You know. The day you went on that night raid... the night you lost your two best friends... the night...
“Red Raven?”
“Yay.”
“Patriot?”
I snapped back to attention, realizing that I had somehow missed the previous minute of conversation. This hadn’t happened in almost a year.
Lane’s recovery from his guilt and the need to pull him closer to the club had given me a mission to focus on in club meetings, but now that had been resolved, my old issues had bubbled up. I hadn’t solved my own problems, I merely shifted them to the side to focus on the greater good of the club. Perhaps I could have focused on new club problems, but I knew that I was going to have to face these emotional and mental scars of mine alone.
“You know I got your back in whatever you do,” I said with a thumbs up and a smirk. “Yay.”
I literally had no idea what Lane had asked about. He could have asked if we needed to do a second follow-up strike on the Fallen Saints, or he could have asked if I preferred pizza or burgers for the next Black Reapers public event. I could bullshit my way through just about anything.
Except the fallout of what happened after Ramadi. When you came home to Jennifer and tried to tell her you were fine, except...
Damn, man, I really needed help. If I ever wanted to have even just the potential or the possibility of loving anyone—most of all myself—I needed help. At the very least, I had a lot of introspection and reflection I needed to do.
For now, though, I was in no position to have a relationship with anyone. If I couldn’t have made it work with my high school sweetheart, the girl I married just before shipping out at eighteen years old, I couldn’t make it work out with some stranger in Springsville. I was content to settle for sex at the club parties—it got me off, and since I was strong and didn’t need support from anyone else, it was all I needed to fulfill my needs.
For now.
“Alright, that concludes this weekly meeting,” Lane said. “Gentlemen, thanks for holding down the fort while I was out. Even if you bastards were the ones that held me out.”
“Nonsense,” Axle said. “Thank you for taking the lead.”
Lane smiled before he pounded the gavel once. Everyone slowly stood up, walking out the door, except for me. It wasn’t uncommon for me or someone else to hang back—private one-on-ones were a hallmark of Lane’s leadership style. He was brutally honest and upfront in these meetings, which allowed for politics to get left behind. It also ensured no one outside the doors wondered if any shit-talking was being done behind their back.
“So, Mr. President,” I said with a smile. “I’d say you got the club in tip-top shape. You have pretty good control over them all.”
“For now,” Lane said as he puffed on a cigar. “Care to have one? We might as well celebrate my return.”
“Ah, hell, I’d prefer a cigarette, but alright,” I said as I took one from him and lit it up. “Thanks, man.”
It just felt like we were celebrating a temporary victory. This battle against the Saints wasn’t going to end until Lucius fell or until we found a way to make peace. There was just too much bad blood.
And let’s just say making peace with Lucius was about as laughable an idea as me forgiving myself.
“By the way,” I said. “What was that all about? That club vote?”
“Oh, just something about getting medical help on-call, but all that aside, though,” Lane said. “I do need to talk to you about something. I know you’re good for keeping secrets, Patriot, but in this case, I need you to be very, very quiet. Okay?”
“Of course, man,” I said. “Why? What’s up?”
Lane sighed, his heavy look second only to the expression he’d had when he thought about his deceased girlfriend, Shannon, the one he’d dated for a long time before she got killed by the Fallen Saints.
“If I’m right,” he said. “It could very well spell the end of the club.”
* * *
Kaitlyn Meade
It had been a rather busy month at Springsville General Hospital, full of gunshot wounds, violence, and a few drunk driving accidents.
At the moment, though, I was just on my break with my best friend Devon in the lunch hall of the hospital. We both had on our nursing scrubs, and instead of talking about issues of work—we had all the time to do that—we were on the topic familiar to anyone without a ring on their finger or an official social media status.
“Telling you, girl, as soon as we can, we need to get the hell out of here and get to Los Angeles,” Devon said. “There’s absolutely no dating scene here!”
