Ruger, the chapter president, sat to Wildman’s right, his face a mask of controlled fury. Named for the gun he always carried, Ruger was the strategist, the one who turned chaos into plans. His arms were crossed, revealing tattoos that told stories of battles won and lost.
Busk paced the room, cigarette dangling from his lips. The VP was a live wire, always moving, always ready for a fight. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, souvenirs from enforcing club law. “Those ASMC bastards think they can piss on our turf?” he snarled. “Tagging our fence with that fairy shit? And jumping Rooster? It’s war.”
Cherry took his seat, leaning forwards. “What’d they hit him with?”
“Knife,” Ruger said flatly. “Busted rib, but he’s patching up. Says it was three of ‘em, wearing ASMC colors. This ain’t the first insult, but it’s the boldest.”
Wildman slammed a fist on the table, making the ashtrays jump. “We don’t let this slide. Last time they encroached on our run routes, we let it go with a warning. No more. We hit their last stash house. Torch it to the ground.”
The room fell silent for a beat, then nods all around. Cherry’s pulse quickened. Retaliation was the lifeblood of the club. It would always be eye for an eye, fire for fire. But something twisted in his gut. Denis. The thought of his boyfriend waiting for him, that dinner date they’d planned for weeks. Denis, with his pressed suits and sharp mind, who saw the world in shades of justice and law, not blood and brotherhood.
They dove into the plan. The stash house was a dilapidated warehouse on the edge of town, stocked with ASMC’s illicit goods such as meth, guns, whatever they peddled to fund their operations. Intelligence from a hangaround had pinpointed it, the location was lightly guarded, with easy access from the back roads.
“Cherry, you lead the ride,” Wildman decided. “Pick your team. Fifteen brothers, no more. Keep it tight.”
Cherry nodded. “Salty for lookout, he’s got eyes like a hawk. Sir Loin for muscle; guy’s built like a tank. Jinx for distractions; his bad luck is our good fortune. Doodle for maps; he knows every back alley. And Rooster, if he’s up for it. Wounded or not, he’s family.”
Busk grinned. “Rooster’s already gearing up. Says the pain fuels him.”
They mapped it out: approach at dusk, with a silent infiltrate. Each member had two Molotovs to ignite, and then they were to exfil before the flames drew attention. No kills if avoidable. Wildman was adamant about that. “We ain’t murderers,” he said. “But we are IMC. We protect what’s ours.”
As the meeting broke, Cherry stepped outside for air. The lot was alive with brothers prepping bikes, the hum of engines a symphony. He pulled out his phone, staring at Denis’ contact photo, a candid shot of him laughing, tie askew after a long day in court.
Fingers hesitated, then typed: *Babe, club stuff came up. Gonna be late for our date. Hate letting you down. You mean the world to me. Much more than I say.* He hit send, heart in his throat. Deeper feelings. Yeah, that was as close as he got. Denis was queer, out, and unapologetic, a beacon in Cherry’s shadowed world. Denis saw the man, not the biker. But how long could that last with nights like this?
A reply buzzed in: *Understand. Be safe. Miss you too.* Simple, but it warmed him.
“Ready, brother?” Busk called, mounting his bike.
Cherry pocketed the phone. “Born ready.”
The ride out was electric. Fifteen bikes in formation, Cherry at the point, wind tearing at his cut. Salty rode left flank, Sir Loin right, Jinx and Doodle in the pack, Rooster bringing up rear with a grimace but steady throttle. The road wound through fields and forgotten towns, the setting sun painting everything gold and red.
Adrenaline pumped, masking the doubt that lurked like a shadow.Was this worth it?The club was family, but Denis was...home. The thought of losing him to this life gnawed at Cherry, but the roar of the bikes pushed it down.
They stashed the rides a half-mile out, hiking through brush. The warehouse loomed, dim lights inside, ASMC prospects lounging out front. One was half turned away, but the profile looked familiar. Cherry leaned forwards, trying to see the face on the man. All he could make out was a set of initials on the prospect’s vest: HL
Cherry signaled that they were a go. In response, Salty and Sir Loin circled, each taking out a guard with a quiet chokehold. Then Jinx created the diversion they needed, his thrown rock drawing the remaining ASMC man’s eyes. Doodle handed out the last few bottles, rag wicks soaked in gas.
“Now,” Cherry whispered.
Flames leaped as the Molotovs shattered windows. Shouts erupted, but the IMC was already melting into the night. Bikes thundered to life as they retreated, fire reflecting in rearview mirrors. Adrenaline masked the doubt, but deep down, Cherry knew that this life, this fire, it was consuming him too.
Back at the clubhouse, beers flowed, backs slapped. But Cherry slipped away, texting Denis: *On my way.* The adrenaline faded, doubt creeping back. Maybe it was time for change.
Cherry’s mind wandered as he rode. He remembered the first time with Denis, those stolen kisses on a dance floor, the contrast of soft hands on rough skin. Saying goodbye, Denis had whispered, “You’re not just a biker to me.” But club life demanded loyalty, and tonight proved it.
