Page 3 of Fury
"You going to finally talk to her at the party tomorrow? Or just stare creepily from across the room like usual?"
I start my bike, drowning out whatever else he might say. "Club meeting in twenty. Don't be late."
She left for a reason. Wanted something beyond this town, beyond the life of an MC princess. I respected that enough to keep my distance, even when it felt like carving out my own insides.
But now she's back. For good, according to her father.
The clubhouse comes into view, the familiar brick building with our insignia painted on the side. A few prospects are outside washing bikes, and they straighten as I pull in.
But all I can think about is dark hair blowing in the autumn breeze and the woman who's finally come home.
Livie
As I pull up to Steel Magnolias, nostalgia hits me like a physical force. The quaint storefront with its hand-painted sign and window boxes filled with autumn mums look exactly as I remembered, though Aunt Brittany has added string lights that twinkle along the awning.
The bell above the door jingles as I step inside, and the familiar scent of shampoo, hairspray, and coffee envelops me. Aunt Brittany looks up from where she's sweeping hair clippings, her face lighting up when she sees me.
"There's my LA girl!" she exclaims, dropping the broom to rush over. Her hug is fierce and smells like the lavender oil she's worn since I was little. "Or should I say, my Steel Magnolias girl now?"
"The latter has a nice ring to it," I admit, squeezing her back.
She pulls away, her hands still on my shoulders as she studies me. "You look good, baby. Tired, but good."
"LA will do that to you," I say with a small laugh. "Everything's always moving so fast there."
Aunt Brittany loops her arm through mine, leading me toward the back of the salon. "Well, you're home now. We move at our own pace here."
As we walk through the salon, I take in the familiar details: the vintage barber chairs, the black-and-white checkered floor, the wall of photos featuring clients showing off their new styles. It's smaller than the sleek, minimalist salon I worked at in Beverly Hills, but there's a warmth here that no amount of expensive décor could replicate.
"This is you." She stops in front of a station near the window. A small chalkboard hangs above it with "Olivia Bennett" written in Aunt Brittany's flowing script.
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "You already put my name up."
"Never doubted you'd come back," she tells me. "Some people need to leave to figure out where they belong. I did the same thing when I was your age."
I run my fingers along the clean countertop, imagining it covered with my tools and products. The afternoon sun streams through the window, casting a golden glow over everything. Outside, Mrs. Henderson walks by with her dachshund, waving when she spots me. The town clock in the square chimes five, its sound carrying clearly through the quiet streets.
"I forgot how everything slows down after four," I murmur, watching a couple of teenagers on skateboards lazily making their way down the sidewalk.
"Too slow for you now?" Aunt Brittany asks, a hint of worry in her voice.
I shake my head, surprising myself with how certain I feel. "No. It's… perfect. In LA, I was always rushing to appointments, rushing through traffic, rushing to prove myself. I didn't realize how exhausting it was until right now."
She smiles knowingly. "That's the thing about coming home. You don't know what you've been missing until you have it again."
We spend the next hour going through schedules and client lists. Aunt Brittany's built a loyal following over the years, and she's already transferred some of her regulars to my book.
"Hope you don't mind," she starts, flipping through the appointment book. "These ladies specifically requested you when they heard you were coming back. Apparently, your Instagram photos made quite an impression."
I laugh, touched that people from my hometown had been following my career. "I don't mind at all. It'll be nice to start with familiar faces."
As the evening light begins to fade, we lock up together. Standing on the sidewalk outside the salon, I take a deep breath of the cool, evening air, watching as the streetlights flicker on one by one.
"I should get back. Mom's making dinner."
"Tell her to save me some," Aunt Brittany tells me, giving me another quick hug. "And, Livie? I'm really glad you're home."
"Me too," I reply, and I mean it more than I thought possible.
