Chapter 13 Silver
SILVER
“I made it, Silver! I made it to the next round of auditions!”
Solana gushes through my phone, so full of joy it makes me grin despite the shit day I’ve had. I crash onto my couch, phone pressed to my ear, and let her excitement wash over me. I’m the first person she’s called.
“They called me back for Magnolia! Can you believe it?” she asks breathlessly. “Out of, like, thirty people who tried out, they only picked six for callbacks, and I’m one of them!”
Her happiness is contagious. It’s so damn cute and endearing I’ve become hooked on it. As silly as it sounds, it makes me happy to see her happy.
Over the past week, these evening calls have become routine. It started with her texting to thank me again for the ice cream, then somehow evolved into nightly conversations that stretch longer than they should.
I tell myself it’s just checking in on Ed’s niece, making sure she’s okay. But that’s bullshit and I know it.
I look forward to these calls. Have even started planning my evening around them.
“That’s great, Solana,” I reply, and I mean it. “I’m proud of you. But I knew you’d make it to round two.”
“You did not—”
“Did too. You’re gonna make it to round three as well. Hell, you’ll go all the way. You’re that good.”
She goes quiet for a second, then her voice comes back bashful. “I’m not even the best one auditioning. There’s this girl who’s been in every community theater production since—”
“Stop.” I cut her off before she can talk herself down further. “You’ve been practicing with me all week. Your Southern accent is spot on. The monologue you did yesterday? Gave me chills. If they don’t pick you, they’re idiots.”
Her laugh is small and pleased. “Thanks for being my biggest fan.”
“How’d the other thing go?” I ask, though we both know what I mean. “The counselor?”
“I went to her office today. We made an appointment for next week to actually start… talking about things.”
“Good. That’s real good, Solana. Proud of you for that too.”
“What about you?” she asks. “Has it gotten any easier with Tom back?”
My grin spreads, chest warming at the question. Not because of what she’s asked, but the fact that she has. Solana always turns it around, always asks about my day. My problems.
Even though she shouldn’t bother. She’s dealing with so much shit she shouldn’t even be concerning herself with what I’ve got going on.
But she always does anyway. She always shows she gives a damn.
This twenty-year-old girl is one of the few people who actually asks how I’m doing and means it.
“I’m managing,” I say, keeping it vague. I always do as far as the club’s concerned.
“You should get to stay president,” she says firmly. “The guys like you better.”
I chuckle. “That’s not true.”
“It is though. I hear what Uncle Eddie and Moses say when they think I’m not listening. People are wary of Tom Cutler. They respect him, sure, but they’re nervous about what he’ll do. With you, they feel safe.”
“Listen to you, thinking you’re some expert on MC politics.”
“Just like you think you’re an acting coach?” she shoots back smartly. The smile can be heard in her voice.
“I’ve watched enough movies to know good acting when I—”
“And suddenly now you’re a movie critic.”
We’re both laughing now, and it feels good. It feels easy and natural in a way that doesn’t necessarily make sense.
“I should go,” she says finally. “Early class tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I got an early morning with club stuff.”
“Goodnight, Silver.”
“Night.”
We hang up, but my phone buzzes only a couple seconds later. She’s sent me a meme—a bunch of grizzly bikers looking tough at a red light with the caption, “When you’re trying to look badass but the light won’t change.”
I bark out a laugh that catches me off guard. It isn’t the first time she’s sent me one of these, and some would say it’s silly and immature, but damn if it isn’t small moments of laughter like these that make me grin like an idiot. That give my day the little sparks they’ve been missing.
I find myself scrolling through my phone, looking for something funny to send back, then stop.
What am I doing?
We’ve become friends. Real friends. The kind where we talk every day, share stupid jokes, know each other’s schedules. She tells me about her classes, her auditions, her therapy appointments.
I tell her about the club, the tensions between me and Tom, Rachel and the kids, about everything except what I’m planning to do to Martin “Kel” Greene.
I check the date on my phone. He should be back this week if Spencer wasn’t lying. I’ve been counting the days, planning what I’ll do when I finally get my hands on him.
But Solana can never know. She’s too good, too pure-hearted. She’d probably try to stop me, claiming violence isn’t the answer and she doesn’t want anything bad to happen to him. I’d like to say she’s right, but she’s wrong.
Sometimes, for some things, violence is necessary.
People have to be held accountable. This is one of those times.
Besides, maybe it’ll help her sleep better at night knowing at least somebody fought for her. Knowing somebody thought she was worth fighting for.
…because she is all that and more.
My phone buzzes again. I quickly check it, my heart thumping in anticipation. I’m like an addict trying to get my fix even though we hung up not even five minutes ago.
But as I grab my phone and check the alert, I’m left disappointed. My racing pulse slows as I look down and discover the message isn’t from Solana.
It’s from Rachel.
Don’t be late to Jack’s game Saturday. It would mean a lot if you actually showed up on time.
I sigh and don’t bother responding. Rachel’s been baiting me for an argument for weeks now. Ever since that evening I turned up for dinner with the babysitter.
But receiving a text from Rachel moments after speaking to Solana only highlights one thing—how one woman has come to fill me with happiness and anticipation and even humor, while the other does nothing but weigh me down with dread and bitterness.
I pocket my phone and switch off the living room lights. I’m not sure what to make of that, but for now I’m going to focus on what’s important.
Being a father to my kids. Sorting out this club situation with Tom.
And being there for Solana, any time, any place.
Tom calls a meeting for ranking members only, which sets everybody involved on edge. Usually, we include everybody with a patch, not just officers and board members.
But here we are come Wednesday afternoon—me, Cash, Ozzie, Tito, Bush, Logan, and Mace, who looks like he’d rather be getting a root canal without anesthesia.
He sits at the far end of the table, arms crossed, green eyes burning with barely contained rage. The fact he showed up at all is a miracle, but he hasn’t said a word to anybody. He simply sits at the table radiating hostility.
Tito calls the meeting to order, and Ozzie tries making a joke about being dragged here at the asscrack of dawn.
The mood’s too tense for anybody to indulge him.
Tom’s pacing around the table, beer in hand, his boots clunking against the hardwood floor. He’s taking his time, making us wait as if we’re on his schedule, not ours.
“This club’s gone soft,” he starts. I have to fight not to roll my eyes. Same song, different verse. “We’ve been dormant. Acting like pussies, tucking our tails between our legs. We need to stop playing defense. Time to go on the offense. Remind people who we are.”
I can’t hold back anymore. “Makes no sense to pick fights just to pick them. What do we actually gain?”
Tom stops pacing and flashes his yellow-toothed, crooked grin. “How about reputation? We gain reputation by proving we’re dominant. By showing we’re not to be fucked with.”
“We already have a reputation,” Logan adds, calm but stony. A different brand of hostility than his younger brother. “If you’d been around, you’d know that.”
“The only reputation you’ve got is that it’s cool to fuck with the Steel Kings,” Tom sneers back, sparing his son a look.
“I’ve heard all about it from Silver here.
The Hellrazors, the Road Rebels, the Barreras.
That shitshow with Asa Boone and Carlito Estrada.
Even some fucking cult, for Christ’s sake. ”
“You’re missing the part where we kicked every single one of their asses,” Logan says.
“And you’re missing the fucking point,” he snaps. “None of that would’ve happened if I was here. If I was in charge. Nobody would’ve ever dared in the first fucking place.”
I release a deep breath, teeth grinding together. The man’s delusional if he thinks his presence alone would’ve prevented those conflicts.
Matter of fact, I’d argue he could’ve made some of them worse. Cash speaks up before I can.
“You have no way of knowing that,” he interjects, keeping his tone diplomatic.
“That’s just talk, hermano,” Tito agrees, mixing Spanish into his frustration. “Pura mierda.”
Tom waves them off like they’re flies buzzing around his head.
He takes another long drink from his beer and goes on.
“Yeah right. Now I hear the Penas threatened us. Disrespected us to our face, trying to turn us into their mules. So we’re gonna strike first. Send a message.
Tomorrow night, we hit their merchandise shipment coming up from Mexico. Hit ’em where it hurts—their wallet.”
Mace can’t hold back another second. He explodes.
He shoots to his feet so fast his chair crashes backward, the sound echoing through the room. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing!”
Tom straightens, his watery blue eyes flashing dangerously. I recognize the glint from the old days.
“Sit down, boy.”
“Fuck you!” Mace growls, coming around the table “You think you’re gonna send us off on another risky mission while you sit back here drinking yourself blind? Use the club to stroke your ego and relive your glory days?”
“I said sit—”
“Those days are long gone, old man!” Mace barks over him, veins throbbing in his neck. “Time you accept it! I’m not letting you pull another Logan situation, sending us in blind to shit that backfires—shit that gets us killed!”
“I SAID SIT DOWN!”
“OR WHAT? HUH?” Mace steps forward, his clenched fists and fast stride speaking for themselves.
Cash and Ozzie jump up, getting between them before any punches can be thrown. Mace tries to push past them, but Cash holds him back while Ozzie keeps Tom where he is.
My old friend actually laughs at his son’s explosive rage. He stands back and drains his beer can and watches him damn near wrestle Cash out of the way.
“Settle down, boys. I ain’t ever backed down from a fight. Sure as hell didn’t behind prison walls, and I ain’t gonna start now just ’cuz my pussy son wants to step to me.”
“I’ll have you knocked out in five seconds!” Mace snarls. “You’re a drunk, delusional old fool talking shit. Only reason I haven’t already is ’cuz some part of me still pities you!”
“You’re weak,” Tom spits, dripping with contempt. “WEAK!”
That’s enough.
I rise from my chair, authority in my tone and warning in my glare. “Tom, you’re out of line. You better get your act together. Now.”
Tom rounds on me, his features twisting with familiar resentment. It’s the same look he gave me before he went to prison. It says he still thinks I set him up. I’m the reason he was sentenced to ten years.
The silence stretches between us as he steps toward me, his swagger a mix of ego and alcohol, neither one doing him any favors.
“The only ones who need to get their act together,” he says, “are all of you. ’Cuz none of you know your fucking place anymore. Better get with the program soon, or you might find yourselves ass outta luck.”
He turns and strides to the office, slamming the door hard.
Mace releases a roar of pure frustration and drives his fist through the wall, leaving a hole in the drywall and blood on his knuckles. Then he storms out without another word.
Cash sighs and follows him. Probably to make sure he doesn’t do something stupider.
“Well…” Ozzie says, rubbing the back of his neck. “That went well.”
“No es tiempo para chistes,” Tito mutters.
Logan slowly rises from his chair. He’s been mostly silent through all of this, watching his father and brother go at it.
To my surprise, he heads toward the back office where his father’s just disappeared to.
I stay at the table, still fuming. My hands clenched and knuckles white.
“What now?” Ozzie asks, glancing over at me.
My gaze pans from the hole Mace left in the wall to the overturned chair and the spilled beer on the floor from Tom’s dramatic gestures.
“Something’s gotta give,” I say. “That’s what.”
The game’s over—the Dallas Stars lost again, no surprise there—and I’m going through my nightly routine.
TV off, lights out, making sure the doors are locked. Same thing I’ve done every night since the divorce.
My phone buzzes. I already know it’s Solana before I check.
Tonight’s the first night in over a week we haven’t talked. No evening call about her day, her audition prep, or therapy appointment.
I told myself it was good to skip a night. Good that we have some distance. But I’ve been checking my phone like a teenager all evening.
Still awake?
I smile to myself and text back.
What do you think? Game just finished.
She answers almost immediately.
Up for a surprise?
I stare at the text, confused. It’s past nine. What kind of surprise could she have at this hour?
Depends on your definition of surprise.
The dots appear showing she’s typing, then disappear as if she’s changed her mind. I’m about to clarify and tell her she can tell me whatever it is.
But then a knock at my door makes me freeze.
Nobody knocks on my door uninvited, especially not after dark. It could be club business, but they’d text or call first. It could be trouble, but trouble doesn’t usually knock; it comes barging in.
I approach the door, hand instinctively reaching for the piece I keep in the side table drawer.
I open the door and my brain short circuits.
Solana’s standing on my doorstep, bathed in porch light, looking small and uncertain but trying to play it off with a nervous smile.
“Surprise,” she says.