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Ruby jabs Zorro in the side, “You’d better keep your flappers shut.”
Zorro huffs, “Fine. You had to get my ol’ lady on me, didn’t you?”
The ride back is filled with laughter and stories, the kind that make you feel like you’re home even when you’re miles away from where you started.
Rosa fills me in on the latest antics from down south, and Zorro recounts a wild bar fight they got into last month.
Axel mostly listens, interjecting now and then with his dry humor.
“Sounds like you guys never catch a break,” I say, shaking my head with a grin.
“Who wants a break?” Rosa teases, nudging my arm. “Life’s more fun at full throttle.”
“True that,” I agree, feeling a sense of belonging that only comes from being around people who understand you, scars and all.
As we pull up to the clubhouse, the sun’s setting behind us, casting long shadows over the gravel lot.
The sight of the Reapers Rejects MC logo painted on the building gives me a sense of pride.
This is where I belong.
Ruby quips as she hops out of the truck. “Home sweet home,”
“Let’s get inside and grab a drink,” Zorro suggests, already heading for the door. Axel follows, nodding in agreement.
“Sounds perfect,” Rosa says, linking her arm with mine as we walk. “I’ve missed this place almost as much as I’ve missed you.”
CHAPTER NINE
Jordyn
Billings is a scorcher today.
Sweat drips down my back, plastering my tank top to my skin.
The sun’s relentless, turning the clubhouse yard into an inferno.
Not that we expected it, but hell, here we are, the guys scrambling to open up the pool behind the clubhouse.
The water glistens like salvation itself. A few of the kids are already splashing about, their laughter cutting through the heavy air.
I catch sight of Bama lounging by the edge, beer in hand, shooting the shit with Zorro and Rosa.
His laugh carries over, rough around the edges but genuine.
But I’m not here for fun or to cool off.
My mind’s got other fires to put out.
I spot my three dads—Tex, Bolt, and Dracus—clustered together near the grill, flipping burgers and chatting among themselves.
They’re a sight, all leather and tattoos, intimidating as ever.
But then again, they raised me. I know better than anyone that under their terrifying demeanor, they’re just big softies.
“Hey,” I call out, walking up to them.
My voice steady, masking the churn in my gut. “I need to talk to you guys.”
