Chapter 12 Silver
SILVER
“Jack, got a second?”
Tom’s cut me off on my way back to Tito. The two of us had been talking before I’d gone inside to check on Solana. Now that I’ve returned to the patio, it’s as if Tom was biding his time. He was waiting and watching all along.
“Sure,” I say, clearing my throat. Doing my best to keep my expression neutral despite the fact I’d rather talk to almost anybody else at this party.
We move to the side of the patio, away from the main crowd but still visible enough that everyone can see us talking.
Tom’s wearing his old cut like armor—creased and faded leather over a sleeveless black shirt showing off his Steel Kings ink covering both arms. The skull with his crown grins from his left arm. The club motto wraps around his right bicep in Old English script:
Kings Live Forever
The motto many of us have inked on our body somewhere, including me.
But I’ve always found it darkly ironic considering how many Kings we’ve buried over the years.
But if there’s one thing Tom’s been doing since his release, it’s been making it clear he still eats, sleeps, and breathes the club.
Part of that is displaying his ink and wearing his cut every single waking moment he can. He’s the Steel King, and he wants everybody to know it.
We’ve barely spoken all week beyond the necessary. A few words about club inventory, a brief discussion about the Chop Shop’s books, some questions about recruitment.
Nothing real. Nothing about the years he was gone or the accusations he made when the Feds took him.
If I’m honest, I’ve been avoiding him, doing my best to ignore the simmering tensions.
Maybe because some part of me hopes if I do, we can return to before. How things used to be between us.
“What’s this about?” I ask once we’re finally off by ourselves.
He strokes the stubble on his jaw. “I’ve spent a lot of time observing, and there’s one thing I’ve realized. I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
I cock a brow. “Can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”
“C’mon, Jack, brother. You know,” he laughs, gesturing wide with his arms, beer can in hand. “This club’s gone soft while I was away. But nothing that can’t be fixed. I’ve got every intention of turning things around.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t give any reaction at all beyond meeting his gaze and watching his theatrics.
“What you call soft, we call smart,” I say finally. “We’re not courting chaos like we used to. Not bullying folks in town for protection money. Not flooding the streets with drugs and girls.”
“You’re serious?” he asks through another thick, cackling laugh. He slaps me on the back like I’ve told a good joke. “You sure you in the right business, brother? What the hell did you think being a King was about? Sunday school?”
Movement catches my eye across the patio. My gaze naturally travels to her.
Solana’s on her phone, and something’s wrong. Very wrong.
Her brows are knitted, and she’s gripping at the edge of the table like she might fall without it. But Tom’s still talking, demanding my attention with his grievances.
“Nobody seems to remember what we built,” he continues, taking a long drink from his beer.
“What we sacrificed for. Least of all my sons. Both of them married now, starting families like they’re civilians.
” He pauses, his lip curling with disgust. “With Black women of all women. I didn’t teach my boys to race mix. ”
The casual bigotry automatically makes my fingers twitch and my muscles tense. It draws a ball of hot anger that pulses through me. I bite down on my jaw trying to contain what I can, suddenly struck by the urge to wipe the sneer off his fucking face.
“It doesn’t matter who they fell in love with, Tom,” I say, my voice low in warning. “You saying you’ve got a problem with it?”
He sputters like the question’s ridiculous to even ask, merely waving a hand to dismiss it.
“What I’m saying is… nothing’s how it should be,” he says vaguely. “I expected my boys to be successors, not be dragged down by fucking marriage and kids.”
“You did the same thing with Dana,” I remind him. “You two were still in high school when she got pregnant with Logan.”
He waves me off again like I’m discussing ancient history. “That was different. The club always came first with me. Always. But Logan? He won’t even let me meet my grandchild.”
I wonder why, you fucking asshole.
My nostrils flare as I stare at him with barely concealed irritation and contempt.
“Says they’re not ready for that step yet,” he scoffs indignantly. “My own blood, and I can’t even hold the baby girl.”
“You’ve been gone a long time. Things change. You’re gonna have to get used to it.”
But he’s not listening, already moving on to his next grievance.
“And Mason’s worse. My youngest walks around here like his dick’s made of gold and his shit don’t stink. All cockiness, no respect. He thinks he can disrespect me? His own father? He’s got another thing coming.”
My patience finally snaps.
“Is there a point to this conversation, Tom? ’Cuz last I checked, I’m not your therapist.”
His eyes narrow, and for a second I see the man who once beat somebody to death with a tire iron for disrespecting him.
“As a matter of fact, there is,” he says. Then he turns away from me and toward the crowd, raising his voice to a shout. “Listen up! I’ve got shit to say!”
The patio goes quiet almost instantly. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even Ozzie turns down the music. Everyone turns to look at Tom as he steps into the center of the space like he owns it.
Which, in his mind, he does.
My teeth grind together as he launches into what’s clearly a prepared speech.
“It’s good to be back home where I belong!” he says, raising his beer high, playing to the crowd. “For four long years, this club survived without me, but surviving ain’t thriving!”
Some of the guys cheer, raising their own beers in response. Bush and Mudd are eating it up, hanging on every word.
But I notice Logan’s face tighten with barely concealed anger and Cash scratching at the back of his neck as if he’s disinterested in anything else Tom has to say.
“The Steel Kings used to run this whole fucking valley!” Tom booms, holding his arms out wide at his sides. “People knew our name, feared it, respected it! We didn’t apologize for what we were—outlaws, rebels, kings of our fucking domain! We took what we wanted and dared anybody to stop us!”
More cheers, mostly from the older guys who remember those days through rose-colored glasses. They forget the Wild West style conflicts, the prison sentences, the brothers we lost to violence and overdoses.
But I’m not listening anymore. I’m watching Solana slip away from the table, moving through the crowd toward the saloon’s back entrance.
Nobody else notices—they’re all too busy tuning into Tom’s performance. But I saw her face when she was on the phone.
Something’s happened. Something bad.
“We’re gonna return to our former glory!” Tom declares to louder and louder cheers. “We’re gonna remind everybody from here to Houston why the Steel Kings are fucking legends! Why our name used to make grown-ass men piss themselves!”
I wait another thirty seconds, then slowly step back. Nobody’s watching me anyway—Tom’s got them mesmerized with his bullshit about the so-called good ol’ days.
I slip through the crowd, following Solana’s path, as Tom’s speech goes on.
“Anybody who stands against us will learn what happens when you cross a motherfucking Steel King!”
The saloon’s door closes behind me, muting the cheers, hoots, and hollers that meet his declaration. The enthusiastic applause and whistles and chants of “fuck yeah!”
I’m already at my truck without looking back. Without any interest in returning anytime soon.
Right now, Solana needs me more than Tom needs an audience.
I spot her three blocks from the saloon, walking with her arms wrapped tight around herself like she’s trying to hold the fractured pieces together. Her eyes are fixed on the cracks in the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, looking smaller than she already is.
The late afternoon sun casts long shadows, and she’s lost in hers.
I pull over and roll down the window, arm slung over the wheel. “Need a ride?”
She startles, brown eyes widening with surprise. For a second she simply stares at me as if she can’t process how I’ve appeared. Then she gives the smallest, subtlest nod and quickly climbs into the truck without a word.
I don’t pull away from the curb right away, unsure how to handle this now that she’s agreed.
“Wanna talk about it?”
She hesitates before giving another small nod.
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, thinking where to go from here.
She needs somewhere safe, somewhere that isn’t about the club or her family or any of the weight she’s carrying. Somewhere that might, for just a few minutes, make things lighter.
“I know a place,” I say.
Seven minutes later, we’re parked outside Dixie Scoops. The ice cream parlor’s empty except for the two teenage employees more interested in their phones than customers.
Just how I hoped things would be.
We slide into a corner booth. Her with a single scoop of cookies and cream. Me with a double of Neapolitan.
She stares at her cup, the glum energy she gives off pulling at the strings deep inside my chest. Once again, I’m uncertain how to approach the moment. How I can broach whatever’s troubling her without pushing too hard or making her shutdown even more?
“Thanks,” I say.
She looks up, confused. “For what?”
“For giving me an excuse to leave the party. It was torture.”
“Oh.” She blinks a couple times, thrown by the direction I’ve taken but also maybe a little grateful for the reprieve. “Um… why?”
“I’d much rather make sure you’re okay.”
She considers this, stirring her ice cream into soup. “I’d be more okay if I had someone to talk to. Just... someone to have a conversation with.”
The loneliness in her tone hits me on a deeper level than she probably realizes.