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The club needs me, and I won’t let them down. I already let my mother down growing up.
I feel as if her death is on my shoulders. She was an addict, sure, but if I had pushed her more to get clean she might still be here.
Underneath her addiction, she was a good lady. Incredibly flawed, but good.
I shoot Jordyn a quick text:
Morning, Babe. Gonna handle some club business first. I’ll see you later.
The stairs creak under my weight as I head down, each step echoing in the silence of the early morning.
The scent of coffee wafts up from the kitchen, mingling with the faint smell of motor oil that seems to seep into every corner of the clubhouse.
It doesn’t matter how many times we clean the garage, it’s always lingering one way or another.
Zane and Blackjack are already there, mugs in hand, eyes sharp despite the early hour.
Zane’s got that look—like he’s been up all night wrestling demons.
Blackjack, on the other hand, is his usual stoic self, but there’s a tension in his jaw that tells me he’s on edge too.
“Morning,” I grunt, moving to pour myself a cup.
The bitter liquid scalds my tongue, but it wakes me up enough to focus.
“Morning,” Zane replies, his voice gravelly. “Got yourself a busy day?”
“Something like that,” I say, leaning against the counter.
I know I need to talk to them about what happened at The Rusty Nail.
Ripper said he’d meet me down here, but where the fuck is he?
Like summoning a demon, he steps in behind me, his presence a quiet storm.
We exchange nods, a silent acknowledgment of what we need to do.
“Coffee?” I offer, lifting the pot.
“Yeah, thanks,” Ripper mutters, taking the mug I hand him.
“What’s the deal?” Blackjack’s deep voice cuts through the tension, directing the question to no one in particular.
He’s been doing this long enough to tell we have something we need to discuss with the two of them.
“Just need to go over some things,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
My mind races with thoughts of how they’re going to handle this, but for now, we sip our coffee, letting the moment stretch just a little longer.
“Okay, then,” Zane finally says, setting his mug down with a decisive clink. “Let’s take this to my office.”
Blackjack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t press for details yet.
He knows better than to ask too many questions until we’re behind Zane’s closed door.
It’s how the club operates—some things are meant for closed doors, while other things are shared with everyone.
We finish our coffee in tense silence, the air conditioner humming in the background.
