Twenty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Sunset Manor, the familiar Spanish-style building with its terracotta roof and desert landscaping. The bikes rumble to a stop behind me in a symphony of chrome and thunder, engines cutting one by one until there’s just the sound of boots hitting pavement and zippers on saddlebags being opened.
“You good, brother?” Sin asks, appearing at my shoulder with that uncanny ability he has to read people. His mismatched eyes assess me with the precision of a man who’s spent years learning to see beneath the surface.
“Yeah,” I lie, grabbing the flowers. “Just thinking about tomorrow.”
“The gala,” he says, not a question. He knows. They all know. I’ve been walking around the clubhouse like a man heading toward either salvation or execution, and I’m not sure which.
“It’s the last night of the arrangement,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “After tomorrow, there’s no reason for us to keep pretending.”
Sin’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder, grounding me. “Then maybe it’s time tostoppretending.”
Before I can respond, before I can unpack that statement and what it means for everything I’ve been trying not to feel, Deek’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Yo, you two gonna stand here having a Hallmark moment, or are we going inside to make some old people happy?”
I flip him off without looking, which makes him laugh. Ghost appears beside us, a toothpick between his teeth, carrying his laptop bag. He’s been helping Mr. Morrison set up a Zoom account so he can video call his granddaughter in Seattle. Bear has a bag of what looks like painting supplies because he’s been teaching Mrs. Applebaum watercolors. Koa has a portable speaker for the hula lessons he’s been giving to anyone interested.
And Ro? She’s got her electric guitar slung over her shoulder, grinning as if she’s about to perform at Madison Square Garden instead of a retirement village common room.
“Ready to make some magic, Flute Boy?” she asks, falling into step beside me.
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, but there’s no malice behind it.
“Too late. It’s your official title now. Nitro the Flute Boy, VP of Las Vegas Defiance MC, secret softie who plays classical music for older people.” She pokes my arm. “It’s very on-brand for you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you love me,” she counters, which is unfortunately true.
We push through the doors of Sunset Manor, and immediately, the energy shifts. The front desk receptionist, Paige, mid-thirties with kind eyes and a collection of dog-themed scrubs, lights up when she sees us.
“Oh, the boys are here,” she calls out, her voice carrying down the hallway. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves.”
Within seconds, we’re surrounded. Mrs. Henderson, in her walker, is moving faster than should be physically possible. Mr. Morrison with his suspenders and bow tie. Harold, who’s probably going to ask about motorcycles again. And Ethel, sweetJesus, Ethel, who makes a beeline straight for Deek with the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
“There’s my handsome devil,” she coos, actually batting her eyelashes. She’s eighty-six and flirts like she’s twenty-five. “Did you miss me, sugar?”
“Every damn day, Ethel,” Deek replies smoothly, offering his arm. “You look stunning, as always.”
“Oh, stop.” She giggles, but she’s preening. “You’re gonna give this old heart palpitations.”
“That’s the plan, beautiful.”
I shake my head, watching Deek escort Ethel toward the common room as if they’re walking into a five-star restaurant instead of a retirement village that smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender. That’s Deek, though, he commits, and the residents love him for it.
But I’m scanning the room for one person in particular.
Queenie sits in her usual armchair by the window, sunlight streaming through and turning her white hair into a halo. She’s tiny, barely five feet tall and shrinking with age, but her presence fills the room. She’s wearing a floral housecoat that’s probably older than I am, fuzzy slippers, and a smile that could power the Vegas Strip.
Our eyes meet across the common room, and her face transforms.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she calls out, her voice carrying easily despite her age. “And he brought flowers. Someone’s trying to butter me up.”
I cross the room in long strides, and when I reach her, I bend down to press a kiss to her papery cheek before presenting the bouquet. “Hey, Queenie. How’s my favorite troublemaker?”
“Oh, honey, I’m the same as I always am, too old for this shit but too stubborn to die.” She takes the flowers, brings themto her nose, and inhales deeply. “These are beautiful, Damon. You’re such a good boy.”
Damon.She’s one of the few people who uses my real name, and only when we’re alone or with the club. Here, in this place, I’m just her grandson. Not the VP, not the billionaire, just the kid she raised when my parents died.
