Chapter 13 : The Broken Soldier
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — April 12, 2008, 10:30 AM]
Opie dropped the wrench.
Third time this morning. The clatter echoed across the garage, and every head turned. Opie stood frozen for a second, staring at the tool like it had betrayed him, then bent to pick it up.
His hands were shaking.
I watched from two bays over, pretending to focus on the Civic's brake pads. But I'd been watching Opie for days now, cataloguing the signs of a man coming apart.
The dark circles had deepened. His movements were mechanical, disconnected—like he was operating his body by remote control. He jumped at sudden noises. Doors slamming, phones ringing, engines backfiring. Each one sent a visible flinch through his massive frame.
Prison did that to people. Five years of constant vigilance, never knowing when violence would come, always watching your back. The paranoia didn't disappear when the gates opened. It burrowed deeper.
And in a few months, Stahl's going to use that paranoia against him.
The frame job would work because Opie already looked guilty. Jumpy, isolated, secretive—all the behaviors of a man with something to hide. Never mind that what he was hiding was trauma, not betrayal.
Half-Sack appeared at my shoulder. "He's getting worse."
"Yeah."
"Jax is worried. I heard him talking to Bobby."
"What'd they say?"
"That Opie needs time." Half-Sack shook his head. "But Clay keeps watching him. You notice that?"
I had. Clay's gaze tracked Opie whenever they were in the same room—calculating, suspicious. The president didn't trust easily, and a man acting like Opie was acting set off every alarm.
The trap is already being built. Stahl just needs to spring it.
"He'll be okay," I said. "Just needs space."
"Hope you're right." Half-Sack wandered off.
I went back to the brakes. But my attention stayed on Opie.
---
[TM Back Lot — 6:45 PM]
The phone call happened near sunset.
I was restocking the parts shed when I heard Opie's voice—low, tense, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakable. An argument.
Through the window slats, I could see him pacing behind the dumpster. Phone pressed to his ear, free hand clenching and unclenching.
"—I can't just leave, Donna. This is my family."
Silence. Her response, whatever it was.
"That's not fair. You know what I went through for them. You know what I gave up."
More silence.
"I'm trying." His voice cracked. "I'm trying to be what you need, but I can't—I can't just pretend the last five years didn't happen."
The conversation ended abruptly. He stood there for a long moment, phone hanging at his side, staring at the ground.
I grabbed two beers from the cooler in the shed—always stocked, club tradition—and walked out.
Opie heard my footsteps. His head snapped up, body tensing, and I saw his hand move toward his hip before he recognized me.
"Easy." I held up the beers. "Peace offering."
He didn't relax, but he didn't walk away either. I crossed the distance, held out a bottle.
For a long moment, he just stared at it.
Then he took it.
We stood there in silence, drinking. The sun sank lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple. Traffic hummed on the distant highway.
"You were inside?"
His question came out of nowhere. I shook my head.
"Military."
Opie nodded slowly. "Different cage, same walls."
"Something like that."
He took another pull from his beer. His hands had stopped shaking.
"It doesn't get easier," he said. "Coming back. Everyone expects you to be who you were before. But that person's gone."
"What's left?"
He laughed—bitter, hollow. "That's the question."
We finished our beers. He crushed the can, tossed it in the dumpster.
"Thanks for the drink."
"Anytime."
He walked away without looking back.
[RELATIONSHIP UPDATE: OPIE WINSTON — AWARE (18)]
One beer. One moment of shared understanding. Not enough to save him, not nearly enough.
But it was something.
---
[Cole's Apartment — 11:30 PM]
The phone sat on my nightstand, dark and silent.
I stared at it for a long time, fighting the urge to pick it up. To call someone. Anyone.
But there was no one to call.
The people I'd known in my old life—whoever they were, whatever their names—didn't exist here. This world had no record of them, no trace. I was Cole Ashford now, and Cole Ashford had no family. No friends outside Charming. No ties to anything except the club and the mission I'd set for myself.
Donna has maybe six months. Stahl will frame Opie sometime before that. The dominoes will fall unless I knock them down first.
The weight of it pressed against my chest.
I picked up the phone anyway. Scrolled through the contacts. Half-Sack. Juice. The TM garage. Sarah Cole—her number programmed in after the ER visit, never used.
"Ask again sometime."
My thumb hovered over her name.
Not yet. Not like this.
I set the phone down.
The apartment was quiet. The building creaked around me, settling. Somewhere outside, a dog barked and fell silent.
Three months in this world. Already deeper than I'd planned. Wearing a support shirt, soon to be a prospect if Clay's hints meant anything. Building relationships, earning trust, positioning pieces.
And still utterly alone with everything I knew.
That's the cost. You want to save them? You carry this yourself.
I turned off the light.
Sleep came eventually, thin and restless.
---
[Teller-Morrow Automotive — April 14, 2008, 5:30 PM]
Clay watched Opie leave.
I saw it from the garage—the president standing in the clubhouse doorway, cigar in hand, eyes tracking Opie's truck as it pulled out of the lot. His expression was blank, but something cold lived behind it.
Calculation. Assessment. The look of a man weighing options.
He's already wondering. Already suspicious.
Stahl wouldn't have to work hard to convince Clay that Opie was a rat. The seeds were already planted. Five years of silence in prison, the behavioral changes, the isolation—all of it could be read as guilt instead of trauma.
And when Stahl manufactures her evidence, Clay will believe it.
The truck disappeared around the corner. Clay took a drag from his cigar, still watching the empty street.
Then his gaze shifted.
To me.
Our eyes met across the lot. I didn't look away—that would signal guilt. Instead, I nodded once, respectful, and went back to work.
When I glanced up again, he was gone.
You're being watched too. Don't forget that.
The garage tools felt heavier in my hands.
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