Page 7 of September's Bad Boy: Cooper
“Dead serious.”
Shane walks the perimeter, eyeing the framing. “You do this all on your own?”
“So far.”
“Well, stop.” Huck folds his arms. “You want it done right, then you need help. I’ve got a gap in my project schedule. Shane too. We can give you time.”
“You’re offering to work for free?”
“I’m offering to build something that matters,” Huck replies, with a rare flicker of a smile. “There’s a difference.”
He pulls out a notepad from his back pocket and starts rattling off measurements, adjustments, and design tweaks. Shane joins in, already pulling a tape measure and a level from the truck. It turns into a full walkthrough, the three of us tracing the outlines, checking joists, assessing rooflines, and debating flooring material.
I give them my vision for the gym. The one I tweaked with a fine-tooth comb every day I spent in prison.
We talk sweat equity, drywall timelines, who can donate what, and who still owes Huck a favor. Somehow in the middle of it all, I feel a little less alone. These men don’t care about my past. They care about what I’m building now. That means more than I can put into words.
As the sun sinks, casting long shadows over the lot, we wrap up. Shane claps me on the shoulder, firm and steady.
“We’ll start early,” he says.
“Thanks,” I reply, and I mean it. It’s not just about manpower. It’s about someone choosing to stand beside me. That’s rare. And it’s not something I take for granted.
I get to the gym site early, just after five. There is something about renovating this building and being a part of its history if only for a short time. The air’s still heavy with morning dew, the sky soft and pale. Everything looks wrong before I even step out of the truck.
Spray paint is scrawled in jagged lines across the front wall. Red. Black. Hate. Slurs. Threats. Broken glass gleaming on the sidewalk like glittering shards of warning. My chest goes tight.
I throw the truck into park and climb out slowly. Every step forward feels like I’m dragging weights behind me. The closer I get, the worse it is. Wood floorboards pried loose. Paint buckets overturned. The bright blue ran like a river across the floor.
It’s not vandalism. It’s a statement.
The town doesn’t want this place here.
I crouch, fingers brushing over the busted remains of a workbench I built last week. One of Huck’s loaned tools is shattered beside it. The damage is calculated. Targeted. Someone came here with intent. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t stupid teenagers.
This was personal.
I stand, breath heaving, fists clenched at my sides. The sting of it burns deep. But underneath that hurt, there’s something stronger.
Determination.
This gym was never just about weights and walls. It was about second chances. About building something when everyone thought I had nothing left. It was about showing the people who whisper behind my back that I’m not going anywhere.
I’ve been broken before. I’ve been doubted, judged, pushed out, and every time, I clawed my way back.
They want me to walk away.
But I won’t.
This isn’t over.
And I’ll be damned if I let them stop me now.
CHAPTER 4
RILEY
I head to Kara’s bookshop and as I push the door open, the familiar scent of cinnamon tea and old pages wrapping around me like a blanket. I spot them right away—Kara behind the counter, flipping through a new shipment list, and Kinley perched on a stool sipping from a mason jar of sweet tea. It’s cozy in here, and usually calming, but there’s tension in the air today. I can feel it before anyone says a word.
