Chapter 18 Augustine
Augustine
We didn't get five minutes of peace before trouble found us. That's how it worked in the Scythes—you bought yourself a breath, and the universe found new ways to choke it out of you.
The knock at the clubhouse door wasn't angry or polite; it was the staccato rap of someone who knew we had guns and didn't give a fuck. Melissa was curled up on my bed, face streaked with dried tears, but she sat up fast, every muscle pulled tight.
I stepped out into the hallway, motioned for her to stay put. Like that ever worked.
Church was already full of bodies—Damron at the head of the table, Seneca on his left, Carl propped up with his arm in a sling, even a couple of prospects standing by the windows with sawed-offs cradled like puppies.
Every eye tracked me as I walked in, and every set of shoulders rolled back half an inch.
Not quite a threat, not quite a welcome.
The courier stood in the middle of the room, out of reach of every chair and wall.
He wore no colors, just a battered green flight jacket and boots caked with what looked like half the desert.
The man radiated neutrality: wrong accent for a local, wrong haircut for a biker, wrong everything for a world where being wrong got you killed.
He held an envelope in his gloved hand. The paper was off-white, expensive, the kind you only used if you wanted to show you had money and, more importantly, the balls to send it.
Damron didn’t stand—he didn't have to. He flicked two fingers, and the courier crossed the room, dropping the envelope on the table like it might explode.
"From Cutler," the courier said. His voice was pure Denver, flat and nasal. "He says it’s urgent."
Nobody moved. I watched the way Seneca’s hand drifted toward his boot knife, the way Carl’s jaw bunched as he clenched his teeth against the pain of just being alive.
Damron picked up the envelope, turned it over, then sliced it open with the edge of his club ring.
He pulled out a single sheet of paper—thick, cream, the kind that screamed 'lawyer' from fifty yards—and read in silence.
The veins in his forehead stood out, white and angry.
He read it twice, then a third time, as if maybe the words would change if he glared at them hard enough.
Finally, he dropped the letter onto the map table. "He’s challenging us to a trial," he said. "Old school. One-on-one."
Seneca grunted. "You mean like—"
"Exactly like that," Damron said. He scanned the faces in the room, daring anyone to flinch. "We pick a champion. They pick a champion. The winner takes the girl. Loser walks away, or gets carried out."
A noise ran through the room—half disgust, half disbelief.
Carl spat on the floor. "That’s a goddamn trap. Cutler wants to parade our guy’s corpse around like a float at the Fourth of July."
"Maybe," Damron said. "But he’s offering terms. If we win, the girl stays ours. She gets to pick her own fate. If we lose, she goes back to the Leatherbacks, no strings attached. No more blood, no more war."
Seneca looked skeptical, but also interested, which was worse. "You trust him?"
"I trust him to want his daughter back more than he wants any of us dead," Damron said. "And I trust that if we say no, he’ll put a bounty on every patch in this room and let the world do his dirty work."
The room went quiet, except for the slow, deliberate click of Seneca’s Zippo as he thumbed the lighter open and shut, open and shut, the flame never catching.
That’s when Melissa appeared in the doorway, hair wild and skin pale under the fluorescents. She looked at the envelope, then at me, then at Damron.
"What’s it say?" she asked, voice raw.
Seneca handed her the paper. She read it, jaw set, eyes going wide at the signature at the bottom—SAINT ETIENNE, in looping, psychotic cursive. Her hands trembled as she folded it shut.
"You can’t," she said, but nobody heard her.
Damron stood up, finally, looming over the table. "We vote. That’s how this works. Majority rules. If we go for it, we pick our man and start prepping. If we don’t, we lock down and wait for the next body to drop."
He went around the table, one by one. Carl voted no, but only after glancing at me.
Seneca said yes, his voice bored, but his eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
Nitro voted yes. The next, a prospect barely old enough to drink, stuttered and said yes.
It kept going—split right down the line. Half yes, half no.
Damron made a show of waiting, then said, "I vote yes. Tiebreaker."
The room broke into three separate arguments: the old-timers cursing at the kids, the prospects looking like they might puke, Seneca smiling like it was Christmas morning, and all the presents were made of bone.
I stood there, feeling Melissa’s eyes burning holes in my back.
It took a second for me to realize everyone was waiting on me. Not for a vote. For something else.
I looked at Damron. "You want me to do it," I said. Not a question.
He shrugged. "You’re the best shot we’ve got. You want to volunteer, or you want to make me ask?"
I thought about it. Not the odds, not the pain, not even the fear. Just the simple, dumb truth of the matter: If I didn't do it, someone else would, and that someone would be dead before they even put their boots on. I could at least make it interesting.
"I’ll do it," I said.
Damron nodded, not even surprised. "Done."
That’s when Melissa lost her mind.
She came at me, fists tight, eyes wild with panic. "You can’t! You know what Saint does to people? He’s killed three men in matches like this—one with his bare hands!"
I caught her wrists, held them until the fight went out of her. She sagged against me, breath coming fast. She tried to say something else, but the words twisted into a sob.
Seneca watched, amused. "Maybe he’s hoping for a fair fight."
"Saint doesn’t know the meaning of fair," Melissa said. Her voice had gone flat, dead as asphalt. "He’ll break every bone in your body before he even thinks about ending it. You think you’re ready for that, Augie?"
I pulled her close, my mouth at her ear. "It’s one fight, Mel. One fight or a hundred funerals. I can take pain. I can take him."
She tried to pull away, but I held her, arms locked around her shoulders, letting her shiver against my chest until she could breathe again.
Damron slammed the envelope back on the table. "It’s settled. We prep for the trial. Augustine’s the champion. If anyone’s got a better idea, speak now."
Nobody did.
The courier watched all of this with the casual interest of a man watching a dog fight from behind bulletproof glass. He checked his watch, then headed for the door.
Damron called after him. "Tell Cutler we accept. Trial at Stone Lake. Sunset tomorrow."
The courier nodded, didn’t even blink, and vanished into the cold.
The room exploded—plans, insults, threats, strategies.
Everyone is trying to solve the problem by shouting it into submission.
Damron barked orders, divided the room into jobs: weapons, recon, medical, and cleanup.
Seneca stood and pulled me aside, out onto the balcony where the wind cut through leather and bone alike.
"You ever kill a man in a fair fight?" he asked.
I looked him in the eye. "Depends on how you define fair."
He laughed, once. "You’re gonna need every dirty trick you ever learned. Saint doesn’t stop. Not even when he’s dead."
I nodded, feeling the weight settle in my chest.
Melissa found me again, fingers clawed into my sleeve, her face set hard as iron.
"I’m not going to watch you die," she said. "I’ll run before I let that happen. I’ll disappear so deep even the devil won’t find me."
I shook my head. "If I win, you’re free. If I lose, you’re safe. That’s the deal."
She punched my arm, hard enough to hurt. "That’s not a fucking deal. That’s just two ways of losing."
I caught her fist, kissed the knuckles, tasted salt and sweat and the promise of something better.
"It’s all I’ve got," I said.
She let her hand drop, then leaned in, her forehead pressed to mine. "Then make it count," she whispered. "Make him hurt."
I promised her I would, but inside, I wasn’t sure who I was really promising it to.
By the time the sun set, the clubhouse was a beehive—everyone prepping for war, but no one was sure which side was bringing the nukes.
I went to my room, found Melissa asleep on the mattress, one hand curled under her cheek, the other draped protectively across her stomach.
I sat beside her, careful not to wake her, and watched the rise and fall of her breath.
I wondered if it would be the last night I ever saw her, or the first night of something new.
Either way, the morning was going to suck.
I closed my eyes, counted the scars on my body, and tried to remember which ones had ever healed.
The answer was none of them.
But I’d learned to live with the pain.
***
I pushed open the storage room door with my shoulder and pulled her in behind me, shutting out the world for a second.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the sweat-stale tang of forgotten liquor.
Racks of vodka and tequila boxed us in, cases of club t-shirts and hats stacked to the ceiling.
It was the only place in the building where nobody would look for us.
Or, if they did, it meant I’d already lost.
I leaned against the wall and let my head thump back against the plaster. Melissa stood in the only patch of open floor, arms wrapped tight around her chest. She looked like she wanted to bolt, or punch me, or both. I watched her a minute, waiting for the hurricane to break.
"You really gonna do this?" she said, voice soft but with an edge that could slice bread. "You really gonna let Saint turn you into dog food?"
"If it keeps you safe, yeah," I said. I kept it cool, but my hands were shaking—just a little, just enough.
She laughed, a single dry bark. "You think he's gonna stop at beating you? He doesn't just win, Augie. He makes you regret ever thinking you had a shot."
I shrugged, then stepped close enough that I could smell the sleep still tangled in her hair. "I know. That’s why I have to beat him."
She shook her head, furious tears leaking out again, cutting lines through the dirt on her cheeks.
"You don't get it. He's not like us. My dad pulled him out of some Serbian war pit, and all he does is break things for fun.
I saw him snap a guy's arm in three places just to make a point.
The guy was already down. He didn't need to—"
She cut off, choking on the words.
I reached out, took her hands in mine. They were cold as ice and twitchy as live wires. "Look at me," I said.
She did, and I almost lost my nerve. I wasn’t built for speeches. But she deserved the truth.
"I’m not just doing this for the club. I’m doing it because I want us to have a chance. A real chance. You, me, and…" I glanced down at her stomach, still flat under the t-shirt, but already the center of the universe.
Her eyes followed mine, and for a second, the rage melted away, replaced by pure, shattering fear. She squeezed my hands so tight I thought the bones might crack.
"You know what Saint does first?" she said, voice barely there. "He breaks your fingers. Every match. He wants you to see your own hands ruined before you die."
I smiled, just a little. "That’s a tell. I’ll use it."
She stared at me like I was the one who’d lost my mind. "You’re not invincible, Augie. You’re not even at full strength. He’s gonna take you apart."
I kissed her, hard, tasting the salt of her skin, feeling the tremble in her jaw. "Let him try," I said against her mouth. "He’s never fought anyone with something to lose before."
She melted into me then, shoulders sagging, breath coming in sharp gasps. I held her, let her sob it out, let her fists pound my back until the pain turned numb. For a minute we just stood there, locked together, the world outside as distant as the stars.
Then, a knock on the door. Hard, deliberate.
"Church in five," Seneca called, voice flat as a death announcement. "Then we train. Don’t make me drag you out, Williams."
I grinned, knowing he could and would.
Melissa pulled away, wiped her face with the back of her hand. "Don’t die, okay?" she said, trying for tough but missing by a mile.
"No promises," I said, and kissed her again, slower this time.
We walked out together. The world hadn’t changed, but we had.
I felt it in the set of her shoulders, the way she didn’t hide her face from the brothers who saw us come out of that closet.
They watched, of course. Some smirked, some looked away.
Seneca was waiting in the hall, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
He flicked his gaze at Melissa. "You got anything I need to know, sweetheart?"
She glared at him. "Just that Saint likes to cheat. He carries a blade in his boot and keeps brass knuckles in his belt."
Seneca nodded, filing it away. "Thanks. We’ll make sure to return the favor."
He looked at me, then jerked his head toward the back lot. "Let’s get to work."
Melissa squeezed my arm, her fingers digging in deep. "Last chance," she whispered. "We could run. Right now. Fuck all of them."
I wanted to say yes. I wanted it more than anything. But the picture in my head—her, alone, hunted, looking over her shoulder every day until it broke her—killed the urge.
"Not today," I said. "Today we fight."
She let go, walked back down the hall, not looking back.
I watched her go, memorizing every step.
Seneca nudged my shoulder. "You ready to get your ass kicked?"
I shrugged, then followed him out.
I was ready for anything.
I had to be.