"You okay?" he asks finally, breaking the silence.
"Fine."
"That's a lie." He doesn't look at me, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "But I'll let it slide for now."
I glance at him. He's gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white, bloodless. There are dark circles under his eyes—he's not sleeping. Probably hasn't been sleeping well for weeks, maybe months.
"Are you okay?" I ask, turning the question back on him.
"No," he says with brutal honesty that catches me off guard. "Everything's falling apart and I don't know how to stop it. Don't know if I can stop it."
The admission surprises me. Zay's usually so controlled, so confident, so certain of his place in the world. Hearing him sound lost, hearing that crack in his armor, makes something twist painfully in my chest.
"We'll figure it out," I offer, even though I'm not sure I believe it anymore. Even though I'm not sure there's anything left to figure out.
"Will we?" He finally looks at me—just for a second before returning his eyes to the road. But that second is enough. I see the doubt, the fear, the exhaustion. "Because from where I'm sitting, we're one bad decision away from losing everything. The club. The businesses. Each other."
I don't have a response to that. Can't offer empty reassurance when he's right.
We pull up to the compound thirty minutes later. The parking lot is fuller than I expected—bikes and trucks everywhere, packed tight like sardines. More vehicles than I've ever seen here on a weekday afternoon.
"That's not good," Zay mutters, killing the engine.
"Why are there so many people here?" My stomach twists with apprehension.
"No idea. But I don't like it."
We climb out. I'm wearing my Raiders jacket—the one Xavier gave me months ago, worn leather that smells like him—over a black tank top and jeans. Armor. Statement of belonging. I need them to see that I'm still one of them, still part of this, still invested.
The front door opens before we reach it. Jackie stands there, arms crossed, expression unreadable but tension in every line of her body.
"Heard you were coming," she says without preamble. "Didn't believe it until I saw Zay's truck pull up."
"Surprise," I reply, trying for lightness and missing by a mile.
"Everyone's in the clubhouse," Jackie continues, voice flat. "Word got out you were showing up. They all wanted to be here. Wanted to see if the rumors were true."
"What rumors?" Zay asks sharply.
Jackie just looks at him. Doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
"That's—" I start.
"Potentially a problem," she finishes. "Yeah. Thought you should know before you walk in there and get blindsided."
Zay and I exchange glances. This just got infinitely more complicated.
We follow Jackie inside. The compound feels different than it did a month ago—more tense, more hostile, more predatory. Eyes track us as we walk through the common areas. Conversations stop mid-sentence when we pass. People stare openly, no pretense of subtlety.
The clubhouse doors are closed. I can hear the murmur of voices on the other side—a lot of voices, layered and overlapping.
"Ready?" Zay asks quietly.
"No. But let's do it anyway."
He pushes the doors open.
The room is packed. Every member seems to be here, plus prospects, plus some of the old ladies and hangers-on. Easily fifty or sixty people crammed into a space meant for maybe thirty. The air is thick with smoke and tension and barely suppressed hostility.
