Cain's hand tightens on her hip.
I see it.
The way his fingers press harder, a warning she's learned to read.
She shifts closer to him, making herself smaller, and something in my chest tightens.
Not my business.
She's his ol' lady.
His property, as far as the club's concerned.
What happens between them is their affair.
I've got enough problems without borrowing trouble from a brother's relationship.
I turn away, take a long drink of my beer, and push the tightness down where it belongs.
The party wears on.
I do my duty—shake hands, slap backs, listen to brothers bitch about their problems.
Klutch wants more money for security upgrades.
Enigma's got concerns about a new dealer moving product in our territory.
Cleric's worried about one of the girls at Steel Kittens who's been showing up with bruises she won't explain.
I file it all away, make mental notes, promise to follow up.
This is the job.
Not the violence, not the money, not the power—but this.
Being the man everyone brings their problems to.
Being the one who has to find solutions.
Salvo made it look easy.
It's not.
I think about him sometimes—the man who saved my life.
Sergeant First Class Michael "Salvo" Webster. We served together overseas, back when I was young and stupid and thought I was invincible.
He was the one who taught me that strength isn't about how hard you can hit.
It's about knowing when to hit and when to hold back.
When I came home broken—medical discharge, a head full of nightmares, no idea how to be a civilian—Salvo was there.
He was already the head of this charter by then, already built something from nothing.
He saw me drowning and threw me a rope.
"You've got a choice," he told me. "You can let this destroy you, or you can let it make you stronger. But you've got to choose."
