Tell them about…
But somehow, I held it back.
We discussed Sinclair openly for the first time, each of us staring deep into the other’s eyes as we spoke honestly about the betrayal we’d felt knowing one of our own had been against us. We discussed the possibility of it happening again, and the consequences that would bring about. We discussed putting each other first more, communicating, loyalties, and the way we saw the future of the club going should we manage to drag it into a perfect world. We spoke of the training room and how we could rebuild it, with old ghosts buried and bad memories burned to the ground. We assigned new roles for the pawnshop since Harry had left a gaping hole in that business, too. Kenny and Slater were taking over security, stepping it up by doing regular sweeps of all our buildings, fitting more cameras to the entrances of the yard and the land surrounding it.
And finally, we discussed the code.
The code of what would happen if, in the not so unlikely event, one of us got taken in for more questioning by the ATF. After all, the body count surrounding our world over the last few months was higher than it had ever been.
The Emps, including Cortez, Hernandez, and Ramirez.
Maisey fucking Sutton.
Jacob Hove.
Jon Taylor.
Clint.
Owen Sinclair.
And Harry.
Despite the recent plans laid in place by Eric and Jedd, nothing in this life was certain—especially not the happy ever after we now dreamed of. The only thing we could guarantee was trouble. It was up to us how we handled that, and for us to decide who we wanted to be once this hell was over.
If it ever would be.
Tell them about the baby.
Tell them about the baby.
Tell them…
My lips had parted to speak when the door to the room was flung open in a hurry, and there stood Ayda with nothing but uncertainty in her eyes and her hand resting over her stomach as she tried to draw in a breath.
