Chapter 39 East
East
The ride back to the clubhouse is triumphant.
We have it. By the time we roll into the clubhouse, the sky is starting to gray at the edges of the world.
Exhaustion and adrenaline buzz under my skin, but the second I see Darla relief swallows everything else.
I just give her a look, a quiet, wordless we made it, before Malachi pulls us into the war room to debrief.
When we walk into the common room later that morning, the mood is electric.
The entire club is there, a unified sea of leather and denim.
Darla is on the couch with the girls, and her eyes find mine immediately.
I give her a single, sharp nod. We got it.
Relief, so potent it’s a physical thing, washes over her face.
Malachi calls for attention, his voice booming through the room. Rider is called to the front, his expression a mixture of pride and nervous energy.
“Today,” Malachi says, his voice full of gravitas, “we recognize a brother who has proven his loyalty, his courage, and his heart. He did his job, he protected his brothers, and he earned his place.” He holds up a new, pristine cut, the full Outsiders patch gleaming on the back. “Rider. Step forward.”
The room erupts in cheers and applause as Rider is officially patched in. I feel a surge of pride so fierce it makes my chest ache. This is what it’s all about. Family.
Frankie is there, her tattoo gun already buzzing. It’s a sacred moment as she sets to work, the needle carving the club’s crest into Rider’s skin, a permanent mark of his place in our world.
The formal moment breaks, and the celebration begins.
Someone kills the lights inside as two prospects open the doors to the yard, and the pulse of music and grilling food calls us out into the morning air.
The celebration spills out onto the patio, warm air thick with laughter and the smell of burgers on the grill.
My brothers knock shoulders and crack jokes, the stress of the last week finally loosening its grip on the club.
Then Nash bumps up the volume on the speakers. The opening notes of steel drums chime through the yard. Tropical, sunny, and absolutely not AC/DC. Conversations stall. Heads pivot.
Darla’s eyes narrow like she’s zeroing in on a sniper target. I try to keep a straight face. I fail instantly.
The clubhouse doors open again, and Kyle walks out with an armful of rainbow-bright leis, looking like he’s accepted his fate.
Behind him, Knox rolls a thatched skirt around the bar while Malachi plants a giant inflatable palm tree by the taps, stone-faced except for the smirk he’s clearly fighting back.
Candace freezes mid-step. “Oh, hell no.”
We ignore her. I set a box of tiny drink umbrellas on the counter—our arsenal. Nash flips the neon tiki sign, the words Welcome to Club Flamingo pulsing in hot-pink.
Frankie covers her mouth. “Oh. My. God.”
Sloane mutters, “They didn’t.”
But we did.
Candace storms behind the bar like she’s ready to stab someone with a pina colada straw. “Absolutely not! This is my bar! I just got it organized!”
“You mean made it boring,” Knox says without looking up.
Gasps. Snorts. A couple of traitorous cackles. Candace turns her glare on him. If looks could kill, Knox would be a chalk outline.
I lounge against the counter with a slow and wicked grin. “New policy,” I announce. “Want a drink? Wear a lei.”
Silence hangs for a beat.
Then Ruby bends in half laughing. “You idiots. You planned a prank that forces us to accessorize? Have you met us?!”
The girls exchange a glance, and the air shifts. Mischief. Mayhem. Victory.
Darla picks a hot-pink lei from Kyle’s pile and slips it over her head like a queen accepting her crown. “I look adorable.”
Frankie grabs two and tosses one to Maggie. Sloane sighs dramatically but caves, settling one around her neck.
Candace holds out. Arms crossed. Jaw ticking.
Darla nudges her gently. “It’s one night. Flow with it.”
Candace inhales through her nose, then rips a purple lei from Nash’s hand and shoves it over her head like she’s being arrested by vacation. The boys cheer. She flips us off. Both hands. Then slams a rum bottle onto the counter.
“Fine! Fruity drinks only! If it has an umbrella, I’m pouring it!”
The women erupt like she just ended Prohibition.
“AND—” she adds, pointing directly at me, “if you want anything stronger than pineapple juice, go whine to the palm tree.”
I laugh so hard my ribs ache. “Worth it.”
Ruby cranks the music up loud enough that even Malachi’s foot taps. The yard starts to sway, hips rolling despite themselves.
Malachi lifts his beer toward me in a wordless salute.
Round two. Not bad.
Darla slips to my side, her body warm against mine. “You know this means you’re losing, right?” she murmurs.
I wrap an arm around her waist, lowering my voice to her ear. “Nah. War’s just getting started.”
Maggie comes out with the big bowl of potato salad like she’s presenting a national treasure. James follows behind her, beaming like he made the damn thing.
“Cold and perfect,” Maggie says, setting it down on the table. “Try to use a plate this time, Nash.”
Nash digs in first, takes one slow, thoughtful taste… then shrugs. “Not bad,” he says. “But my mom’s was better.”
Every female head in a ten-foot radius snaps toward him. James doesn’t miss a beat. He grabs a spoon, takes a huge bite, and nods solemnly.
“Yeah. My mama’s had that magic.”
Maggie’s jaw drops. “James!” He winks at her, and the other men receive the signal that phase one has begun.
Knox tries his turn. “Definitely not as good as my mom’s,” he says around a mouthful, looking smug. “Yours is missing something. Hard to say what.”
“It’s flavor,” Ruby shouts. “You’re missing taste buds!”
Malachi takes a bite next, stares at her, then drops the verdict in his usual death-calm tone. “My mother’s was better.”
Candace slaps her drink down. “I swear to God.”
I take my spoonful. Meet Darla’s eyes. Smile slowly. “It’s good,” I say casually. “Great, even. But my mom’s? Perfection.”
Darla narrows her eyes at me, instantly clocking the setup. “You’re all dead when this war ends,” she says sweetly.
Maggie whirls on James, hands on hips. “You’ve been married to me for twenty-three years. Twenty-three! Whose potato salad have you eaten more?”
James nods like that’s a fair question. “Yours. And that’s why I miss hers so bad.”
The girls groan in collective outrage. The guys grin in collective victory.
Laughter explodes across the yard, the girls heckling and Maggie still sputtering while the guys toast our perfect execution.
And like chaos has a schedule to keep, Ruby is already turning her sights on Nash, who is doing his best to ignore her and failing miserably.
She’s got her phone out, scrolling through what looks like a livestock website.
“Okay, I’m serious, Nash,” she says, her voice loud enough for us all to hear. “I’ve found a breeder. I think we should get a pygmy goat. They’re cuter. But I need a name. What do you think? ‘General Mayhem’? Or maybe ‘Nasty Nash Jr.’?”
Nash just keeps staring at the fire pit, his jaw so tight I can see the muscle bunching from here. He doesn’t say a word, which only seems to encourage her.
I catch Malachi’s eye from across the fire. He gives me a look that’s one part pure, unadulterated dread and one part ‘this-is-100%-Nash’s-problem.’ Oh shit, the look says. She’s really going to get a goat.
“Fine, ignore me,” Ruby huffs, finally turning away from him. “I’ll just put you down as ‘undecided.’ Goat it is.”
Knox, oblivious, is deep in a debate with James about the structural integrity of his haunted clown doll. Amidst the chaos, I find Darla. I pull her onto my lap in one of the armchairs, my arm possessively around her waist.
She leans into me, her voice a low murmur against my ear. “So, when does my revenge start?”
I grin, my lips brushing her temple. “Patience, princess. I’m just getting started.”
The promise hangs in the air between us, a delicious, private war in the middle of our family’s celebration.
And as I look around at my brothers, at the women who have become our anchors, and at the woman in my arms, I know this is it.
This is what we’re fighting for. Not just survival.
But for the right to have these stupid, beautiful, chaotic moments.
The right to laugh in the face of the darkness.