Chapter Fifteen
NITRO
The Day Before the Gala
Anxiety sits heady in my chest like a fist wrapped around my lungs, squeezing tighter with every breath I take.
Tomorrow night is the gala. Tomorrow night I’ll watch Marley walk into that ballroom in the burgundy dress that makes my brain short-circuit, and I’ll have to pretend this is still fake.
That every touch, every smile, every whispered word is part of this ridiculous arrangement.
It stopped being fake somewhere between the coffee shop and the clubhouse. Between practice dates and apartment visits. Between the moment Marley looked at my brothers with genuine warmth instead of fear, and the instant she kissed me back before pulling away.
I grip the Honda’s steering wheel tighter, knuckles going white against the black leather.
The bouquet of wildflowers on the passenger seat, purple asters, yellow daisies, and white baby’s breath, slides slightly as I take a corner.
Queenie’s favorites. I make this drive every month, sometimes twice if she calls and says she’s bored, but today feels different.
Today, I need her wisdom like I need oxygen.
The desert stretches out on either side of the highway, all burnt sienna and dusty gold in the afternoon light.
Behind me, the rumble of Harleys fills the air.
Sin, Ghost, Bear, Koa, Mace, Warden, Hash, Axel, Flint, Deek, Prospects Will and Liam are following in formation, and of course, Ro is tailing the rear in her car.
Our monthly pilgrimage to Sunset Manor. It’s tradition now.
Started with me visiting Queenie after she moved in, and has evolved into the whole club making older people’s day once a month.
We’re good at a lot of things—running businesses, moving gold, protecting what’s ours.
But bringing joy to forgotten people? That might just be what we’re best at.
I catch Sin’s reflection in my rearview mirror.
The way that man has changed since Victoria came into his life is like watching granite learn to smile.
He’s still the same stoic president, still carries the weight of every decision as if it’s carved into his bones, but there’s something softer around the edges now.
Something that looks a hell of a lot like happiness.
That’s what I want with Marley.
Not fake.
Real. The thought makes my stomach clench.
I’m forty-three years old, she’s twenty-nine.
I’m a biker and a billionaire living two separate lives, and she’s a woman who just got her heart shattered by a man who didn’t deserve her in the first place.
The age gap alone should make me pump the brakes, but every time I try to convince myself this is a bad idea, I remember the way she laughs.
The way she looks at me like I’m not just the VP or billionaire Damon Blackwell, but as if she sees all of me and isn’t running.
Yet.
Probably because she doesn’t know all of me, you dumbass.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder, so I glance down quickly before focusing back on the road.
Marley: Good luck at the retirement village today. Tell Queenie I said hi, even though we haven’t met yet. And try not to let the old ladies corrupt you too much. ;)
A smile tugs at my lips despite the anxiety still churning in my gut. She remembered. Of course, she remembered. I mentioned it once in passing during one of our late-night text conversations, and she filed it away like it mattered.
Because to her, it does matter.
Everything about me matters to her, and that’s the most terrifying and exhilarating thing I’ve felt in years.
I don’t text back while driving. I learned that lesson the hard way with the Siri incident, which still makes me want to throw my phone into oncoming traffic. But I make a mental note to respond later. Something that doesn’t sound like I’m already so gone for her that I can barely think straight.
Twenty minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of Sunset Manor, the familiar Spanish-style building with its terracotta roof and desert landscaping.
The bikes rumble to a stop behind me in a symphony of chrome and thunder, engines cutting one by one until there’s just the sound of boots hitting pavement and zippers on saddlebags being opened.
“You good, brother?” Sin asks, appearing at my shoulder with that uncanny ability he has to read people. His mismatched eyes assess me with the precision of a man who’s spent years learning to see beneath the surface.
“Yeah,” I lie, grabbing the flowers. “Just thinking about tomorrow.”
“The gala,” he says, not a question. He knows. They all know. I’ve been walking around the clubhouse like a man heading toward either salvation or execution, and I’m not sure which.
“It’s the last night of the arrangement,” I say, the words tasting bitter. “After tomorrow, there’s no reason for us to keep pretending.”
Sin’s hand lands heavily on my shoulder, grounding me. “Then maybe it’s time to stop pretending.”
Before I can respond, before I can unpack that statement and what it means for everything I’ve been trying not to feel, Deek’s voice cuts through the moment.
“Yo, you two gonna stand here having a Hallmark moment, or are we going inside to make some old people happy?”
I flip him off without looking, which makes him laugh.
Ghost appears beside us, a toothpick between his teeth, carrying his laptop bag.
He’s been helping Mr. Morrison set up a Zoom account so he can video call his granddaughter in Seattle.
Bear has a bag of what looks like painting supplies because he’s been teaching Mrs. Applebaum watercolors.
Koa has a portable speaker for the hula lessons he’s been giving to anyone interested.
And Ro? She’s got her electric guitar slung over her shoulder, grinning as if she’s about to perform at Madison Square Garden instead of a retirement village common room.
“Ready to make some magic, Flute Boy?” she asks, falling into step beside me.
“Don’t call me that,” I mutter, but there’s no malice behind it.
“Too late. It’s your official title now. Nitro the Flute Boy, VP of Las Vegas Defiance MC, secret softie who plays classical music for older people.” She pokes my arm. “It’s very on-brand for you.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you love me,” she counters, which is unfortunately true.
We push through the doors of Sunset Manor, and immediately, the energy shifts. The front desk receptionist, Paige, mid-thirties with kind eyes and a collection of dog-themed scrubs, lights up when she sees us.
“Oh, the boys are here,” she calls out, her voice carrying down the hallway. “Ladies and gentlemen, prepare yourselves.”
Within seconds, we’re surrounded. Mrs. Henderson, in her walker, is moving faster than should be physically possible.
Mr. Morrison with his suspenders and bow tie.
Harold, who’s probably going to ask about motorcycles again.
And Ethel, sweet Jesus, Ethel, who makes a beeline straight for Deek with the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
“There’s my handsome devil,” she coos, actually batting her eyelashes. She’s eighty-six and flirts like she’s twenty-five. “Did you miss me, sugar?”
“Every damn day, Ethel,” Deek replies smoothly, offering his arm. “You look stunning, as always.”
“Oh, stop.” She giggles, but she’s preening. “You’re gonna give this old heart palpitations.”
“That’s the plan, beautiful.”
I shake my head, watching Deek escort Ethel toward the common room as if they’re walking into a five-star restaurant instead of a retirement village that smells faintly of antiseptic and lavender. That’s Deek, though, he commits, and the residents love him for it.
But I’m scanning the room for one person in particular.
Queenie sits in her usual armchair by the window, sunlight streaming through and turning her white hair into a halo.
She’s tiny, barely five feet tall and shrinking with age, but her presence fills the room.
She’s wearing a floral housecoat that’s probably older than I am, fuzzy slippers, and a smile that could power the Vegas Strip.
Our eyes meet across the common room, and her face transforms.
“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she calls out, her voice carrying easily despite her age. “And he brought flowers. Someone’s trying to butter me up.”
I cross the room in long strides, and when I reach her, I bend down to press a kiss to her papery cheek before presenting the bouquet. “Hey, Queenie. How’s my favorite troublemaker?”
“Oh, honey, I’m the same as I always am, too old for this shit but too stubborn to die.” She takes the flowers, brings them to her nose, and inhales deeply. “These are beautiful, Damon. You’re such a good boy.”
Damon. She’s one of the few people who uses my real name, and only when we’re alone or with the club. Here, in this place, I’m just her grandson. Not the VP, not the billionaire, just the kid she raised when my parents died.
“Can I sit?” I ask, gesturing to the ottoman beside her chair.
“Of course, of course.” She pats the spot emphatically. “Sit, sit. Tell me everything. How’s the club? How’s Sin? How’s that girl you’ve been secretly seeing?”
I nearly choke on air. “Marley?”
Her eyes, still sharp despite being eighty-six, narrow at me.
“Don’t you dare try to play coy with me, Damon Blackwell.
You think I don’t notice when you’re walking around with that dopey look on your face?
You think I don’t see the way you check your phone every five seconds like you’re waiting for a message from the president? ”
Busted.
Completely, utterly busted by an eighty-six-year-old woman who can still read me like a book.
“It doesn’t feel fake anymore, Queenie. It hasn’t felt fake for a while, and I don’t know what to do about that.”
Queenie sets her flowers down on the side table and reaches for my hand. Her grip is surprisingly firm, fingers wrapping around mine with the kind of certainty that comes from eight decades of living.