Chapter 3 Brayden #2
“You can put them anywhere there's space,” she says, setting her box down on one of the tables. “We'll sort them by age group later.”
She bends over to open the box, and I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the wall of plaques commemorating church picnic winners.
Movement catches my attention, and I glance toward the doorway.
One of the church ladies is hovering there, her face pinched with disapproval as she watches us.
Her hand clutches at the cross pendant hanging around her neck like she's afraid it might spontaneously combust in our presence.
Her gaze flicks nervously between the MC patches on our cuts and the boxes we're unloading.
“Looks like we've got an audience,” I murmur to Cece, nodding subtly toward the doorway.
Skelly notices too, flashing the old woman his most unsettling grin—the one that shows off the silver caps on his canines. “Think she's waiting to see if we catch fire by being on holy ground?” he stage-whispers loud enough for her to hear.
Domino snorts. “If that were true, I'd have been a pile of ashes years ago.”
The woman’s expression tightens, and she takes a half-step backward, like she’s genuinely afraid we might burst into flames and take the whole building with us.
“Mrs. Peterson,” Cece calls out, straightening from the box she’s unpacking. “Is there something you need?”
“I-I was just checking to see if you needed any help,” the woman stammers, still staring at Skelly’s pink mohawk. “I saw that we had...visitors.”
“We're good,” Cece says firmly.
“Actually, we could use an extra set of hands,” I say, flashing Mrs. Peterson my most innocent smile. The one that makes people nervous because they can't quite tell if I'm being sincere or planning to steal their car. “I've got a whole sermon's worth of toys out there that need saving.”
Mrs. Peterson's hand clutches her cross pendant tighter. Cece shoots me a look that's half warning, half amusement.
“Sermon's worth?” she mouths, eyebrows raised.
“You know, like a shitload, but more...ecclesiastical.” I wink at her, enjoying the way her cheeks flush pink. “I'm trying to speak the local language.”
Mrs. Peterson makes a strangled noise. “I think I hear Reverend Montgomery calling me,” she mutters, backing away like we might chase her if she turns too quickly. “I'll just...check on the...situation outside.”
She disappears so fast she practically leaves a cartoon dust cloud behind her.
“Situation?” I ask, turning to Cece.
“Someone replaced baby Jesus with a dildo in the nativity scene,” she explains with a completely straight face. “It's been quite the crisis.”
I burst out laughing. “Holy fuck—I mean, holy...” I search for an appropriate church word. “Holy communion?”
“Not better,” she says, but she's fighting a smile. “You're going to get me in trouble.”
“This place could use a little trouble,” I say, watching the spark of suppressed laughter flicker across her face.
Something about her has changed since high school.
The Cecelia I remember was careful, controlled—always mindful of her reputation.
This woman looks like she’s one smart comment away from telling the whole church to go to hell.
I like it.
The door bangs open again as Rabbit and Big haul in more boxes. Rabbit’s sleeve rides up, revealing the snake tattoo that coils from his wrist to his bicep. Mrs. Peterson would probably need smelling salts if she saw that one.
“Where you want these, boss?” Rabbit asks, glancing curiously between Cece and me.
“Anywhere there’s room,” I tell him, gesturing to the half-empty tables. “We’ve got plenty more coming.”
Cece watches them with something like wonder as they stack the boxes along the wall. “I still can't believe this,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear. “I pictured maybe a few board games, not...” She waves her hand at the growing pile.
“Disappointed?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Are you kidding? This is...” She shakes her head, and for a second I think she might cry. “This is a miracle.”
“Don't let the guys hear you call it that,” I warn. “The last thing I need is them calling me Christmas Jesus or some shit like that.”
“This didn’t like fall off the back of a truck, did it?”
I roll my eyes at her. “We're not the mafia. We're a motorcycle club. Totally different dress code.”
Cece laughs again, and something about the sound warms parts of me I thought had frozen over years ago. “I just meant—this is a lot. It must have cost a fortune.”
“The club did alright this year,” I say with a shrug, not elaborating on exactly how we did alright.
Some things are better left unsaid in a church.
I glance around the fellowship hall, memories washing over me like high tide.
I'd spent countless Sundays in this room, slouched in the corner while Aunt Jillian chatted with the other church ladies.
Always the outsider, even when I was technically invited.
“My aunt said something about the town's big donors didn’t show up this year. Pretty fucking low if you ask me.”
Cece's expression clouds, and I immediately regret bringing it up. “Yeah, that would be because of me. Come to find out, when you divorce the biggest donor’s son, they stop helping kids.”
“What an asshole,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes meet mine, surprise flickering across her face.
The door swings open again, and this time it's Domino and Velcro, both of them carrying the last of the heavy boxes. Domino's gaze sweeps the room, taking in the church lady decorations and motivational Bible verses hanging on the walls.
“This place is exactly what I pictured,” he says, setting down his box with a grunt. “Feels like it's judging me already.”
“That's just your guilty conscience,” I tell him, earning a middle finger in response.
Velcro, our newest prospect, is trying way too hard not to stare at Cece. Kid's barely nineteen and still gets tongue-tied around pretty women. I catch his eye and give him a look that says focus on the job before he can embarrass himself.
“That's everything,” Domino announces, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Truck's empty.”
I scan the fellowship hall, and the transformation is incredible. What was a handful of sad, worn-out toys an hour ago now looks like Christmas exploded. Boxes are stacked three high along the walls, and the tables are starting to fill with quality merchandise.
“Jesus,” Cece breathes, and I bite back a comment about her language in church. “This has to be enough for every kid on our list, maybe twice over.”
“Good,” I say, meaning it. The thought of kids going without on Christmas because some rich assholes wanted to play power games sits wrong with me. Always has.
“This is...I don't even know how to thank you.”
The fellowship hall door bursts open, and an older man in a clerical collar rushes in, his face flushed and his silver hair disheveled. He stops short when he sees us, his gaze widening as he takes in the leather, the patches, the general aura of trouble.
“Cece?” His voice cracks slightly. “What’s...who are...”
“Dad, these are the people Jillian sent to help with the toy drive,” Cece says quickly, stepping between us. “This is Brayden—Jillian’s nephew.”
His stare hardens as it lands on my Heaven’s Rejects patch, his entire body stiffening like he’s been electrocuted.
The warm, fatherly expression he wore for his daughter freezes into something hard and cold.
It’s the same look he gave me as a teenager when my aunt dragged me to Sunday service against my will.
Most preachers would see a lost soul in desperate need of redemption as an opportunity.
Not him. Maybe he knew I was a lost cause—or maybe he saw the way I watched his daughter from the back pew.
Either way, the only grace he’d ever given me was not throwing me out of the church for soiling his service.
“Jillian sent...these men?” he asks.
I’ve seen that kind of judgment before—the quick once-over that sizes you up. The kind of look that reminds me exactly why I left this town in the first place.
“Brayden Cole,” he says slowly, recognition flickering in his gaze. “Loretta Cole’s boy.”
“That's right,” I reply, keeping my voice neutral even as my jaw tightens. Fifteen years, and he still manages to make my last name sound like an accusation.
“Dad, they brought all of this,” Cece gestures around at the boxes stacked high. “They've saved the toy drive.”
The Reverend doesn't look impressed. If anything, his frown deepens.
“I see.” His tone could freeze hell over. “And what exactly does your...club...want in return?”
Domino lets out a quiet, irritated rumble, and I cut him a warning look. The last thing we need is a fight with a preacher in his own church.
“Nothing,” I say firmly. “My aunt asked for help. We're helping.”
“Nothing?” The Reverend's eyebrows nearly touch his receding hairline. “Young men like you don't typically do charity work out of the goodness of your hearts.”
I feel my temper flaring, that old familiar heat crawling up my neck. Some things never change in San Salona. Once they decide what you are, there's no changing their minds.
“Dad,” Cece hisses, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “They drove over an hour to bring us all of this.”
“It's fine,” I tell her, not taking my eyes off her father. “I'm used to it.”
The Reverend has the decency to look uncomfortable, at least. “I didn't mean to imply—”
“Yes, you did,” I cut him off. “But it doesn't matter. The toys are yours. Do whatever you want with them.”
I turn to my brothers, jerking my head toward the door. “We're done here.”
“But—” Cece starts.
“Enjoy your Christmas,” I tell her, already moving toward the exit. I don't need this shit. Don't need to stand here and let some holy roller make me feel like I'm still that troubled kid who had a thing for his daughter.