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My mind races, each thought sharper and more frantic than the last.
I glance at Ripper—his jaw is clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He’s just as wound up as I am. It’s nice to say I’m not alone in my anxiety.
“Let’s go,” Zane says finally, leading the way.
His boots thud against the wooden floor, each step echoing down the hall.
Blackjack follows, his presence a looming shadow behind us.
We file into Zane’s office, the room dimly lit by a single overhead bulb.
The walls are lined with old photos and mementos, relics of what the club used to look like, his family, older club members—there are even photos that include his father, Fist, and Uncle Cracker.
Zane shuts the door behind us, the click of the lock sealing us in.
“Get right to it,” Zane says, dropping into his chair behind the desk. “What’s this about?”
“Yeah, spill it,” Blackjack adds, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are sharp, dissecting.
I take a deep breath, the tension coiling tighter in my gut. “It’s about Jordyn,” I start, my voice low but firm. “And Blake Ojai.”
The air here feels heavier, like the walls are closing in on us.
We all sit down, the chairs creaking under our weight. Zane’s eyes bore into me from across the desk.
I glance at Ripper. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.
His hands are clenched into fists on his lap. “Blake got into an altercation with Jordyn the other night at The Rusty Nail,” he finally says, words coming out tight and strained.
The room goes dead quiet. So quiet you could hear a pin drop.
I can almost see the gears turning in Zane’s head, processing what Ripper just said.
The tension ratchets up another notch, like a noose tightening around our necks.
Zane’s fists hit the desk with a sharp crack.
His face goes pale, eyes narrowing into slits. “You mean to tell me Blake Ojai beat on my baby cousin and no one had the decency to tell me?” His voice is a low growl, barely controlled fury vibrating through each word.
I can feel the heat radiating off him, like standing too close to a bonfire.
The room seems to shrink even more.
Blackjack shifts slightly against the wall, his jaw tightening.
Ripper looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Hold up,” I jump in, raising my hands. “Nothing physical happened. It was all verbal.”
The air thickens with tension, Zane’s glare slicing through it.
He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly, but the fire in his eyes doesn’t dim.
“Verbal, huh?” He spits out the words like they taste bad. “And what exactly did this piece of shit say?”
My mind races, trying to find the right response without digging a deeper hole. But there’s no evading Zane when he’s like this.
My jaw tightens as I recall Blake’s crude remarks.
