I keep my expression neutral. “I’m an archivist,” I correct her calmly. “I’m here to digitize all the club records.”
She snorts a laugh, like she’s been dying to get that out since the conversation started. “It’s the same thing. Paperwork girls never last. The brothers prefer women who actually contribute.”
“I’m contributing,” I say evenly. “Just not in the kitchen.”
Her eyes look me over, slow and deliberate. “You think this is about the kitchen?” she asks. “Honey, you don’t know the half of it.”
Before I can respond, Onyx’s presence registers behind me. I don’t hear him approach, but I feel the shift immediately because the woman stiffens.
That’s enough, Heaven,” he says, his voice flat and controlled. “One, you don’t speak for the club. And two, Emily is actually employed by the club. Unlike you, she’s getting paid in cash, not room, board, and dick.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it again when he looks at her. “Still, I wasn’t lying,” she murmurs quietly.
“Yes, you were,” he replies. “And you know it.” When she doesn’t respond, he adds, “I think you know better than tofuckin’ pick on women who are new to the club. You need to fall back. Just because Silver isn’t showing her ass anymore, doesn’t mean she left behind a power vacuum.”
She scoffs, pushing back from the table. “Fine, I’m sorry for talking to the new girl.”
Onyx takes a menacing step closer and raises his voice slightly, “She’s not the new girl. She’s my woman, and you’ll treat her with respect.”
Heaven’s eyes droop down to a leather vest folded neatly over his arm. Her eyes get big. She makes a disgruntled sound of disbelief and stomps away.
Onyx turns to me and sets that vest down on the table beside my plate. I recognize it instantly from the way it looks and the way the room goes quiet around us.
“My cut,” he says. “You should go ahead and put it on. It’ll save you a lot of problems, like the one you just had.”
I stare at it for a moment before touching it. The leather feels cool and buttery soft beneath my fingers. But it’s what it represents that tugs at my emotions. It means I’m his old lady and anyone who disrespects me, also disrespects Onyx and his club. But it also means that everything I say and do moving forward is a reflection on him and his club. My grandfather once explained to me that’s what it means to wear a cut.
When I finally look up, I see the other women in the room watching us. Some with open envy. Some with resentment they aren’t even trying to hide. The realization slowly settles in that at least some of them wanted him.
I come to my feet, pick it up and look at the way his name spans the back in a clean beautiful script. The vest is heavierthan it looks. The way it rests across my shoulders feels like it was custom made for me, even though I know it wasn’t. Regardless, I instantly feel warmer and more protected. No, it won’t stop a bullet, but if it stops someone harassing me, then it’s worth its weight in gold.
I glance around the room to see most of the men are staring at me right along with the women. Rock and Queenie are sitting at a table all the way in the back near the stairs. Rock lifts his beer when he catches Onyx’s eye. Onyx jerks his chin towards his father, while Queenie relaxes with a cup of coffee. It feels like all these people know exactly where I stand, even if I don’t fully understand it myself yet.
***
We work side by side without much talking at first. The quiet is comfortable now, broken only by the soft sounds of paper shifting and the occasional tap of keys. The deeper I get into the records, the clearer it becomes that this club didn’t just stumble into being. It fought for its survival, over and over again.
Some of the entries make anxiety pool in the pit of my stomach. There were territorial disputes that escalated quickly. Club businesses were burned to the ground. Brothers were injured or worse. I pause more than once, rereading notes written in rushed handwriting, trying to picture the reality of what happened all those years ago. These aren’t exaggerated stories told by some drunken brother. They’re records created in the heat of the moment, while the person was still actively dealing with the trauma.
One folder brings me to a complete stop. I read through it slowly, my heartbeat picking up as the details sink in. Queenie’s name appears again and again. She was called Victoria backthen. She was kidnapped during a conflict with a rival club and held for days. She was pregnant at the time, and Rock was desperate to get her back. There are notes about negotiations failing and his worries that time was running out. There is a description of Rock organizing a response with allied clubs from three different states.
I look up from the page, chest aching. “Onyx,” I say quietly. “Can I ask you something?”
He swivels his chair slightly towards me, immediately attentive. “Yeah. What do you want to know?”
I hold up the folder. “This,” I say. “It’s about your mom.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look surprised. “What about it?”
“She was taken,” I say carefully. “She was pregnant. This says she almost lost the baby.”
His eyes drop to the folder, then lift back to mine. “She almost did.”
I hesitate. “What happened?”
He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “Rock didn’t wait for permission. He didn’t wait for law enforcement. He called every allied club that owed us or respected us and told them what was happening.”
I swallow. “And they just… came?”
