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“Fine. Next time I'll tell him to shove it politely.”

I shake my head.

The bastard looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“He agreed to our terms, didn't he?” Grim asks.

“Eventually,” Striker says.

“Then I don't see the problem.”

“Of course you don't,” I mutter.

He and Striker have been making my life difficult since the day I earned my patch.

Which, considering I joined the Damned Sinners only a few months after they established the club, is a long fucking time.

Back then, there weren't many of us.

Just a handful of men who'd been judged, condemned, and discarded by people who never bothered learning the truth.

Grim had lost his military career for refusing to abandon his men.

Striker had stood beside him.

And I'd lost everything because I refused to shut my mouth about a fire that didn't make sense.

The world called us sinners.

Grim decided we might as well own the fucking title.

The patch gave men like us somewhere to belong.

And the brothers wearing it became the family most of us hadn't known we needed.

“Scar's got the security plan ready,” Vex announces from the doorway.

Our tail gunner strolls into the common room, phone in hand.

“Good,” I tell him. “Make sure the client understands we don't take unnecessary risks with our brothers just because somebody writes a big check.”

“Already told him. Scar's handling the details.”

“See?” Striker spreads his arms. “Problem solved.”

I take a sip of coffee.

“Next time, let me do the talking.”

“Where's the fun in that?”

I swear to God, these assholes are going to give me gray hair.

At thirty-nine, I've already got enough silver creeping into my temples.

The clubhouse is relatively quiet today. A couple of prospects are working in the attached garage, and somebody's got music playing behind the bar.

Outside, gray clouds hang low over Roseburn Falls.