“Actually,” Cole said. “Brock, you come with us too. It’s just going to be the three of us.”
“Woah, Cole,” Axle said.
“It’s fine, Axle,” Lane said. “As long as it’s fine with Brock.”
It took every ounce of my strength not to come at Lane right then. He just couldn’t hide his fucking resentment. Whatever skills Cole had in making us a stronger group of men, I really hoped he had the skills to apply them to his brother.
Because right now, if I was left alone with the wiry little prick, I probably would have shown him just what New Mexico Black Reapers were actually made of.
“Yes,” Brock said curtly.
“All right, let’s get the hell out of here and reconvene later.”
I stood up at that instant and busted out of the church doorway, ignoring the confused stares from some prospects chilling in the clubhouse. I went outside, sat in the nearest chair, and took several deep breaths as I put my sunglasses on.
I was putting way too much stock in this shit right now. For years, I’d been good at being distant, never believing that the day would come where we—I—would actually find our peace. Why was now so fucking different?
Because for the first time ever, we’re making progress.
And yet, it hasn’t changed you. You’re still the same bitter, ruthless person you were before Cole Carter mattered.
Brock came out first. He sat beside me, holding an open beer can. I took it from him without a word as the rest of the attendees, whether from California or from New Mexico, spread out and went back to their bikes.
“I haven’t seen you like that at a meeting in a long fucking time,” Brock said. “The hell’s going on?”
I didn’t say a word. Oh, yes, plenty of shit was going on. But it sure as fuck wasn’t anything I was going to say out loud to myself, much less go into a confession with Brock.
“Is it something with Hannah?” Brock said. “Do I need to have a talk with Connor? Is he being a—”
“No,” I said. “He’s fine.”
Brock made a visible show of recoiling in surprise.
“Now I know something is up because you never say that motherfucker is fine,” Brock said.
He had a point.
“Seriously, what’s going on?”
What was going on?
What was going on was that we’d made so much fucking progress in the last year and a half. We’d killed two of the three leaders in the Bandits. We’d built ourselves essentially into the most well-stocked militia this side of California—so everywhere but Springsville, basically. Against all odds and personalities, the boys had found love.
And yet here I was, the same fucking old man, still too old to find love, too old to be reinventing myself, too far past anything to make any changes. Was I, in that regard then, the ultimate Black Reaper? Or was I a man who could not change enough to become a Black Reaper?
Really, did it even fucking matter?Of course it does. Asking yourself if it does or doesn’t won’t make you feel any better.
So what was going on?
“Didn’t sleep much last night,” I said. “Why do you think I got these sunglasses on? So you can’t see how much my eyes are closing talking to you.”
Brock snorted, the Black Reapers equivalent of laughing hysterically. It also told me he knew I was full of shit.
Luckily, maybe because of my age or maybe for some other stupid fucking psychological reason I wasn’t smart enough to figure out, no one ever peered into my life. They wouldn’t have liked what they saw, anyway.
“Well, just make sure you’re ready to fight,” Brock said. “These things tend to resolve themselves quickly with space and time.”
I nodded. Brock rose, firmly patted my shoulder, and walked away.
