Out of all the brothers, Icer is the one who knows exactly how to dismantle a man, his strikes are as clinical as they are devastating. He doesn’t look at me with a shred of anger or regret, he just stares with that cold, blue gaze. My eyes focus on his meaty hand as it swings upward, cutting deep into my ribs and winding me once again. I wheeze as I clutch my side, the pain radiating through my chest, and I give myself an agonizing second to compose myself before I drop my hand and brace for the next brother to take his place in front of me.
Nova steps up next, nodding his head at me in a silent acknowledgment before he swings with everything he has, the impact nearly levels me and has stars dancing across my vision.
I’m glad they’re sticking to my torso, keeping the marks hidden beneath the leather I’ll eventually put back on, though I’m sure it’ll be a map of black and blue by the time it’s all said and done. The cycle continues without mercy. Indiana, Shade, Renegade—on and on it goes until every last brother has taken a swing at me.
In the end, I’m on my hands and knees, but I’m conscious so I count that as a win since it’s a hard feat. The metallic taste of blood is sharp in my mouth, and my breath comes in ragged, shallow hitches that pull at my battered ribs. I stare at the concrete, watching a few drops of my own sweat and blood hit the floor, marking the end of my repentance. The silencethat follows is a heavy weight that settles over the arena as the brothers wait to see if I’ll stand. I force my shaking arms to lock, pushing myself up with a strength I didn't know I had left, because as long as I’m breathing, I’m still the Vice President of this club.
“Come on, man. Lean on me.” Indiana's voice has lost its edge. He steps in, hauling my arm over his massive shoulder. My knees buckle, but he catches my weight. The correction’s finished. The debt paid in blood. Now comes the slow, hellish climb back to being whole.
“Appreciate you, Indiana,” I mumble through a split lip, the words tasting of copper as I limp at his side. Each movement is a reminder of what I just faced, but the fire in my gut hasn't been extinguished.
The brothers part like the Red Sea, opening up to letting me pass. There are no more jeers or hard stares, instead, each one gives me a look of respect, nodding their heads in acknowledgment. As I pass them individually, they greet me with quiet, mumbled, “VP.”
Going up the stairs is the worst part in my walk of shame. Each step up feels like a mountain, and the excruciating motion of lifting my legs has my internal organs screaming in protest. I grind my teeth and grit my jaw with each jar of my body, the pressure in my head building until it feels like my skull might crack.
“Fuck,” I growl as we finally hit the top of the landing.
“Just a few more feet,” Indiana promises, his grip on my waist tightening as I heavily lean on him, my weight dragging us both slightly to the side. He doesn't complain, just keeps his bootsmoving, guiding me toward the sanctuary of my room where I can finally let the mask slip and face the wreckage of my own volitions.
The last thing I remember is being laid in my bed before the abyss of nothingness engulfs me, dragging me into a pit of darkness where I escape the pain, the betrayal of my own making, and the idiocy of my decisions.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Jersey
I haven’t seenSlayer in a week which has me beginning to feel twitchy. Anytime I ask LoneStar about him, I’m told he’s dealing with club business and the conversation ends there. The dismissal is always the same—clipped, final, and delivered with a look that suggests I’m overstepping a boundary I didn’t even know existed.
Boston and Carolina are feeling it too. They haven’t voiced it, but I see the way they track the door every time it opens, their eyes searching for the one man who represents their safety. Boston has become quieter, his exuberant shouts replaced by a cautious, watchful stillness that makes my heart ache. We’ve kept up with the routine, the walks, the breakfasts, the scrapbooking, but the joy feels forced, a fragile veneer over a growing sense of displacement. They look to me for answers I don’t have, and the pressure of it is staggering.
I’ve tried to occupy my mind, focusing on the kids and the impending parenthood classes Slayer mentioned, but the voidhe’s left is a physical presence in the trailer. Every time the gravel crunches outside, my heart hammers against my ribs, hoping it’s him, only to be met with the disappointment of another brother passing by without a word. The fear that I’ve somehow been discarded, or that the “perfect” woman he saw was just a fleeting illusion, is a constant, gnawing pressure in my mind.
The Kings have secrets that aren’t mine to know, but the isolation is stifling. I’m used to hiding, but this is different. I’m not hiding from predators in a dark house, I’m being kept in the dark by the people who promised to be my shield. If Slayer doesn’t show up soon, if he doesn’t walk through that door and bridge this widening gap, I’m not sure how much longer I can keep the walls from caving in on us all. Between all of that, I’ve had Elodie’s classes to teach, and while the little girl’s inquisitiveness usually keeps me grounded, my mind still finds itself drifting due to Slayer's absence.
I clean my house for the second time today, my steps being shadowed by Carolina as she makes mental notes of how to properly wipe down counters and clear out the refrigerator. The domesticity of the task usually brings me a sense of peace, a quiet control over my own environment that I was denied for so long, but today it just feels like a frantic attempt to scrub away the anxiety pooling in my gut. Carolina is a diligent pupil, her eyes tracking every circular motion of my rag with a level of focus that is both touching and heartbreaking. She wants to be ready for the baby, to prove she can handle the demands of a home, but I can see the same flicker of doubt in her gaze that I feel in my own heart.
Every time I open the fridge to reorganize the milk and eggs, my mind drifts back to Slayer. Him being absent this past week,as well as the silence from that direction is starting to feel like a physical weight. I find myself pausing, rag in hand, listening for the distinct roar of his bike or the heavy thud of his boots on the porch steps. The absence is a hole in our new routine, a reminder that the safety we’ve found here is tethered entirely to a man who has disappeared without a word. I try to project confidence for Carolina, explaining the importance of hygiene and organization, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
Boston is in the living room, uncharacteristically still as he stares at the television, though I doubt he’s actually seeing the cartoon flickering on the screen. He’s waiting, just like we are. The “big boys” at the clubhouse have locked themselves away for the most part, and we are left in this limbo, trying to build a future while the present feels like it’s slipping through our fingers. I move to the living room to straighten the pillows for the third time, feeling Carolina’s presence right behind me, quietly asking questions and making observations.
Boston, finally reaching his breaking point, tosses the remote onto the couch beside him with a frustrated grunt and abruptly stands. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides, his knuckles popping with each bend of his fingers as his eyes stray toward the window, searching the gravel lot for any sign of life. “He’s been gone too long, Jersey,” he mumbles, his voice thick with a mixture of confusion and burgeoning anger that mirrors the loss brewing in my own chest.
“He’ll come see us as soon as he can, Boston,” I say, making a promise I’m not sure I can keep. I reach out, wanting to offer some form of physical comfort, but my own hands are trembling so I place them back at my sides, not wanting my own anxiety to alarm him. We are all shackled to the man in the clubhouse,and without him, the safety we've found feels like a house of cards waiting to fall. Carolina stops and looks up at me, her wide, trusting eyes searching mine for a truth I don’t possess, and for the first time, I feel like a fraud in my own home.
“I want to see my Bubba!” he thunders, stomping his foot.
The sound of his heel striking the thin floorboards of the trailer echoes like a gunshot in the cramped space. It’s a manifestation of the frustration that has been simmering beneath the surface for days. Boston isn’t just angry, he’s scared. I watch as his chest heaves, his breathing coming in ragged hitches.
Carolina flinches at the earsplitting volume, her hands flying to her ears to block out the sudden explosion of sound. She looks at me, her lower lip trembling. The peace I’d worked so hard to establish over the last week is fraying, being torn apart by a silence from the clubhouse that feels more like a physical threat than a simple lack of communication.
“I know, Boston,” I whisper, stepping toward him and holding my hands out in a gesture of peace. I want to tell him that his brother’s just a few hundred yards away, but I also know that the distance may as well be a thousand miles if the clubhouse doors remain barred to us. “I want to see him too. But we have to be patient. We have to be big boys and girls, remember?”
He doesn't answer, his gaze remaining fixed outside the window. “Something’s wrong, Jersey.” I suck in a breath because he’s voicing my own thoughts that I’ve tried to keep buried deep.
“LoneStar would tell us if something bad happened, Boston,” I state, injecting as much conviction as I can muster into my statement.
I cling to the hope that LoneStar’s loyalty to Britton will keep me in the loop, that I won’t be left stumbling in the dark while the world outside these gates goes up in flames. But as I stare at the dark, imposing silhouette of the clubhouse, the reality settles in my chest like stone. In this world, the truth isn't given, it's bartered. And for all the kindness they’ve shown me, for all the space they’ve given me, I’m still just an outsider pressing my nose against the glass, forever watching the happenings of the club from the cold side of the pane.
