Chapter Twenty-Five
Vic
Vic’s phone buzzed on the nightstand while he was half asleep in Bear’s guest room. He reached for it groggily, expecting a late-night text from one of the guys about tomorrow’s rehearsal.
Unknown number.
He opened it.
*You should’ve stayed gone, Montrose. Some ghosts don’t stay buried. Keep pushing and you’ll find out what happens to people who stick their nose where it doesn’t belong.*
Vic stared at the screen for a long second, the words sharp against the dim glow. His first instinct was irritation more than fear. He’d dealt with plenty of jealous ex-bandmates and barroom tough guys over the years. This felt like the same petty noise.
He deleted the message without replying and rolled over, pushing it out of his mind almost as quickly as it had arrived.
He had real things to worry about—Bonnie’s absence from his bed cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.
He missed her when she wasn’t here. But they both had rehearsals with OY ramping up, plus the club’s slow acceptance of him.
One anonymous asshole wasn’t going to rattle him.
But three days later, another text came while he was loading gear after a long session at Slate’s.
*Tell your girlfriend to watch her back. Pretty girls break easily. Keep playing house with the MC and see what happens.*
Vic’s blood turned to ice.
The phone felt suddenly heavy in his hand. This wasn’t some random troll. This was targeted. This was Bonnie.
He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his keys and headed straight for the clubhouse.
***
Myron, Mason’s tech guru, was already in his tech cave when Vic walked in, the room lit by multiple monitors and the low hum of cooling fans. The skinny, intense man looked up from his keyboard, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
“Vic. What’s up?”
Vic handed him the phone without preamble. “Two texts. First one I deleted. Second one just came in. Threatening Bonnie.”
Myron didn’t ask questions. He plugged the phone into his rig and went to work immediately, fingers flying across the keyboard like he was conducting an orchestra only he could hear. The screens flickered with code, IP traces, and metadata windows.
“Resurrecting the deleted one,” Myron muttered, almost to himself. “Got it. Same sender metadata on both. Burner, but sloppy. Carrier logs...credit card purchase...routing through a dummy account...”
Vic paced behind him, jaw tight, the earlier dismissal of the first text now burning like acid in his gut. He should’ve taken it more seriously. He should’ve—
“Got him,” Myron said, voice flat and decisive. He leaned back, tapping one screen. “Burner phone, but it was bought with a credit card under a shell account. Traces back to Conner Montrose. Same guy who’s been sniffing around the edges lately.”
Vic’s stomach dropped.
Conner.
He pulled out his own phone and dialed Mason before Myron had even finished speaking.
***
The bar was a neutral spot on the outskirts of town—dim lighting, sticky floors that smelled of spilled beer and old cigarette smoke, the kind of place where deals were made and broken without too many questions asked.
Vic stood near the back wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, heart hammering steady but hard against his ribs.
He wasn’t the main player tonight, but he’d been asked to be here.
Witness. Support. Backup if it went south.
Mason walked in first.
The national president moved like he owned the ground he walked on, three men at his back—Bear, Slate, and Bones, all high-ranking officers in the RWMC.
They didn’t look armed. No visible bulges under their cuts, no obvious hardware.
But Vic knew better. The impression was intentional: We don’t need to show force to have it.
A few minutes later, Conner sauntered in, cocky as ever, with only one man at his back—the same bastard who’d taken a baseball bat to Hurley’s ribs weeks earlier. The sight of him made Vic’s fists clench so tight his knuckles ached.
Mason didn’t waste time.
“You’ve been making noise in my town,” he said, voice low and even, carrying across the room like a blade. “Threatening my people. That stops tonight. You and your crew pack up and decamp. Immediately.”
Conner laughed, the sound ugly and too loud in the tense space. “Or what? You gonna send your pet drummer after me again?” He glanced at Vic with a sneer that made Vic’s blood heat. “He’s still not patched, is he? Just another stray you picked up.”
Mason’s expression didn’t change. “This is your one warning. Leave. Or we make sure you regret staying.”
Conner shook his head, still smiling like he thought he held all the cards. He waved a hand around the mostly empty bar. “You and what army, old man?”
About the same time, the front, side, and back doors opened with a quiet, coordinated flurry.
Black vests flowed in—more than two dozen patched members, moving with purpose, boots heavy on the sticky floor, filling the room without a word.
They came to stand at Mason’s back, a silent, overwhelming wall of leather and loyalty.
The air thickened instantly, charged with the low threat of violence barely held in check.
Conner’s smirk faltered. His eyes darted around the room, calculating.
There was a brief, ugly scuffle near the side entrance as three more of Conner’s men were escorted in—none too gently—by additional Rebels. One of them took a knee to the gut and doubled over, gasping.
Mason’s voice stayed calm, almost conversational. “Looks like I’ve got a bigger army than you.”
“Fuck you, old man,” Conner spat, stepping forward, voice rising with desperation. “Cowards stand behind their cult. Seems what you’re doing is just showing me how weak you really are.”
Bones stepped forwards without hesitation. In one smooth motion, he pulled a sawed-off shotgun from inside his vest and leveled the weapon at Conner’s chest. The metallic click of the action being racked cut through the room like a clap of thunder.
“Give me one reason I should not pull this trigger,” Bones growled, voice low and deadly.
Conner’s face blanched, turning a sickly gray that made him look suddenly unwell. His hands came up slightly, palms out. “My brother’s part of your crew. Would you really kill family?”
Without looking around, Bones answered, “Would I? Hell yes, I would. I am going to need a better reason before I get tired of holding up this gun. You should hurry. I am subject to sudden fatigue.”
Mason’s gaze never left Conner. “Vic, you vouch for this asshole?”
Vic stepped forward, voice ringing clear and decisive across the tense space. “Fuck no. Not a chance.”
Mason lifted his chin. “Sounds like you’re running out of reasons.” He motioned to Bones. “Go on. Take twelve, roll heavy, and escort this asshat out of the state.”
Conner immediately started to bluster, stammering as he tried to make an argument Mason would accept. “You can’t— This is bullshit— You don’t know who you’re fucking with—”
Vic could’ve told him that ship had sailed the second Conner threatened Bonnie. Now his only chance was to shut his mouth and go quietly.
He watched as a dozen Rebels stepped up without being told, checked their weapons with practiced efficiency, and lined up their motorcycles outside like a funeral procession waiting to begin.
Conner was hustled out, still protesting, his backup men trailing behind with hands raised. The doors closed behind them, and the bar fell into a heavy, satisfied silence.
Vic stayed where he was, breathing through the adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, hopeful—for the first time in weeks—that this would be the last time he’d have to deal with his brother.
***
They were lying in Bonnie’s bed, the sheets twisted around their legs, the room still warm from the slow, intense way they’d come together an hour earlier.
The lamp on the nightstand cast a soft glow across her bare shoulder as she traced idle patterns on his chest. For once, there was no rush to leave.
No walls slamming back up. Just the quiet rhythm of their breathing and the occasional brush of her fingers against his skin.
Vic stared at the ceiling, the peace of the moment warring with the weight that had been sitting on his chest for days.
“Conner showed up again,” he said quietly.
Bonnie’s fingers stilled. She lifted her head, propping her chin on his sternum so she could look at him. “Your brother?”
“Yeah.” Vic let out a slow breath. “The one who used to be my brother, anyway. He’s been causing trouble. Threatening people. Threatening you. The club had to step in. Mason laid it out for him pretty clear—leave or face consequences.”
Bonnie’s expression darkened. “He threatened me?”
Vic nodded, jaw tight. “Anonymous texts, but one mentioned you. I took it to the Rebels. Traced them straight back to him.”
She was quiet for a moment, processing. Then she shifted closer, draping one leg over his. “What are you going to do?”
“I already did what I could. Backed the club when they confronted him. Told Mason I don’t vouch for him—not even a little.
” Vic swallowed hard, the next words harder to get out.
“But I keep thinking...this is my blood. My mess. And now it’s spilling onto the club.
Onto you. Onto everything I’ve been trying to build here. ”
He turned his head to look at her fully, eyes searching hers.
“I’m scared the Rebels are gonna get tired of it.
Tired of my family drama following me around like a bad smell.
They’ve been good to me. Better than I probably deserve.
Bear gave me a place to stay. Chase is like a little brother.
Mason’s starting to trust me. But if Conner keeps pushing...
how long before they decide I’m more trouble than I’m worth? ”
Bonnie was quiet for a long moment, her hand resting over his heart like she could feel the fear beating beneath it. When she finally spoke, her voice was low but fierce.
“You’re not your brother, Vic. You’re not your dad either.
You’ve proven that every single day since you got here.
You show up. You stand up for people. You fight for the ones who matter to you.
” She pressed a kiss to the center of his chest, right over his heart.
“The club sees that. I see that. If Conner wants to keep digging his own grave, that’s on him. Not you.”
Vic closed his eyes, letting her words settle over him like a balm. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them.
“I just don’t want to lose this,” he whispered against her hair. “You. The band. The club. I’ve finally got something worth holding on to.”
Bonnie’s arms tightened around him. “Then hold on. I’m not going anywhere. And if your brother tries to take any of it from you...he’ll have to go through me first.”
Vic let out a shaky laugh, the sound muffled against her skin. On a slow breath in, the knot in his chest loosened just a little.
With Bonnie in his arms and the club at his back, he felt like he had something strong enough to stand on.