My chest tightened, and I turned away before she could see it.
Dad was standing near the bar, arms crossed, talking low with Pipe.Arlo leaned against the wall, phone in hand, but his eyes kept lifting toward the door like he was waiting for a signal.Oliver sat on the edge of a table, bouncing one knee.Jude was pacing, slow and controlled, like if he stopped moving he might start breaking things.Kingston stood near the pool table with Basil and Junior, all of them quiet and watching.
Freak and Brinks were posted where they could see both the hallway to the office and the main doors, like they’d been ordered to anchor the clubhouse.
And they had.
The second Wrecker stepped out of his office, the energy changed.
Not louder.
Sharper.
Wrecker didn’t have to raise his voice.He didn’t have to shout instructions.He was the kind of president who made people move with a look.
He jerked his head toward the door.
That was it.
Chairs scraped.Boots hit the floor.Guys stood up like they’d been waiting for the exact second permission was granted.
Outside, the sun was bright and beat down on our bikes.
Wrecker headed straight for his bike.Dad and Pipe moved with him like a unit.
I swung a leg over my bike, feeling the familiar weight settle beneath me.The engine rumbled to life and vibrated up through the seat, into my bones.
One by one, the bikes started.
A chorus of low thunder.
We had a crew going to the Social Club, and it wasn’t subtle.
Wrecker.
Me.
Dad.
Pipe.
Arlo.
Oliver.
Jude.
Kingston.
Basil.
Junior.
Boink.
We rolled out together with engines roaring and tires crunching on gravel as we hit the road.The formation wasn’t rigid like a military convoy.Nobody drifted.Nobody lagged.
We moved like we belonged on the road, the same way we belonged in the clubhouse—like the world adjusted around us.
