Bear
The bar hums low, bass-heavy and thick with smoke. Sweetbutts drift between tables, skin glinting in the neon. Laughter rolls across the room, sharp and careless, like the kind you make before a fight breaks out.
I nurse my beer, slow. I'm long past the days of chasing what walks by. Doesn't mean I don't look—just means I know better. Half these women been through half my club, maybe more. I've seen what passes for love in this world, and I've buried what's left of it.
Pussy might be pussy to some, but not me. I learned that long ago. I had my time, now it's time for my boys to enjoy, well, most of them.
Rook sits on my left, quiet, jaw tight. Kid doesn't smile much. Never did. The twins' stunt thirteen years ago carved that out of him. He watches the room like he's waiting for it to bleed.
Blaze and Ash, my middle boys, hold court near the pool table, all fire and calm—the perfect storm. Four years in the Marines didn't shake their dark side out of them, just taught them how to hide it better. They're the new enforcers now. My call. The vote passed easy; everyone knows they can handle heat.
Ace is upstairs, sixteen and restless, playing games with Joker—the foster kid I picked up a few years back. Both of them under prospect watch. Two kids too young for this world, too close to it anyway.
The party's just getting loud when the thought hits—quiet, mean, and unwelcome.
Same whispers in town. Pills showing up in lockers. Girls going missing from the next county over. That smell of rot crawling back into clean streets. The kind of rot I spent years burning out of this place. I know it is something connected back to the old man. It always it. No matter how hard I try to make this club better for Rook when he take the gavel, shit keeps coming back. It didn't help losing their mom.
God knows, I didn't handle it well. I moved my entire family into a biker's clubhouse. Not many would approve, but we many not be 1%, doesn't mean we don't get our hands dirty.
Some of my bounties may never have been found…
I watch the boys laugh, the music thumping under their boots. Everyone thinks we're safe again. That I cleaned house and closed the gates for good. But the way my gut twists says otherwise.
I catch Rook's eye, and he knows. Doesn't ask, just gives a slow nod. He's heard the same talk.
The Dead Line MCC was supposed to be different. My father turned it into a carnival of poison and flesh. When I took the gavel, I dragged it out of the fire by the teeth. Had to bury a few old loyalties to do it, but it worked—for a while.
Now? The air feels too thick again.
I drain the last of my beer and set it down.
Then the twins burst out laughing—Blaze slapping Ash's shoulder, the whole room turning toward them—and the tension breaks like a bottle on concrete.
The boys are home. My family's together. For one night, I let it be enough.
The party's in full swing now.
Someone kills the lights except for the neon glow over the bar. Music shakes the walls, bottles clink, and the twins are in the center of it all — Blaze running his mouth, Ash laughing that rare laugh that comes from deep in the chest.
They earned it.
They bled for it.
They deserve this night.
Rook raises a glass from his spot by the jukebox. "To my brothers," he says. "The prodigal twins are home."
Cheers rise up, wild and raw. Even I can't help the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth. For a second, the noise feels good. Feels right.
I am about to call it a night and check in on my youngest, Ace, and Joker my ward. I have a prospect watching the apartment door. I know my 16-year old son and my 15-year foster is trying to find a way to sneak down to the party.
Buzzzz. Buzzzz.
I pull my phone. It is from an unknown number. That only means two things and both are not good.
Unknown: 35. M.
"Shit." I mumble to myself. Rook heard me like he hears everything.
"Everything ok?" He asked.
"Not sure yet. Marlowe need to talk to me. Burner call." I said as I walked past him to go into my office.
I walk into my office and closing the door. Unlocking my desk I picked up burner number 35. I dial the only number in it.
It rang one. Like he was expecting me to call back right away. He knows me too well. He is a cop, a few towns over. He belong to a club that partnered with us to bring my old man down. He needed to leave the Dead Line and joing the Death Weepers, but It was the only way they would help. If Undertaker's nephew swore loyality to another club that would mean something, and it did. Since then we have had a solid piece between the two groups.
"Cousin."
Marlowe's voice came in low, like he'd swallowed the radio and was speaking through cotton. No preamble. No small talk. Just the way he says things when the wheels are already turning.
"What's up?" I asked. My throat was tighter than I wanted it to be.
"There's a kid," he said. "Cloverdale General. Woke up this morning after a month. Bad shape, Bear. Real bad."
"What kid?" I asked, but for some reason the room went small around me, like somebody was tightening a fist at my ribs.
"Who?" I heard Rook from somewhere by the door, voice flat. I held the burner closer to my ear. I didn't hear him open the door. His road name should have Ghost with how quiet he is. I wish he was like that when he was young.
"Name shows Sunny O'Hare," Marlowe said. "Born to Angelica Deline. We pulled her file. She's got a long history of 'accidents' — breaks, bruises. School reports flagged bruising. Gifted kid, advanced classes. Month ago she was pulled from a house we raided. Two broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, broken ankle, skull fracture, signs of strangulation. Sexual assault kit was collected." He didn't slow down. He never does when there's no room for wasting breath. "She's awake, asking names. We ran blood. Rare type matched you. It's clean, Bear. No doubt."
The beer ring on my desk blurred. The party noise on the other side of the door turned into a faraway echo.
"Daughter?" I asked.
"Yes. I will send Tech the encrypted file, but I need you to get down here as soon as you can."
"Why?" I whispered out.
"She's a target," Marlowe said. "Cloverdale PD's got fingers in the till. Payoffs. We can't trust their shifts. I'm running people inside, but if word gets out she's talking—someone will try to make sure she can't. I wanted you to know first. You want to come now, we'll meet you there. Bring who you trust. Bring heat."
A cold, clean anger spread through me—sharp and precise and hungry. I could see faces that weren't there: men in cheap suits, hands that never blinked at cash, cops who took envelopes like communion.
"Tomorrow?" I heard myself say, but the word tasted wrong. I hated waiting.
"Tonight," Marlowe answered. "She woke up this morning. They're asking questions now. If they move fast—" his voice cut off like he'd pictured the worst and didn't want to say it. "Get here. I'll get you the room number when you're close. And Bear—bring protection. Hospital's got pull. Don't trust uniforms in Cloverdale."
I swallowed. "I'll be there."
He gave me a time to meet and a name of a nurse who owed him. Then the line clicked dead, like a switch. The burner felt heavy in my hand.
I locked the desk, shoved the burner back into the slot where it slept, and stepped out into the club. The neon was still bright, but the laugh that met me sounded thin. Rook was waiting by the bar, eyes already on me. He didn't ask. He doesn't have to.
"Church. Ten," I said, voice short.
Blaze raised an eyebrow, half amused, half annoyed at the party-cutting. "Seriously? We just got here."
"Not a party," I said. "Move."
They moved like they always do—fast when the word comes from me. Tank filled the doorway, Ghost melted to the flank, Snipe already checking channels. Tech hit the burner, pulled up the file again, and the room tightened around us like a noose.
I walked past the bar, past the booths where the neon still painted faces in blue and red, and felt the weight of a name that wasn't mine until this minute — Sunny — land in my chest. There's a different kind of responsibility that shows up with a bloodline you didn't know you had. It's colder, meaner, and it doesn't take excuses.
Outside, the bikes rumbled, impatient. In the dark, leather smelled like rain and the road ahead. I slid onto my seat and felt the engine under me like a thing that understood. Rook climbed up beside me, the twins straddling their machines behind. Tank and Ghost rode sweep. Preacher took the lead on comms.
We rolled out without a siren, without a fuss—just men moving toward a problem that wasn't going to solve itself.