A pang hits my chest because my dad would love to see nothing more than another generation of Saint’s Outlaws coming up. Right now, there is only Snake and Graycie’s baby, but Graycie’s not even showing yet.
Still, soon enough, we’ll have little feet running through the clubhouse again.
Scratch interrupts my thoughts, fucking thankfully, and slaps me on the shoulder. The look he gives me is searching and filled with concern.
We both grew up in the club, but he’s 28 to my 35. We were close and I sure as fuck looked out for him while we were growing up, just like I did with all the club kids. He’s a fucking genius when it comes to numbers. He makes sure the club is solvent between our legal businesses and our less than legal dealings.
“That was a close call,” he states the obvious. The tremor in his voice tells me he was just as worried seeing it happening as I was living through it.
There’s a certain trauma when being forced to be a witness.
“Yeah,” I grunt and shake my head.
My hand clenches into a fist before I shake it out. He eyes me and then blows out a breath. “Maybe you should talk to Rector,” he offers and I clench my jaw.
Rector is the club’s chaplain even though I’m not sure God has a seat at the table here. What I do know is that Rector blewhis entire fucking life up before joining the military with a death wish. He came back, but he was different.
Steady, where he had been embracing the chaos before.
Quiet, where before he felt he had to fill the silences.
Reserved, where before he was itching for a fight.
When he speaks, brothers listen because his words hold a weight and an honesty we need. And a righteousness we sometimes have to carry. Sometimes the only people who can seek justice wear leather and ride chrome beasts.
The only thing that didn’t change when Rector returned? His broken heart.
But that’s his story to tell. It’s one that doesn’t have an ending for now. Because he’s still yearning. Or maybe he’s waiting.
“He knows about all that life flashing in front of your eyes shit,” Wrecker grins with his words, but I can still see the concern in his gaze.
That’s fair.
With a chin lift, I turn and head toward the clubhouse entrance just as Diesel steps up and lights a cigarette. He keeps talking about quitting. I think he’s punishing himself, but, again, it’s not my story to tell and I’m fuzzy on some of the details anyway.
I can only shake my head. We’re fucked up, the lot of us.
But we wake up everyday and keep going through it.
What else is there to do?
When I walk into the main room of the clubhouse, the first person I see is Rector. He looks up and it’s almost as if he already knew I needed to talk to him. What he doesn’t do is push.
Snake is sitting on one of the couches with Graycie in his lap. His eyebrows pull together when he looks at me, but I just shake my head slightly. Even though he leans back into the seat, he doesn’t relax.
Not only is he my best friend, along with Sidewinder, but he’s my VP. He can know what I’m thinking just by sharing a look. It’s deeper than the brotherhood of the club; it’s family.
Omen, one of the prospects who will need to be voted on soon, is behind the bar. I give him a nod and point at the wood in front of me. He puts a beer there within seconds and I grunt in response.
The sight of the Corvette cutting it too fucking close, the way my heart crawled into my throat and the feeling of being completely out of control washes over me. My hands fist and my eyes squeeze shut.
“Something happen on the road?” Rector’s voice is careful, like he already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to say the words.
I glance at him and then over at Omen who is at the other end of the bar with his head down as he works. I’m well fucking aware that what happened out there wasn’t my fucking fault, and it sure as hell wasn’t a weakness.
But isn’t strength in how we react to situations? Weakness isn’t an option with the patches on my cut.
“Almost laid down my bike,” I grit out through my teeth, knowing damn well I can’t keep this hidden.