifts in a wicked grin.

“Demanding, aren’t you?” he says. “Vicky, hold my jacket.”

Vicky’s expression shifts from smug to stunned, and I’m already fighting back a grin as Dean leads me to the dance floor. The moment we step into the crowd, the music takes over, and I let myself get lost in the rhythm. For the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on my chest lifts slightly. There are drinks exchanged and dances. Big group ones, fast ones. I shy away from the slow dances, not wanting to give the brothers the wrong impression, but it was all going well until around ninety minutes in… and a familiar melody cuts through the noise, and Braden’s voice fills the room. The walls I’ve built around my grief crack, and it’s like he’s right here, singing just for me. My body freezes, and the pain floods in. Dean’s hands tighten on my waist. “Kayla?” he asks, his voice full of concern. I shake my head, breaking away, and push through the crowd winded until I find a restroom. Once inside, the music muffles slightly, but it’s not enough. Braden’s voice still echoes in my ears as I collapse into a stall.

By the time I pull myself together and step out, my face is a mess of smeared mascara and blotchy skin. A redheaded girl approaches cautiously, her eyes soft with concern.

“Hey,” she says gently. “Are you okay?” I nod, though the lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. Her gaze sharpens, andrecognition flashes in her eyes. “I’m sorry about your brother,” she whispers. “He was amazing.” Before I can respond, the door bursts open. Dean and Clay step inside, their expressions a mix of worry and determination. Dean’s gaze finds mine instantly.

“Let’s go,” he says softly, offering his hand. I take it, grateful for the escape. The car ride home is quiet, save for Dean’s occasional glances in my direction. As we pull up to the boarding house, he finally speaks. “You okay?”

“I will be.” I say, surprising myself with the honesty. Dean flashes a small smile. “Good. Because if you ever need to talk…or dance…you know where to find me.”

“Goodnight, Dean,” I reply, stepping out of the car. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might actually mean it.

Chapter Six

Logan

The following morning, I’m up, dressed, and ready to hit the road before the sun has fully risen. The ride is easy—impossible to get lost on the last stretch of Route 5 North. My GSX-R hums beneath me, a steady purr I feel through my bones. She’s built for speed, and I let her do what she does best, slicing through the highway like a blade through silk. The wind roars past, drowning out the thoughts that have been clawing at my skull since I left Portland.

I push the speed limit here and there, shaving minutes off my time, but I’m not reckless. Not today.

By the time I roll into Vancouver, my body aches from the ride, my knuckles stiff from gripping the handlebars too hard. My girl and I both need a break—her for fuel, me to scrape off the layer of dead bugs I’ve collected along the way. I stop at a gas station on the outskirts of town, stretching out before heading inside to splash some cold water on my face. No way I’m pulling up to Mac’s looking like I just survived a swarm of locusts.

With my tank topped up and my skin marginally cleaner, I hit the road again. The closer I get, the tighter my chest becomes. Two hours of nothing but open road, white lines blurring beneath my tires, and I didn’t spend a single second thinking about what the hell I’m actually going to say to her.

Maybe I just caveman it. Throw her over my shoulder and haul her back where she belongs. Food for thought.

As I turn onto her street, the familiar sight of the house comes into view, and my pulse stutters. It looks cold, empty. Curtains drawn tight, no sign of life. A lump forms in my throat, thick and heavy, and I swallow hard against it. This is the first time I’ve been back since Braden died. It feels like the world has shifted beneath me, tilting into something unfamiliar, something worse.

I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, hands still gripping the handlebars. I don’t need a mirror to know my jaw is clenched tight, my expression drawn. My fingers flex and release before I finally pull off my helmet and run a hand through my hair. No backing out now, Logan. You’re here. You’re here for her.

I set the helmet down on the back of the bike and dig my keys from my pocket, the metal cool against my palm. My gaze lifts to the house again, dread curling low in my gut. This place must feel like a goddamn mausoleum. A shrine to her misery, with ghosts staring out at her from picture frames, memories wrapped around her like a noose. The highs of the past, thecrushing lows of the present—it had to be like a drug, giving her a hit of something good before ripping it all away again.

She had to have heard me pull up—the street’s too quiet for her not to—but the door stays closed, the curtains don’t twitch. No movement. A pang of something sharp digs into my ribs. She always used to open the door before I even made it to the steps. Always used to be waiting.

Not today.

I’m halfway up the path when a voice calls my name. For a second—just a split second—my heart stutters, thinking it might be her.

“Logan.”

I turn, and it’s not Mac.

Lola jogs across the street toward me, her expression shifting as her gaze flicks to the house. There’s pain there, buried deep, but I see it.

“How you doin’, Lola?” I ask, trying to shove down the disappointment.

She stops a few feet away, adjusting her torn jeans, her blue sneakers scuffing against the pavement. “Could ask you the same thing.”

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