14 months in lock up.

14 months without you. Relying on your weekly visits in between letters and visits from the guys who hadn’t been caught to keep up with the outside world.

We got 18 months for some bullshit drugs charge, me, Louis, Zayn, Liam and Niall and a couple others. It wasn’t even concrete. Just the only thing they could slap on us to try and rattle the club because they can’t pin any of the big shit on us. If they did… well, it’d be 18 years not 18 months.

I’m the VP of Fallen Angels MC. Founded by my grandfather and his best friend back in the day. I’m set to take over as Prez when my dad relinquishes the gavel. We’re outlaws, the bad guys, dealing in some less than legal stuff, and sometimes that comes back to bite us in the ass no matter how careful we are.

And you? You’re my angel. My god given solace. I don’t know what I did to deserve you. You put up with so much but you still love me unconditionally. You deal with the lockdowns, clashes with rival MCs, near misses with the cops, me doing time. But you stay. You play the part of old lady like you were born for it, and you know in the end I’ll always come back to you.

But today, after serving 14 months, we’re getting out, our sentences reduced for good behaviour. I know, I know. Me? Good behaviour? But we done it. The rest of my brothers are waiting outside of the prison with our bikes, helmets and kuttes. Fuck, a year and change without my kutte had me feeling like I was missing a part of myself. I’d been wearing it for over ten years, since I was a prospect at 18. Dreamt about the day I got my full patch since I was old enough to know what it meant. The loyalty, the brotherhood. It’s the life I was made for.

After all the hugs, slaps on the back and and saying goodbye to the hell hole that was home for over a year, we tear down the street, heading towards the compound where I know the party will already be raging. One step closer to home, one step closer to you.

The bikes roar down the street as we near the lot, I can feel the electricity buzzing in the air and I know you’ll be there waiting to greet me with a bottle of Jack in hand. Our clubhouse is on the same lot as my old man’s garage. All of us work there, 40 hours a week with a power tool in my hand to keep the cops off our backs. Mostly a front, but it’s the family business. Besides, watching you handle business in the office with your feet up on the desk is a pretty good view.

I can hear the cheers the second we pull into the lot, and there you are. Clearly already enjoying the party, a bottle of Jack in your hand as you and Louis’ old lady dance on one of the picnic tables.

You stop when we pull in, lining the bikes up as we park. You smile. Fuck, that’s smile that brings me to my knees. You stay stood on the picnic table as everyone makes a fuss over us. Brothers from other charters turning up for the party, old ladies, friends of the club, even some of the cops we keep on our pay role all turning up.

I make my way through the crowd of people welcoming us back, like some invisible string pulling me back to you. Back home.

You hop down off the picnic bench and the second your feet touch the ground you’re in my arms. I scoop you up, burying my face in your neck breathing you in. Your shampoo, your perfume, you. It’s home. I’m home.

I pull back to look at you, my hands framing your face. “Nothing like 14 months locked up to make me realise how much I miss your shitty tea and cremated toast.”