Chapter Forty-One
Matlock
“Matlock.”
King’s voice cut through the chaos in my head like a fucking blade.
I turned, my hand still pressed against Simon’s back. King approached us, Cash and Jingles flanking him like they were ready for war. The other club members were watching from their seats, their expressions ranging from amused to dead fucking serious.
No one looked surprised.
They know.
The thought hit me like a freight train, and my entire body went cold.
They fucking know.
My jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might crack. “King—”
“We’ve known for a long fucking time,” King said simply, stopping a few feet away. His gaze was steady, unflinching, the kind of look that made men piss themselves. “About you, about Simon. About all of it.”
My entire body went rigid. Every muscle locked down, every nerve firing in panic. Simon’s hand flattened against my stomach. A touch that normally grounded me, now caused fear to well up in my throat like bile.
No. No, no, no...
“What the fuck?!” The words came out strangled, barely coherent.
They knew. How long? How fucking long had they been watching me? Judging me? Waiting for me to...
“You’re not as subtle as you think you are, brother,” Cash said, his tone sharp as a knife. “The way you look at him. The way you lose your shit anytime some motherfucker gets too close. We’re not fucking blind.”
Oh God.
My chest tightened, my lungs refusing to work properly.
“We were waiting for you to tell us,” King continued, his voice low and dangerous. “Waiting for you to be ready. We got tired of fucking waiting.”
Hide.
The word hit me like a punch to the gut.
That was what I’d been doing, wasn’t it? Hiding. My whole fucking life I’d been hiding who I was. For six fucking years, I’d been hiding Simon, hiding the truth of what I felt for him because I was too much of a goddamn coward to let anyone else see it.
Julia.
Her face flashed through my mind, her smile, her laugh, the way she’d looked at me with so much love and acceptance even when I’d told her the truth about who I was.
And then the other memory. The one that never fucking left me.
Her boyfriend, shoving me to my knees, standing over me.
“I—” My voice cracked. “I didn’t—”
I didn’t want this. I didn’t want them to know. I didn’t want to put Simon in danger. I didn’t want to lose anyone else.
“We don’t give a fuck,” Jingles said, his voice hard as concrete. “You’re our brother. Simon’s family. That’s all that fucking matters to us.”
Family.
The word should have been comforting. Should have made me feel safe.
Instead, it made me want to vomit.
They don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like. They don’t know what I’ve lost. What I could still lose.
Grace appeared beside King, her hand resting on her rounded belly, her eyes sharp and unforgiving. “We love you, Matlock. Both of you. And we’re not going anywhere, so you can stop your bullshit right now.”
My hand tightened on Simon’s back. I could feel him shaking, or maybe that was me. Maybe we were both shaking.
Violent tremors running through my entire body.
“You knew,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “You all fucking knew.”
“Yeah,” King said. “We gave you plenty of time to come clean. I’m kind of pissed it took so fucking long. Even more pissed you thought you couldn’t trust us. That you thought so fucking little of us you couldn’t be yourself.”
I’d spent six years hiding the man I loved. Six years keeping him in the shadows, meeting him in secret, refusing to claim him publicly because I was too terrified of what might happen if I did.
Julia died because of me. Because I’m gay. Because she tried to protect me.
And I’ve been punishing Simon for it ever since.
Something broke inside me, something raw and vulnerable and absolutely fucking terrified. My forehead dropped to Simon’s shoulder, my breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps against his neck.
I can’t do this. I can’t—
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, so quiet only Simon could hear. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
For hiding you. For making you feel like you weren’t enough. For being a fucking hypocrite.
Simon’s arms wrapped around me, holding me as tightly as I was holding him. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay. None of this is okay.
The diner was still silent, everyone watching, but I didn’t give a fuck anymore.
Let them watch.
Let them see.
Let them know that Simon is mine and I’m his and I’m done hiding.
“Well,” Beatrice’s voice rang out from her table, breaking the silence. “It’s about damn time someone in this town had the balls to be honest.”
A few people laughed nervously, uncertain, but genuine.
I lifted my head, my expression raw and exposed. I looked around the diner, taking in the faces watching us. Some were smiling. Some looked uncomfortable. But no one looked hostile.
No one’s running. No one’s threatening us. No one’s...
“I—” I started, then stopped, my throat working.
Say it. Just fucking say it.
“Simon and I...” I looked into his eyes.
Are together. Are in love. Have been for six years.
“Are together,” King finished for me, his hand clasping me on the shoulder, his voice brooking no argument. “And anyone who has a fucking problem with that can take it up with the club. With all of us. And trust me, motherfuckers, you don’t want that.”
The threat in his voice was unmistakable. Dangerous. Real.
He’s protecting us. They’re all protecting us.
Marjorie Kemp had disappeared at some point during the chaos. A few other people looked like they wanted to leave but didn’t dare fucking move.
Most people just looked... accepting.
“Congratulations,” Indie said dryly from the booth. “Now can we get back to celebrating the fact that Simon’s not going to prison?”
The tension broke.
Laughter rippled through the diner, conversations resuming, the noise level rising again. My arms loosened around Simon, but I didn’t let go completely. My hand slid down to lace with his, my grip tight.
Mine. He’s mine. And everyone knows it now.
“You okay?” Simon asked quietly.
I looked at him, my eyes still wild but clearer now. “No,” I said honestly. “But I will be.”
We will be.
Simon squeezed my hand. “We will be.”
I nodded, my throat working.
This is real. This is happening. I just came out to my entire club, to this entire fucking town, and no one’s trying to kill us.
Julia would be proud.
The thought hit me out of nowhere, and I had to swallow hard against the sudden tightness in my throat.
She’d be so fucking proud.
Then the diner door slammed open with enough force to rattle the windows. Nav stood in the doorway, his face flushed and his eyes bright with urgency.
“I found it,” he said, cutting through the crowd. “I fucking found it.”
King straightened. “Found what?”
“The connection,” Nav said, striding toward us. He met us in the back corner of the diner. “Between Rosalind Winthrop and Alan Sanders. I know why she prosecuted Simon. I know everything.”
My heart stuttered and my hand tightened on Simon’s.
Nav bent over the table as he pulled pages from a manilla folder. His eyes locked on my hand clasped tightly with Simon’s, and his eyes narrowed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
What the fuck—
He looked up and searched the faces around us, settling on Gunner. “You were supposed to fucking wait.”
Gunner shrugged and pulled Haizley against his side.
Nav turned back to Simon and me, and grinned. “About fucking time, brother.”
Simon chuckled, and I rolled my eyes. “Fuck you. What did you find?” I demanded.
“Alan Sanders’ adoption. I’ve been digging into it since you asked me to, and something wasn’t adding up. The records were too clean. Too perfect. So I kept digging.”
“And?” King prompted.
“Alan’s father, Joseph Sanders, was a lawyer in Peekskill, New York,” Nav said, flipping open the folder. “His mentor was a man named Harland Winthrop.”
The name hit like a punch to the gut.
Winthrop.
“Rosalind’s father,” I said, my voice flat.
Of course. Of fucking course.
“Exactly,” Nav said. “Harland Winthrop was a prominent lawyer in Peekskill. Joseph Sanders worked under him for years. And in 1996, Rosalind Winthrop had a baby.”
The noise in the diner dimmed as I focused on what Nav had found.
“She was sixteen,” Nav continued. “There’s no record of who the father was. No name on any documents. But Joseph and Elaine Sanders were listed as the parents on the birth certificate.”
No.
Oh fuck.
“Wait,” Simon said, his mind clearly racing. “Are you saying—”
“Alan Sanders was Rosalind Winthrop’s biological son,” Nav said. “The adoption was never filed legally. Joseph Sanders falsified the birth certificate, putting himself and his wife down as the parents. There’s no official adoption record because it never happened.”
“Jesus Christ,” I breathed.
Her son. Alan was her fucking son.
And Sadie killed him.
And I defended the man who took the fall for it.
“How do you know this if there’s no legal record?” King asked, his voice sharp.
Nav’s expression turned smug. “Because I know what the fuck I’m doing. I found discrepancies in the birth records, timestamps that didn’t match, signatures that were forged, hospital records that contradicted the official documents. It took me weeks to piece it together, but it’s all here.”
He spread the documents across the table, birth certificates, hospital records, legal filings, all marked with highlighted sections and handwritten notes.
“Rosalind gave up her son,” Nav said. “And Joseph Sanders, her father’s protégé, took him and raised him as his own. Illegally.”
“And then my sister killed him,” Simon said slowly, the pieces clicking into place. “Rosalind wasn’t prosecuting me because she thought I was guilty. She was prosecuting me because—”
“Because you took her son from her,” I finished, my voice hollow. I wrapped my arm around Simon without thinking, without fear, and pulled him against me. “Even if he was a piece of shit. Even if he deserved what he got. He was still hers.”
The weight of it settled over us like a shroud.
Rosalind’s vendetta. Her viciousness. The way she’d twisted the narrative, painting Simon as a monster.
It wasn’t about justice.
It was about revenge.
“She wanted someone to pay,” Simon said quietly. “And I was the easiest target.”
“She wanted you to suffer the way she was suffering,” I said, my jaw tight. “She wanted to destroy you.”
And she almost fucking succeeded.
“Well, she failed,” Gunner said, his voice hard. “Simon’s free. And now we know the truth.”
“What do we do with this?” Cash asked, looking at King.
King’s expression was grim. “We keep it. Document everything. If Rosalind tries anything else, we have leverage.”
“She can’t,” I said, my voice certain. “Not yet. She lost. The case is over. Going after Simon now would only expose her.”
And she’s too smart for that. Too calculating.
“But she’ll know we know,” Simon said. “Won’t she?”
“Let her,” I said, my hand tightening on him. “Let her know that we see her. That we know what she did. Maybe it’ll keep her from trying this shit again.”
And if it doesn’t, we’ll be ready.
Nav nodded, gathering the documents back into the folder. “I’ll make copies. Send them to Fury in New York too, just in case.”
“Good,” King said.
Nav grinned. “I told you I’d find it.”
The tension in the diner eased slightly, conversations resuming in hushed tones. But the revelation hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
Rosalind Winthrop had prosecuted Simon not because he was guilty, but because he was convenient.
Because her son was dead, and someone had to pay.
I looked down at Simon; his face turned up toward mine, his eyes searching.
He’s free. He’s safe. And everyone knows he’s mine.
“You okay?” Simon asked again.
I nodded, my thumb brushing over his spine. “Yeah,” I said quietly.
And for the first time in six years, I actually fucking believe it.