Chapter 5 Law and Loyalty
FIVE
LAW AND LOYALTY
The garage still smells like sweat and oil, same as always. But now there’s blood in the cracks, too. Dried, scraped into the concrete like it belongs here. Like it always has.
I keep my textbooks in a worn-out duffel bag under the stairs, tucked between a torque wrench and a box of bike chains.
Some nights, I fall asleep reading case law, ink smudges on the pages stained with the grease under my nails.
Other nights, I dream of the roar of engines and the brothers clinking bottles under flickering lights.
That’s what it feels like, like I’ve got two lives pressed into one body. The straight-A student and the Club kid. Both versions are fighting for control, both too loud to ignore.
Dad says I’ve got a mind sharp enough to slice the world in half. Says I should use it somewhere cleaner than this place. Somewhere safer.
Aria Brennan’s voice cuts through the dust as she walks in from the back entrance, flipping the hood of her sweatshirt down. “You ditched chem again.”
I look up, biting back a grin. “Did not. I was… absent in spirit.”
She rolls her eyes, then tosses a packet of notes onto the workbench beside me. “You're welcome. Again.”
Aria’s been my best friend since we were kids.
She’s tall, busty, with all the right curves that make grown men trip over their tongues.
Her long, dark hair is usually twisted up in a no-nonsense bun, but it shines like ink when it’s loose.
Sharp blue eyes that don’t miss a damn thing, especially when I try to lie.
We were born with big mouths and even bigger dreams, always pushing each other harder, faster, louder.
She’s the only one I’ve ever told the full truth to.
That I want to ride and rule and rip the floor out from under men like DA Gilchrist without spilling a drop of blood.
She didn’t laugh or flinch. She just looked at me and said, "Then I guess you better learn how to outthink a snake before it bites. "
“You’re gonna owe me your first paycheck when we’re both lawyers,” she says, brushing dust off the edge of the bench and hopping up to sit.
I slide the notes into my bag. “Or my first win in court.”
She nudges my arm with her knee, the contact light but familiar. “Deal. As long as you don’t forget me when you’re running the world or riding off into the smoke.”
Dad’s voice cuts in from the other bay, low and rough as he twists a wrench under his bike. “Go to college,” he says, like he’s been half-listening. “Get a degree. Learn the rules. That way, when you break ‘em, you know exactly where it hurts.”
I nod like I’m listening. But part of me is stuck on the fresh stitches on his forearm. Another bad night turned worse. Another cartel kid pushing too far.
Aria notices it too. Her eyes flick to the bruises and blood and back to me. “You ever think maybe this place is gonna eat you alive?”
“It’s home.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t cost you.”
There’s nothing I can say to that.
The Sangres are pushing into our territory again. We’ve already buried one of ours this year, Mayhem. The DA’s office called it “Gang related violence” and swept it under the rug like we were the problem, not the cartel. Not the snakes sliding through the cracks.
Corrupt bastards.
Especially DA Gilchrist. A smug man with too-white teeth and ambition loud enough to drown out the judge.
You don’t rise that fast unless someone’s greasing the wheels, or the bodies.
Word around the club is, he has ties to the Syndicate and maybe even the Sangres.
Makes you wonder who’s really pulling strings in this town.
One night, I get home late from tutoring. I walk through the alley behind the Clubhouse and stop short.
Dog has some punk pinned against the dumpster, blood on his knuckles and rage in his eyes. Dad stands nearby, arms crossed, quiet but tense. The kid squeals something about protection money, about running for the Sangres.
“Tell your boss,” Dad says, voice low and cold, “we don’t bend. We don’t bleed easily.”
When the kid runs, limping and half-broken, our eyes meet. He’s my age. Skinny. Terrified. Could’ve been me. If I’d turned left instead of right one day.
Dad sees me. “You shouldn’t be out this late.”
“I had a study group,” I lie.
His jaw tightens. He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push it. Not tonight.
Inside, Aria’s sitting at the edge of the pool table, notebook open, scribbling beside a half-eaten bag of Twizzlers. She looks up when I walk in. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
She stares a second longer. “You lie worse than you think.”
I shrug and sit beside her, letting the chaos of the Club roll around us.
Back inside, the guys are playing pool and laughing, beers half-full, the jukebox crackling in the corner. It’s not clean, it’s not perfect. But it’s ours, leather cuts, scraped knuckles, and all. That’s what makes it worth protecting.
Later that night, we’re tucked in the corner booth in the garage loft. She’s cross-legged on the cushion, textbook on her lap, and I’m flipping through due process chapters with half a mind still on the blood in the alley.
“This system is rigged,” I mutter.
Aria glances up. “Then we un-rig it. Or burn it down. Together.”
It’s the first time I look at her and think maybe this isn’t just friendship anymore.
Later in the week, Dad takes me out for a ride. Just the two of us. I’m not old enough for a cycle endorsement, but that doesn’t mean I don’t do it or know how to ride. We hit the back roads where the air smells like dust and pine, and no one asks questions.
We pull off onto a dirt driveway, put out kickstands down and turn off our bikes, watching nature pass before us. A deer and her fawn come strolling on by like it’s another day in search of food and survival, not paying us any attention.
“You’re not me, son,” Dad says after a long stretch of silence. “You’ve got more options than I ever did.”
“But this,” I gesture behind us, toward the clubhouse miles back. “This feels like home.”
“It is. It’ll always be. But you need to understand something…” He looks over. “A cut’s not just something you wear. It’s something you pay for. You sure you’re ready to bleed for it?”
I don’t answer right away. My hands tighten on the grips. The silence stretches long enough to say everything I can’t. I let the wind rip the doubt from my throat.
Eight months later, I stand in the back of the courtroom, part of a school trip. Gilchrist is arguing a case like he’s on stage, all charm and polish, but I see the cracks. I see the bluff in his smile and the sleaze in his tone.
Aria leans over and whispers, “He’s full of shit.”
“Yeah.”
“I bet we could beat him someday.”
I don’t say it out loud, but I already know we will.
He doesn’t see me, but I see him. I see how fake that smile is. How easily truth bends when the power is in the hands of men like him. I don’t just want to challenge him, I want to undo him.
I know one day, I’ll face him. Not with fists and not with a gun.
But with knowledge. Strategy. Power on my own terms.
I’m alone in the garage, hours after the school trip, the duffel bag open beside me. One side holds the letterhead stamped with Vanderbilt’s seal. The other holds a black cut folded tightly, the Saints Outlaws logo stitched like a vow across the back.
I light a cigarette I’m not supposed to have, let the smoke curl around the moment like a promise.
My phone buzzes.
Aria: You choose yet?
Me: I’m choosing both.
Law and loyalty. My way.
And maybe hers too.