The meeting broke with more questions thananswers. Bodies rose, chairs scraped, conversations started in low murmurs. I watched Hawk gather his papers, watched the weight settle deeper into his shoulders, and felt the familiar cold of a fight that couldn't be won with fists.
The Wolves weren't coming with guns. They were coming with spreadsheets and lawyers and the patient, grinding pressure of institutional power. It was the kind of war we didn't know how to fight.
But we'd figure it out. We always did.
Blade caught me outside, leaning against the wall near the back entrance with a cigarette burning between his fingers. The evening light had gone soft, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow.
"Got a minute?"
I stopped, turned, waited.
He took a long drag, exhaled smoke into the cooling air. His face was unreadable in the dim light, but his posture was relaxed—not confrontational.
"What you did yesterday. In church. Standing up for Tyler."
"What about it?"
"Took guts." He flicked ash onto the concrete, watched it scatter. "I don't agree with you—still think he's a liability—but I respect that you said what you believed. Not everyone would."
"You said what you believed too."
"Yeah. I did." Blade studied the cigarette,watching the ember glow orange in the gathering dusk. "I'm not trying to be the bad guy here, Tank. I'm trying to keep this club alive. Sometimes that means making hard calls."
"And sometimes it means standing by the people who've bled for you."
"Sometimes." He met my eyes, and there was no hostility there—just weariness, and something that might have been concern. "Just don't let whatever this is blind you to the threat."
"Whatever what is?"
Blade didn't answer. Just took another drag, pushed off the wall, and walked away.
I stood there for a moment, his words settling into the space he'd left behind.Whatever this is.The same phrasing Tyler had used.Not the way you watch me.
People kept seeing something. I kept not seeing it.
The lot was quiet by the time the sun finished setting, most people drifted inside for dinner or to the fire pit out back. But the Sportster was still out—parked near the cones, engine cooling in the evening air—and I could see Tyler's silhouette at the far end of the lot.
I stayed in the shadow of the garage doorway and watched.
He was practicing alone, making slow circles onthe bike, the movements steadier than they'd been this morning. The sunset painted everything in shades of copper and rose, caught the chrome of the Sportster and turned it to fire. Tyler rode through that light like something from a different world—focused, determined, alive.
His posture had improved. The death-grip on the handlebars was gone, replaced by something looser, more natural. His turns were smoother, his speed more consistent. Every hour of practice was writing itself into his muscle memory, teaching his body what his mind couldn't learn.
He executed a figure-eight—the same pattern he'd nearly crashed on this morning—and completed it without wobbling. Then he did it again, tighter this time, leaning into the curves with growing confidence.
I thought about Axel's words.He trusts you.
I thought about Blade's words.Whatever this is.
I thought about Tyler's arms around my waist during yesterday's ride, the warmth of his body against my back, the sound of his laugh when the road had opened up beneath us.
The questions could wait. They'd have to.
I stood in the doorway, watching, until the light was gone and Tyler finally killed the engine.
Then I went inside.
4
