But I’d done it.
And now, as I sat in the parking lot of my dinky apartment, a place that, amazingly, was only about five minutes from the Bernard Boys—amazing how, despite being so physically close, we could feel worlds apart—I knew that I’d need their help for something else.
My car’s oil change sign had come on.
For the first few years, my father had done it. When he died, I started doing it myself. But I’d heard through the grapevine that the Bernard Boys had not only taken on a new name, but they had also opened a repair shop, Santa Maria Auto Repair.
I didn’t know that this was a good idea. I worried that I’d pull up, only to speed off. If I saw Brock…what would happen? I didn’t think we’d fall in love or start making out; that was ridiculous. I was sure he had someone else by now, anyway.
But we shared something. Actually, I shared something with several of the guys. And even if I met one who didn’t, if they learned the name, Brock and Connor and everyone else would know I was there soon enough.
But of all the groups that I’d be showing myself to, who better than the guys that had fought tooth and nail to protect me? Who better than the ones that had spent their lives trying to avenge what happened that awful night?
And besides, did I really want to spend the rest of my life hiding from the people who loved me most? I was only left to say the words that I said to myself every time I tried something small to the world, but major to myself.
“I only hope this goes well and without danger.”
Mason
It was high noon, and it was a day that was anything but ordinary.
Despite being a Friday afternoon, the repair shop had a “Closed” sign on it. Instead of sleeping in, all of the officers had gathered at the clubhouse. And instead of there being just a few bikes parked outside, there was an entire fucking army of choppers lined up along the walls.
Inside this self-made clubhouse, which was beginning to show its dwellers by its various stains, cracks, and stenches, the six of us Black Reapers sat in “church”—Brock, Steele, Garrett, Connor, Zack, and I. Also sitting by our side, either sharing our roles or having ones very similar to it, were the Black Reapers of Springsville—Lane, Patriot, Axle, Butch, and Phoenix. The only one who didn’t have anyone sitting next to them was Connor, our enforcer.
And that was because the sixth member of the original Black Reapers chapter wasn’t sitting. He was standing before the room. Cole Carter.
And unfortunately, not even he seemed capable of calming the tension slowly brewing in this room.
“You’re telling me,” Lane said, “that you guys have been dealing with these Bandits not just for the last couple years, but for, what, a decade now? You’re telling me that back in the day, you guys would only fight at bars and when you saw each other, just pure, random riffraff bullshit. And now you’re telling me that you never once took them out?”
“What the fuck does it matter?” Brock said. “We never called for your help when that was the case. And even when Cole founded us, we didn’t ask for help until we learned that King was behind it.”
Lane looked to Cole. The two of them shared some facial features, but that was where the similarities ended. Lane was on the taller side and lankier; Cole was shorter and more muscular. I could only imagine what sort of fights the two of them had growing up.
At least when I was a kid, Hannah and I would never get violent. Oh, we’d cuss each other out, her being annoying, she calling me overbearing, but there was a certain strong line that existed because she was a girl.
Of course, that all ended when…well, when my parents died. That was the nicest way I could describe it.
“It fucking matters because I don’t want to be backing up a bunch of amateurs in battle,” Lane said. “I admired the balls to drive all the way out to California. I get the urgency of the matter with you summoning me, Cole. But now that I’m here…”
“You say that like we don’t know how to fight,” I said. I was sick of our skills being questioned. For better or for worse, I had a prideful streak—usually better when the Bandits were causing trouble, usually for worse when it was just something in-house. Garrett especially knew that well. “I can assure you, Lane, our faults are not ones of capability, but of resources.”
Lane looked to Patriot, who sighed and leaned forward on the table.
“You ever served in the military, man?”
It felt like a manhood question, like “you got any balls, man?” It was a stupid fucking question. This was the kind of town military recruiters came by maybe once or twice a year and left. We were too small to have an office nearby.
And besides, joining the military would have meant leaving behind the brotherhood we’d established.Or, in my case, the sister that lost her parents because…
“No,” I said in what I hoped was as harsh a tone as possible.
“I have,” Patriot said. “Axle here has. We’ve got many more prospects and club members that have military training. You know how to fight in the streets. You don’t know how to fight an organized enemy like King and his men.”
“Which is why I had you all come here,” Cole said. “You remember what we said to each other right before I left for New Mexico, Lane? That we were only a day away? I think we both knew this day might come, to be meeting for reasons other than birthdays and newborns.”
Lane muttered under his breath.
