CHAPTER 8
The desert out past Terry isn't just pretty, it's honest. Scarred earth that doesn't pretend to be anything but what it is—broken ground that'll break you back if you aren’t careful.
Been that way since before names.
Will be that way long after they’re gone.
Unforgiving and relentless, like the sun that beats down on it day after day, turning everything to dust and memory. The kind of place that strips a man down to his bones and leaves him raw.
The sky bleeds pink at the edges when I hit the dirt road leading to the clubhouse. Forty minutes of hard riding from the silo, dust coating my throat, Savannah's scent still clinging to my skin beneath leather and sweat.
Each mile puts distance between what I want and what I get.
The taste of her lingers on my lips, a ghost I can't exorcise, while the rumble of my bike beneath me reminds me where I belong.
Two worlds.
No bridge between them.
Just a chasm filled with broken promises and things we never said out loud.
My headlight cuts through dawn shadows as I round the final bend, and immediately, I know—somethin’s wrong.
The gates are wide open at Clubhouse. No prospects hangin’ around. No guards. Just emptiness where security should be.
The protocol's clear—gates stay locked. Always. Even if they saw me coming on the cameras hidden in the rocks, someone should be posted. Always two men minimum.
That's how we've survived this long.
That's how we keep the law, rivals, and ghosts at bay.
I slow the bike, engine growling low as I roll through.
There’s no movement as I scan the perimeter, just the hulking shape of the clubhouse against the lightening sky, windows dark, parking lot filled with familiar bikes.
Diesel's chopper. Roach's custom seat. Brick's immaculate Street Glide.
All present, all silent.
The collection of steel and chrome gleams dully in the half-light, machines at rest while their riders are nowhere to be seen.
The skin between my shoulder blades tightens as I park next to Diesel's chopper and kill the engine.
The silence is wrong. There’s no music no voices, no sounds of life. Just the cooling tick of my engine. And I get it, it’s early. But this place is never silent.
The clubhouse stands like a fortress in front me. A place with secrets, that’s for sure. But this isn’t that kind of secret. I dismount, boots crunching on the gravel, and leave my helmet hanging on the handlebar.
The clubhouse door stands half-open. Another broken rule. Nothing about this feels right. I approach slow, shoulders squared, weight balanced on the balls of my feet. The angels inked across my back seem to tense with me, their tattooedwings spreading across muscle, the celestial war etched into my skin readying for battle.
When I step inside, the place explodes. The slow toll of a bell rings out, deep and deliberate, echoing through the walls just before the guitar kicks in—AC/DC’s“Hell’s Bells”cranked so loud the floorboards shake under my boots. Then the lights slam on, flooding the room with harsh fluorescence that burns my eyes. The assault is total—sound, light, memory—like the first moment out of solitary, when everything’s too bright, too loud, too much.
"DEMON'S HOME!" Diesel's voice booms over the chaos, his six-foot-five frame materializing from the crowd. Arms wide, beard wild, gold tooth catching the light as he grins. "The fucking legend returns!" His massive shoulders block out the light behind him, casting his face in shadow except for that gleaming tooth and the glint in his eyes.
I blink, frozen in the doorway. Every patched member stands in formation—a circle of leather and denim, faces I know better than my own reflection. Men I've fought with, bled with, hell, probably shouldn’t admit this, but… killed for.
They’re all holding whiskey or beer raised high above their heads. Eyes hungry with something that looks like respect but borders on reverence. The air thick with cigarette smoke, whiskey fumes, and anticipation.
The worn leather couch where prospects sleep is shoved against the wall, springs visible through torn upholstery. The church table—hand-carved oak that's witnessed twenty years of club business, knife marks and cigarette burns telling stories no one speaks aloud—is covered in bottles, glasses, and lines of powder nobody bothers hiding. The walls around us bear witness, covered in photos of brothers living and dead, territory maps marked with red pins, patches taken from enemies who didn't survive the encounter.
