Chapter Twenty-Eight
Evan
I’m on the garage roof before the sun’s fully burned the mist off the pines, boots planted on shingles that don’t deserve the attention I’m giving them. I’m here for a lie, a lie and generosity and love.
Mayhem’s below me by the ladder, one hand steadying it like he’s responsible and not a walking disaster, the other hand sparking something that looks like a homemade lighter with a knife attached to it.
Tank stands off to the side with his arms crossed, built like a wrecking ball in a cut.
Bishop leans against the open bay door, coffee in hand, eyes sharp like he’s taking inventory of everything I do and filing it away.
He probably is. The only friendly audience I have is Molly, whose red hair I glimpse through the bar window every so often, a crimson hurricane whirling about preparing The Noble Fir for another day.
“Roof looks fine,” I say, driving another nail anyway. “It’s got years in it.”
Mayhem snorts. “Yeah. Like you know what you’re doing saying that.”
“Isn’t that why you hired me?”
“Touché.”
Tank grunts. “Less talking. Just do the job.”
Bishop lifts his cup. “Club pays, you fix. That’s the deal.”
I keep my head down and work like I don’t know the way they’re watching me. Like I don’t feel the weight of being here.
“Contracting’s been slow lately, so it’s not like I’m not thankful for the work.”
“Don’t thank me,” Mayhem says. “Thank Molly. She’s the one who begged for you.”
Tank’s mouth twitches — almost a smile. “Heard that.”
I force my hands to keep moving, and keep my focus on not bashing my fingers as I drive in another nail. “Didn’t ask her to beg.”
Mayhem shrugs. “She didn’t look like she hated it. Does she do that with you?”
“Beg?” I say. “That ain’t any of your business.”
“No. Oh, gross. I’m not trying to talk sexual with you, not that I have anything against that. It’s just, you and I aren’t that close and clearly, boundaries are important. I mean ‘not hate’ things. Because I get the exact opposite vibe from her every time I try to talk to her,” Mayhem says.
I wonder why?
I keep my mouth shut, cognizant of just who’s turf I’m on, and that the man talking to me about boundaries is playing with a knife that makes fire.
Bishop’s gaze slides over me, calm and unreadable. “She doesn’t do favors for just anybody, you know.”
“Only person I can think she did a favor for was Riley, and that involved love and pity,” Mayhem says. “Does she feel that way about you?”
“Love?” I say.
The roof suddenly feels hotter.
“I was thinking pity, since she seems to keep looking at you through the window, like she’s worried you don’t know what you’re doing on the roof and you’re going to fall,” Mayhem says.
I glance down. “You always talk this much?”
“Only when people are unlucky,” he says brightly.
Tank grunts again, like that’s his version of laughter.
For a while, it’s just tools and noise and the rhythm of work.
I zone out into the job, losing myself, while the three of them settle into the familiar chatter of brotherhood.
They talk about dumb shit — barbecue rivalries, a guy in town who tried to jump a dirt bike over the river, and whether the new jukebox in the bar is cursed.
It’s normal. Comfortable. Dangerous.
Mayhem wipes his hands on his jeans and calls up, “So what’s your deal, man? You moved into Ironwood Falls and immediately start fixing everybody’s crap. You running from alimony or a murder charge?”
“Neither,” I say.
“Boring,” Mayhem declares. “Suspicious.”
Tank points at me with the handle of a hammer. “You got family?”
My grip tightens on a nail; I hesitate a moment before driving it in. “Yeah. A sister.”
“Where?” Bishop says, casual.
“Up north. She ain’t single, if that’s why you’re asking. She’s taken.”
Bishop’s eyes flick — small, quick, like he clocks the change in my voice. “Not interested like that. My ol’ lady, Eden, would kill me.”
“Okay, okay — serious question: I heard you’re trying to stack cash for your sister. That true? She’s in trouble?” Mayhem says.
The hammer slips in my grip; I catch it before it tumbles off the roof.
“Who told you that?” I ask.
Mayhem spreads his hands. “News travels. Also, you told Molly. And Molly had to really make a case to get you in here, even though, clearly, we desperately need a new roof on our garage.”
Tank shifts and fixes me with a heavy stare. “What kind of trouble is she in?”
I keep my face neutral, the way I learned a long time ago, back when I had to soften heavy news for my sister — the times we were so close to getting evicted, the time the power got cut off because I couldn’t scrape together enough to pay the electric bill, the night where I really needed to make some cash and first went to the Sons of Sorrow for a job and came home with cuts and bruises I couldn’t bear to explain. “Medical. It could be fatal.”
Mayhem’s expression shifts, just a shade. Something like sanity and empathy sits in his eyes. “Ah. Shit. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s horrible,” Tank grunts. “I’m sorry for your situation.”
Bishop sets his coffee down. His voice is blunt, but there’s something under it that isn’t hardness. “What kind of medical problem?”
“Complicated,” I say. “I’m not a doctor.”
“That’s fine,” Bishop says. “I am.”
I look at him.
He taps the side of his head. “Not, like, full-time. But I’ve got training. And I know people. Doctors. Clinics. You need someone who doesn’t ask questions and gets shit done… we’ve got that.”
Tank nods. “Devils take care of their own.”
The words land wrong in my gut. They sink in and twist like a jagged, rusty knife; I’m not one of them — I’m just sleeping with their bartender — and yet I’m a human with a problem and they want to help. I wish they were as big of assholes as they look; this would be so much easier.
Mayhem points a screwdriver at me. “And before you go all proud-man about it, taking help doesn’t make you weak. It makes you not stupid.”
Bishop holds my gaze, and there’s something in his eyes that makes me look away. Like if he stares too long, he’ll see through my lies. “What’s her name?”
“June.”
Bishop nods once, like he files it away. “June. Alright. If June needs extra help, you call me, OK?”
I swallow. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank us,” Tank says. “Just do right by her.”
“And do right by Molly,” Mayhem says. “Family takes care of you, you take care of your family, you know?”
My hands go still. Work stops.
Bishop’s mouth tilts, almost amused.
“Careful,” he says. “You stand there like a statue, Goldie’s gonna start asking questions.”
I force myself back into motion — hammering, lining, fastening — like the sound can drown out the truth.
Because the truth is, for a few minutes up here, I almost forget Midnight.
Almost forget the noose around my sister’s throat.
Almost forget why I’m in Ironwood Falls at all.
The only thing I’m surrounded by are people who genuinely give a damn about me and about the woman I love.
A real brotherhood, not the nightmare of threats and murder that has me in its grasp.
“We’ll let you get to it. You need any help, you just holler,” Tank says. “And don’t fucking fall. Molly’s been in a good mood lately, and I don’t want it spoiled.”
Bishop lingers a second longer, eyes on me, both sharp and kind. “Take care, Evan,” he says. “You and June.”
Then he turns away too.
And the second their backs are to me, the warmth drains out of the air. My breathing slows to nothing, like a hand’s around my throat. Because now they’re not just bikers, not just enemies — they’re men who offer help when they don’t have to.
Men with names and jokes and a code.
I stare at the shingles under my hands, the clean line of work, the stupid, unnecessary job Molly pulled strings for… and remorse hits so hard it’s almost physical.
I whisper it under my breath where no one can hear.
“I’m sorry.”
Then I pick up the hammer again and keep working like I’m not building my own damn gallows.