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, not 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.
"Keep an eye on the new blood," I say to Rook, voice low. "Something's off. Don't let it hit the school again."
He doesn't ask what I mean. He just nods, slow and hard.
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 was just about to fill up my drink when my phone buzzes. Its from an unknown number. That means only two things. I check the text.
Unknown: 35. M
I sigh and go to my office. So much for fun tonight. Marlowe was texting me, and I needed to get to my burner.