The conversations die when we enter. Every eye turns to us. The silence is deafening.
Johnson is standing near the bar, drink in hand. He smiles when he sees me—not friendly. Not welcoming. Predatory. Like a shark spotting blood in the water. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to show her face."
"Johnson," I acknowledge, keeping my voice level and controlled.
"Heard Xavier got out of the hospital," he continues, taking a deliberate sip of his drink. Letting the moment stretch. "That true?"
"Yes."
"Interesting." He sets his glass down with exaggerated care. "Because I went by to visit him two weeks ago. Wanted to check on our president, you know? Pay my respects. But they told me he'd already been discharged. Signed himself out against medical advice." He pauses, lets that sink in. "But nobody here seemed to know where he was. Nobody could tell me where our president disappeared to. Funny, that."
Shit. I can feel Zay tense beside me, can feel the shift in the room's energy.
"So where is he?" Johnson presses, voice getting louder. "Where's our president? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been hiding him. Like you don't want us to see him. Makes a man wonder why that might be."
The room is silent. Waiting. I can feel the weight of their attention, the suspicion, the doubt that's been festering for weeks.
"Xavier's recovering," I say carefully, choosing each word with precision. "At a private location where he can get proper rest and medical care without constant interruptions."
"Interruptions," Johnson repeats, tasting the word. "That's an interesting way to describe visits from his own club members. From the people who've bled for him, who've followed him, who deserve to know if their president is even capable of leading anymore."
"He needs rest?—"
"He needs to show his fucking face!" Johnson's voice rises, cutting through the room like a knife. "We've been running blind for a month. No leadership. No direction. No president. Just you and these two—" he gestures vaguely at Zay and presumably Asher, though Asher isn't here, "—telling us what to do, making decisions, spending our money, with zero accountability."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room like a wave.
"Xavier's recovering," Zay says, voice hard and dangerous. "He was in a coma for three weeks. He nearly died. He took a bullet that was meant for someone else. He needs time to heal."
"How much time?" someone calls from the back of the crowd. I can't see who through the press of bodies.
"As much as he needs," Zay replies firmly.
"That's not good enough," George speaks up from where he's been standing quietly in the corner, observing. His voice is reasonable, calm, measured—which makes him infinitely more dangerous than Johnson's aggression. "We're hemorrhaging money. Losing territory. The Vipers are circling like sharks. Our protection rackets are dead. Our legitimate businesses arefailing. And our president is what? Playing hide and seek? Having a nice vacation while the club burns?"
"He's healing," I insist, but I can hear how weak it sounds.
"Then bring him here," George continues in that same reasonable tone. "Let us see him. Let us evaluate his condition with our own eyes. Let us know he's actually capable of leading this club. Because right now? We don't know anything. We don't know if he's recovered or if he's permanently disabled. We don't know if he can walk or if he's in a wheelchair for life. We don't know if he can fight or if one punch would put him back in the hospital. We don't know anything except that you're hiding him from us like he's some dirty secret."
The words hit too close to the truth. Xavier is making progress but he's still in the wheelchair most of the time. Still can't walk without assistance. Still struggles with basic mobility. Still has months of physical therapy ahead of him.
"That's not—" I start, but my voice catches.
"Answer the question," Cassandra interrupts from the side of the room, stepping forward from where she'd been blending into the crowd. I hadn't even noticed her there. "Can he walk? Can Xavier walk or is he crippled?"
I hesitate. Just for a fraction of a second. But it's enough. That moment of silence tells them everything.
"Holy shit," someone breathes in the shocked quiet. "He can't, can he? Xavier King can't fucking walk."
"He's in physical therapy—" Zay begins, trying to control the narrative.
"So he's crippled," Johnson states flatly, victoriously. "Our president is a cripple and you've been hiding it from us. Lying to our faces while the club falls apart."
"Don't use that word," I snap, anger flaring hot and immediate, burning through the anxiety.
"Why not? It's accurate, isn't it?" Johnson steps closer, smelling blood. "Xavier King, the big bad president, the man we all feared and followed, is now a cripple who can't walk. Can't lead. Can't protect this club. Can't even protect himself."
I'm moving before I can think about it. Three long steps and I'm in Johnson's face, close enough to smell the bourbon on his breath, close enough to see the satisfaction in his eyes. "Say that word one more time and I'll break your fucking jaw."
