Chapter 25 Brayden
brAYDEN
I can't decide what pisses me off more—watching some stranger document the bruises on Cece's wrists, or folding my six-foot-two frame into her toy-sized Honda. Both make me want to put my fist through something. Preferably, Ethan Kincaid's face.
“You're quiet,” Cece says as we pull into the church parking lot. “What's going on in that head of yours?”
“Nothing good,” I admit, shifting my knees away from the dashboard for the hundredth time.
The temperature dropped overnight, too cold for my bike, which means I'm crammed into this tin can on wheels.
My knees practically touch my chin, and my shoulders are so hunched I'll need a chiropractor by noon.
She reaches over, her fingers brushing my forearm. Even that light touch sends electricity up my spine. “Yesterday was rough.”
“Rough doesn't begin to cover it.” The memory of watching her wrists being photographed, measured, documented—each bruise a testament to what that piece of shit did to her—makes my blood boil all over again.
The doctor had been professional, but I'd wanted to tear the examination room apart with my bare hands.
I take a deep breath, trying to push down the rage that's been simmering just below the surface since Tony's. “But Joe's right. The more evidence we have, the better chance we have to get this thrown out.”
“And we need to be seen,” Cece says, her fingers tightening on the steering wheel as she parks the car.
I can tell she doesn't want to be here. Hell, I don't want to be here either. But Joe was clear. We can't hide away like we're ashamed or guilty.
“I know you'd rather be anywhere else right now,” I tell her, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “But remember what Joe said. We need to keep living our lives normally.”
She nods, but her eyes are fixed on the church entrance, her shoulders tense. “What if Ethan shows up?”
“Then I'll handle it.”
“Brayden...”
“Legally,” I add quickly. “I'll handle it legally. They granted your protective order, remember? He can’t come within a hundred yards of you without violating it, princess.” I scan the parking lot, relief washing through me when I spot several familiar vehicles.
Domino and Big’s trucks. “Seems like we have some visitors.”
“Wait, what?” Cece's eyebrows shoot up as she follows my gaze. “Your club brothers? Here? At the church?”
“Apparently.” I'm just as surprised as she is. I hadn't called anyone, hadn't asked for backup. But here they are.
“Come on,” I say, unfolding myself from her car with a groan. “Let's see what they're up to before your father tries to perform an exorcism or something.”
We walk toward the church entrance, my hand resting protectively at the small of her back. The moment we step inside, I hear them before I see them. Big's booming laugh echoes through the fellowship hall, followed by Skelly's distinctive cackle.
“You guys here for the monthly exorcism?” I call out.
Four heads turn my way, and Domino's face breaks into a grin.
He's wearing his cut over a hoodie, looking like he just walked off a biker magazine cover rather than standing in a church fellowship hall.
Big and Skelly are to our left setting up several long tables.
Wrecker walks out with a large box in his hands.
A Santa hat on his head peaking over the top of the box. “Ho Ho Ho, asshole,” he calls out.
“You’re in a church, dumbass. Watch your language.”
“I can’t say asshole, but you can call me a dumbass. Rude.”
“It’s not swearing if it’s your legal name.”
Wrecker starts to shoot me the bird just as a few of the church ladies shuffle in from the side entrance. He reels it in fast before one of them catches him desecrating the house of the lord with his vulgarity.
Cece and I walk over towards Big, who meets us halfway. “Nice to see you again, heathen.”
“Heathen?” Cece blinks at Big, confusion flickering across her face. “When did you call me that?”
Big chuckles, his massive frame making him look comically out of place among the church's modest decor. “At the party a few nights ago. After your third tequila shot, you said your daddy would have a heart attack if he knew you were hanging with the 'heathens' as he calls us.”
“I don't remember that,” she says, her cheeks flushing pink.
“That's because you were three sheets to the wind, darlin',” Skelly calls over, grinning as he unfolds another table. “Started singing some church hymn, but with dirty lyrics. It was impressive.”
She turns to me. “Please tell me I didn’t.”
I shrug. “I plead the fifth of tequila, princess.”
She smacks me hard in the arm. “You should have told me.”
“And miss seeing your reaction? Well worth the bodily harm.”
“What are you all doing here anyway?” I ask, looking around at my brothers scattered throughout the church hall.
Big scratches his beard. “Your aunt called me, said your girl here ran into some trouble. Figured we'd come help with the distribution to make sure her ex stays well away from her.”
I stare at Big for a second, my brain stuck on one bizarre detail.
How in the hell did my aunt have Big's number?
It's not as if the club keeps a phone tree printed off somewhere.
My aunt is full of surprises, but this connection makes zero sense.
I've been careful to keep my club life and family life separate.
And yet somehow my aunt is calling up the club president like they're old friends?
“Wait. Since when does my aunt have your number?”
Big's laugh rumbles through the church hall, drawing curious glances from a couple of older ladies setting up a refreshment table. “Since about three years ago, she needed some help with a project.”
“You're kidding me.” Why did she go to him, and not to me? “None of this makes any sense.”
“Nope. We text sometimes.” He pulls out his phone, scrolling through messages. “She sends me recipes. I send her pictures of the food I make with them.”
I run my hand through my hair, trying to wrap my head around this.
My aunt has been secret buddies with my MC president for years.
The woman operates on a level of quiet influence I clearly never gave her enough credit for—moves in the dark, pulls strings, and somehow no one ever sees it coming.
A stealth ninja disguised as a churchgoing, cookie-baking aunt.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter.
Cece squeezes my arm, clearly enjoying my bewilderment. “I think it's sweet.”
“Sweet isn't exactly the word I'd use,” I mutter, still trying to wrap my head around my aunt's secret friendship with Big.
Big claps his hands together, the sound echoing through the fellowship hall. “Alright, Cece. You're running this show. What do you need us to do? Put us to work.”
Cece straightens her shoulders, and I can see her shift into organizer mode. The confidence looks good on her, a welcome change from the tension that's been shadowing her face since the arrest.
“Okay, so the system works like this,” she explains, gesturing around the room, “the church ladies will check in the families at the front table.
They've got a list of everyone who pre-registered.
Once they're checked in,” Cece continues, “they'll come through here where we have the toys arranged by age group. Each child gets three toys and a book. After that, they move to the grocery section where they can get a holiday meal box and some pantry staples.”
“Where do you want us stationed?” Domino asks, walking over to join us.
“You guys would be great for helping with the toy section,” Cece says. “Some of the families have multiple children, and they might need help carrying everything.”
“We can handle that.”
“That would be wonderful,” Cece says, her smile brightening. I watch her take charge, directing everyone with a confidence that makes my chest tighten. This is her element—organizing, helping, making sure no one gets left behind. It’s one of the many things I love about her.
Suddenly, Cece freezes mid-sentence, her face draining of color. “Oh no. I completely forgot about Santa.”
“What about Santa?” I ask.
“The mayor always plays Santa,” she mutters. “He hands out candy canes and takes photos with the kids. I can't believe I didn't think of this until now.”
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. “That's not happening. Not this year.”
“But the kids—” she starts, worry creasing her forehead.
Before either of us can say another word, Wrecker comes barreling across the fellowship hall, nearly knocking over a stack of gift bags in his enthusiasm.
“Did someone say Santa?” he asks, grinning like he's just won the lottery. “I couldn't help but overhear you’re in need of a Santa.”
“You?” she says, eyeing Wrecker with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Playing Santa for a bunch of church kids?” Considering the first time she met him, he was taking body shots off a stripper at our clubhouse, I can understand her hesitation.
Wrecker's grin widens, “I know I'm not exactly what these church folks expect for their Santa. But I can be jolly as fuck—I mean, jolly as holly.” He corrects himself with a quick glance toward the church ladies. “And I promise not to scare the little ones.”
I watch Cece consider this unexpected offer, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. The idea of Wrecker playing Santa for a bunch of kids should be laughable. But there's also something weirdly perfect about it.
“The costume might not fit,” she says, but I can tell she's warming to the idea.
“I'll make it work,” Wrecker insists. “Come on, Cece. You need a Santa, and I need to spread some Christmas cheer. It's a win-win. I’ll beg if I have to, sweetheart. Please, pretty please,” Wrecker adds, clasping his hands together like he's actually praying in this church.
“I've always wanted to be Santa. It's been my lifelong dream.”
I stifle a laugh at the sight of this tattooed biker begging to play Santa Claus. “Since when?”