I was six years old when my father boarded a plane and a few hours later it was flown into the World Trade Center, leaving my mother to raise and provide for two boys on her own.
Those hijackers stole my father, but they also created a rift with what was left of my family, and it’s only widened as the years go on. I don’t talk much about my childhood or my parents to the brothers because the second I stepped foot onto this compound and was accepted as a prospect, they became my new family. The only living blood relative I have left is Malik Charles and he tried to kill me.
So having already endured the destruction of one family, I won’t be able to bear it if another crumbles around me.
I believe in Jaeger, I think he would make an exceptional leader for us. He did learn from Vic after all, but right now he’s also drowning in his own ocean of grief. Whatever happened in that house the night Genevieve was taken has never been revealed. None of us know the details of how Claire died or what happened to Vic, but the brothers have a few theories.
Hell’s March knew we were trying to thwart their new business connections with the cartel and they knew we were going to make sure they didn’t ride through our town. Everything changed after that day we visited their warehouse. Dissent started to rise inside our club, and Jaeger slowly became a darker version of himself while Quinton retreated deep inside himself, becoming nothing but an empty shell.
Both are burdened with secrets, I can tell by the way they can’t seem to meet any of the brothers’ eyes when they speak, and that goes beyond Quinton’s new obsession with being inebriated. After months of watching them, I can’t help but think they’re more involved than what they’ve said, just by the way they're acting alone. Becoming President of a motorcycle club is the highest level of achievement, and then you bring your best friend along with you, proclaiming him Vice, the second most highest achievement, and instead of being elated and excited, you’re both miserable. Like I said, suspicious.
I’ve asked in the last two Mass meetings we had,Why aren’t we going to war with Hell’s March?I received the same response twice. Jaeger would fiddle with the gavel, his leaner form looking small in his father’s chair, and then his eyes would stay focused on the wood table in front of him as he said,We’re not strong enough and our clubhouse is still being repaired.
Excuses.
I don’t know what role Quinton and Jaeger played in Genni’s disappearance and Claire’s and Vic’s death, but evil has a way of metastasizing. Once you’ve accepted it inside of you, its tendrils snake through your organs, sucking every bit of good that exists until you’re nothing but a bare skeleton, living each day and hoping for death. I can see it growing inside the two of them. A part of me wants to question them both, but I don’t want to create a rift until I know the truth.
Even though there’s a dark cloud hanging over the club, there is a spot of light. We’re getting new bikes commissioned. Brand new Harleys with the Steel Dragon emblem sitting in the center of our handlebars and stiff leather seats, which will be oiled and unblemished. The thought only makes me miss my old bike even more. Vic had that bike made for me when I was sworn in. It had custom detailing and a seat that was worn down, faded from years of long rides with my brothers.
Genni took from us the very thing she knew would make us feel small, immobile, and weak. I know it sounds strange, saying a bike gives us power, and sure, maybe that’s true for one person, but when you have a large group of brothers riding that highway in a formation that spans tens of feet, there’s nothing more powerful than that.
Despite that, I don’t blame her for the retaliation. I also don’t blame her for standing there with my brother, the sight only solidifying where her loyalties now stand. No, I don’t blame her for any of it because even though it’s apparent she’s standing there willingly now, I don’t think she went to them of her own free will.
My eyes skip again to Quinton as he tosses and turns on that cot, his tortured soul not letting him rest. When he closes his eyes, I wonder if he sees her standing there. Her strength emanating from each pore as her confidence shone in the way she stood on her own? When my bike was engulfed by flames, my eyes didn’t waver from the leather cut hanging off her shoulders. Is that what he sees when he closes his eyes? Or does he see something more sinister? A dark memory I have no knowledge of?
I stand from my seat and head over to the corner of the room where Chip sits as he slowly sips on a tumbler of amber liquid. Usually the brothers sit around the bar to chat and drink, but lately it’s been one of the quieter places, and I can see it taking a toll on Chip.
“Hey, brother,” I greet him as I sit in a chair at the table across from him. “How are you holding up?”
“Trying to stay positive.” He takes a sip from his glass as his blond eyebrows fall together over his nose. “Maybe it’s a dark time because we lost our President, but it’s never felt like this before.”
He swipes a hand through his light blond hair, the long strands free from the usual bun he has at the back of his head. Chip has a habit of foregoing his grooming when he’s feeling down. When his blue eyes look up to meet mine, I can see fear swimming in their depths.
“I think it’s just a lot has happened in a short period of time,” I explain to him as he turns around and begins to make me my coffee, his hair swinging around his shoulders. “Not only did we lose our President, but our clubhouse and our bikes also.”
I begin to drum my fingers along the top of the table to try to stop the tremble that threatens to come over my hands. We’ve all been through hell. We’ve been to war with Hell’s March before, but it’s never been this destructive and we’ve never let retaliation take this long.
“Shouldn’t we have struck back by now?” he asks as he puts the cup of steaming liquid in front of me, his words echoing my thoughts. “Are we backing down to Hell’s March?”
“We need our bikes.” I nod as my fingers wrap around the little cup. “We can’t ride out to war without our trusty steeds.” I try to infuse the tension with some humor and his lips tip up with the effort, but the smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes.
“We have vans that we could literally stuff ten brothers in each, and instead of riding out on horses, we could travel in tanks.” His face falls and his hand that’s resting on top of the table curls into a fist, the veins prominent on his forearm.
I have nothing to say to that because it’s the exact thing I’ve been thinking. The only brother we lost was Vic, and even though our numbers are most likely lower than Hell’s March, we still need to fight back.
He brings the glass up to his mouth again and I take in the scruff that’s grown on his usually clean-shaven face. There’s a single bathroom here with a single basin, and many of us didn’t have time to grab toiletries when we were running from our torched clubhouse.
“I’m having a hard time believing Vic was shot by Barrett and his wife killed in cold blood without explanation,” Chip murmurs as he peers at me over the rim of his glass. “And I’m only telling you this because you’re the levelheaded one, Laith. If Hell’s March killed our president, wouldn’t they be trying to claim us? Or at the very least, shouting it from the rooftops?”
“They wouldn’t be able to claim us without a public declaration of war to take the presidency,” I explain the rules. “That was a home invasion, not a battle. They wouldn’t want to gloat about it.”
Even as I say the words, his sentiment is one I’ve been turning over and over in my mind. Barrett is just as crazy as most of his members, my brother included, and I don’t understand why he hasn’t been gloating either.
I stare at the spot that was once saturated with bright, crimson blood. The same spot where my mother took her last breath.
I couldn’t protect her and I couldn’t repay her for all the times she protected me.
When I close my eyes, I can still hear her screams, the memories having the power to transport me back as if I’m right there in the moment all over again.
