Chapter 3 Brayden
brAYDEN
“Remind me again why we're playing Santa Claus to a bunch of uptight rich assholes?” Domino grumbles, killing his engine beside me. He scratches his beard, eyeing the pristine white church like it might burst into flames at our approach. Or maybe he's hoping it will.
I swing my leg over my bike, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. “Because some rich assholes screwed over a lot of kids, and my aunt guilted me into fixing it.”
“Your aunt could guilt the devil into going to church,” Skelly laughs, pulling off his helmet. His pink mohawk springs up like it's been waiting for freedom all morning.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders to work out the kink from the hour ride. “She played the 'your uncle's heart condition' card. It's the equivalent of Danny Kaye using his old arm injury against Bing Crosby in White Christmas.”
Domino stares at me blankly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The Christmas movie? With the—” I stop myself. “Never mind.” No point explaining that my aunt has been making me watch it every year since I was a kid. Some things the club doesn't need to know about.
“Still don't see why we had to haul ass across here for some church toy drive,” Domino continues, eyeing the building suspiciously. “Plenty of kids need help in our own backyard.”
“Because I promised,” I say simply, running a hand through my hair. It's gotten too long again, hanging past my shoulders. “And because my aunt said this town's big donor family pulled out to spite some woman who divorced their son.”
“Rich people drama,” Skelly snorts, stretching his arms overhead. The movement makes the skull tattoos dance across his forearms. “My favorite kind of bullshit.”
I scan the parking lot, noting the gleaming SUVs and luxury sedans parked in neat rows. San Salona—the kind of place where people judge you by your zip code and family name. The kind of place I couldn't wait to escape fifteen years ago.
“Let's just get this done,” I say, nodding toward the truck where our prospects Rabbit and Velcro are already unloading boxes. “In and out, minimal interaction with the locals.”
“You afraid they'll recognize you?” Domino grins, slapping me on the back. “What was it your aunt called you? Bray Baby?”
“Call me that again and I'll make you eat your own colors,” I threaten. The guys have been ribbing me about this “charity mission” since we left Carlsbad.
“You sure you’re one of us, Cole?” Big asks, leaning against his bike with an expression that makes me want to rearrange his teeth. “Because this—” he gestures toward the pristine church and manicured grounds, “—seems far more fitting for you.”
“Fuck off,” I growl, but that only eggs him on.
“No, seriously.” He nudges Domino, who's already chuckling. “All this time I thought you were slumming it with us, when really you're just a rich boy playing biker.”
The other guys start hooting, and I feel heat crawling up my neck. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen when my aunt called in her favor. The past I've spent fifteen years burying is suddenly right on the surface.
“Where you been hiding your silver spoon, Bray?” Skelly joins in, eyes glinting with amusement.
I step into his space, close enough that our cuts almost touch. “That silver spoon is about to be relocated to your ass right next to your head if you keep it up.”
This gets a chorus of “oohs” from the prospects, who quickly shut up when I turn my glare on them.
“I grew up dirt poor with a single mom who worked two jobs until she dumped me onto my aunt and took off when I was sixteen,” I fire back. “My aunt married into money. I didn't. The only silver I've ever owned is the knife in my boot and the rings on my knuckles.”
The laughter dies down, but I can still see the questions in their eyes. Fair enough. I've never talked much about where I come from, and showing up at some fancy church in rich-boy territory isn't exactly helping my case.
“Look,” I say, lowering my voice. “My aunt is the only family I've got left who gives a shit whether I live or die. She asked for help, so we're helping. End of story.”
Domino nods slowly. “Respect for family. I get that.”
“Good. Now can we unload this truck before some church lady calls the cops on us?”
As if summoned by my words, the church's front door opens and a woman in a floral cardigan peers out, her face a mask of barely concealed horror.
She takes one look at our cuts, our bikes, our general existence, and promptly disappears back inside.
I'd bet money she's already on the phone with someone.
“Friendly place,” Skelly observes.
“Real welcoming,” I agree, grabbing the first box from the truck. It's heavier than expected, packed solid with wrapped toys.
We form a chain, passing boxes from the truck to the church steps. The toys are good quality stuff—none of that dollar store bullshit that falls apart before New Year's. Video games, bikes, dolls, sports equipment. The kind of Christmas haul that would make any kid's year.
I'm hauling a particularly heavy box when the side door of the church opens, and a woman steps out.
Not another church lady in pearls and judgment—this one's different. Younger, maybe early thirties, wearing jeans and a sweater that’s way too big for her.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there's something about the way she carries herself that catches my attention. Like she's bracing for impact.
Our gazes meet across the parking lot, and I feel something shift in my chest. A recognition that doesn't make sense, because I'm sure I'd remember a face like that—sharp cheekbones, full lips, and eyes the color of spring leaves caught in sunlight.
Pretty, but not in the manufactured way of the women who usually populate places like San Salona.
This is real pretty, the kind that sneaks up on you.
She's watching us with a mixture of surprise and something else—relief? Hope? It's not the usual fear or disgust we get from civilians.
“You the guy in charge?” she calls out, walking toward me with purpose.
“Depends who's asking,” I reply, setting down my box on the church steps.
She stops a few feet away, close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume—something light and floral that makes me want to lean closer. “I'm Cecelia,” she says, and the name hits me like a punch to the gut.
Cecelia Montgomery. Of all people to greet us...it had to be her. Fuck. I'm suddenly seventeen again, watching her from across the high school parking lot while she laughed with her friends, all of them wrapped in that golden bubble of belonging I could never penetrate.
“Holy shit,” I mutter, the words escaping before I can stop them.
She tilts her head, studying my face. “Do we know each other?”
“Brayden Cole.”
Recognition flickers across her features, followed by disbelief. “Brayden? You're...” Her gaze drifts from my face down to my cut with the Heaven's Rejects patch prominently displayed, then back up again. “Different.”
I almost laugh at the understatement. The last time she saw me, I was a skinny kid with a chip on my shoulder and a juvenile record. Now I'm VP of an MC that makes cops nervous in three states. Yeah, I’d say I was different.
“Yeah, well. Fifteen years will do that.” I gesture toward the boxes. “My aunt said you needed some help.”
“Your aunt...” Her voice trails off as she looks past me to the truck still half-filled with toys. “Wait—all this is from you? From your...”
“Club,” I finish for her, watching as she takes in the full scope of what we've brought. “Yeah.”
The disbelief on her face is almost comical. I can practically see the gears turning in her head, trying to reconcile the scrawny kid she knew with the man standing in front of her. I have to admit, I like the way she’s looking at me. More than I fucking should.
“I don't understand,” she says, shaking her head. “Jillian said she asked for help, but I never imagined...” She gestures at the truck, at my brothers still unloading boxes. “This is incredible.”
“Don't get too excited,” I warn, hefting another box. “It’s good business for the club. Holiday cheer and goodwill.” But even as I say it, I know it's bullshit. “And, well, for the kids.”
“Business?” She raises an eyebrow. “What kind of business involves donating toys to churches?”
I shrug, not wanting to explain that sometimes the club does legitimate charity work to balance out the less legitimate activities. “The kind that keeps my aunt off my ass.”
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound hits me harder than it should. It's not the polite twitter I remember from high school, but something real and warm. “Your aunt can be persistent when she wants something.”
“Persistent is one word for it. Bull in a China shop is more like it. Where do you want all this?” I ask, nodding toward the boxes stacked on the church steps. My brothers are still unloading, the pile growing higher by the minute.
“Inside, follow me.” She turns and heads for the side entrance, grabbing a box from the stack as she passes.
I pick up another heavy one and trail after her, my eyes automatically dropping to the way her jeans hug her curves as she walks.
Fuck. Some things never change. I'd spent half of junior year stealing glances at Cecelia from the back row of English class, watching her twirl her hair around her finger while she took notes in her ornate handwriting.
Daydreaming about how that hair would feel threaded through my fingers with her pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock while that shit head of a boyfriend watched me defile her.
Shit. Don’t think about that, asshole. The last place you need a fucking hard-on is at a church. Stamp your ticket to hell even harder, why don’t you?
I follow her into the fellowship hall, the familiar smell of lemon polish and old hymnals hitting me like a time machine. The room is depressingly empty.