Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Slayer
I’m not entirely sure what jarred me from my sleep and pulled me toward Jersey’s place, but I’ve learned to never second-guess my instincts.
Usually, the early morning silence on the compound is a gift, but today it felt suffocating, humming with a frantic energy that made staying in bed impossible.
My mind was stuck on a loop of everything that went down yesterday—the sting of Riptide’s fist, the way Boston bared his teeth to protect me, and the quiet, steady way Jersey stepped up to take care of my family.
The gravel crunched under my boots as the morning chill began to seep through my clothes, but I didn’t give a damn.
My eyes were locked on the soft light spilling from Jersey’s porch, like a beacon in the night sky calling to me.
Seeing her step out, looking so small yet so resolute in her pajamas, made something in my chest pull tight.
She’s taking on a load that most people wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole, and she’s doing it with a grace that honestly humbles me.
Knowing Boston and Carolina are tucked away safe under her roof lets me breathe for the first time in forever without feeling like my lungs are being crushed by the weight of it all.
Sitting on those steps with her, hearing her admit that she isn’t used to being seen hit me harder than Rip’s punch ever could.
I’ve spent my whole life being the wall between my people and the mess of the world.
But looking at Jersey, I realize I want to be more than just her shield, I want to be the man who finally makes her feel like she doesn't have to hide in the shadows anymore.
The way her hand slides into mine, that perfect contrast of my rough skin against hers, feels like a promise—a brand-new code to live by that doesn't involve riding solo or battling ghosts from the past.
The urge to pull her in and kiss her is constant, but I’m terrified that moving too fast will send her running.
She’s like a skittish animal, something beautiful and ethereal that’s ready to bolt at the slightest hint of trouble.
I’ve always lived my life at full throttle, never knowing how to downshift or appreciate the quiet, but for Jersey, I’ll figure it out.
I’ll learn how to be the man she needs, the one who protects her heart just as fiercely as her body.
Watching the sunrise catch the gold highlights in her hair, I know that whatever happens with the Dragons, I’m not just fighting for the patch anymore.
I’m fighting for the peace in her eyes and the home she’s carving out for herself.
These baby steps might be agonizing for a man like me, but every inch forward is a win.
I’ll wait for as long as it takes for her to understand that with me, she never has to go looking for a hiding place again.
The weight of the coming hours presses on me, a reminder of the code I shattered and the brothers I failed when I rode out alone.
Riptide’s fist was just the beginning, the real reckoning happens at the table where the club’s laws are absolute.
I take one last long look at Jersey, committing the way she looks in the soft morning light to memory, before I force myself up.
Our little interlude is over, and the harsh reality of the club is calling me to answer for my choices.
My jaw is still throbbing where Rip connected, a physical mark of the lines I crossed by hauling ass on my own.
I stand up slowly, feeling every bit of the exhaustion that’s been trailing me since that first call about Boston.
I look at Jersey one last time, my voice rough as I ask, “I have to head out, but is it alright if I see you later?”
The question hangs heavy between us. I’m asking for a hell of a lot more than just a visit, I’m asking for a chance to see where this pull leads us.
I wait for the retreat, the jumpy hesitation I’ve come to expect, but she gives me a small nod instead.
It’s enough to keep me upright as I turn and head across the gravel.
It feels like a march to a firing squad, and I know Riptide is going to make an example out of me for the rest of the brothers.
But as I climb the clubhouse steps, the weight of the coming smackdown feels a little lighter knowing I have a reason to get through it.
The air in the room is heavy with stale smoke and old leather, the silence of the brothers pressing in on me from every side.
Sitting next to Riptide at the head of the table, my knees bounce with a restless energy I can’t kill while I wait for him to read me my rights.
Every eye in the room is a burden, a silent judgment on the VP who temporarily forgot that no man rides alone when he got the call about his brother being in trouble.
I don’t blink and I don’t look away, bracing for the storm I invited the moment I kicked my bike into gear without a word to my president.
“There isn’t a man in here who doesn’t know why we’re sitting at this table,” Riptide begins, his eyes boring into mine.
“We made a rule that no brother hits the road alone until this threat is handled. Slayer is the one who set that into stone, and he’s the one who broke it.
He might be the VP, but he isn’t above the law.
Leading by example is the only way this patch works, and when leadership fails, the whole club is in the crosshairs.
We can’t have one set of rules for the brothers and another for those of us at the head. ”
The room is deathly still, the only sound is the faint buzz of the lights in the walls.
Riptide paces behind his chair, his leather cut creaking with every step.
He doesn’t just look pissed—he looks disappointed, which is a lot harder to take than a beating.
He stops, leaning his weight on the scarred wood of the table, his knuckles turning white.
“I don’t give a damn if it’s family or club business.
You pick up the phone, or you grab a brother.
You do not ride alone. Not now. Not ever. ”
I keep my head up, taking every word. I deserve the verbal skinning.
I helped draft these laws to keep my brothers breathing, and in my rush to get to Boston, I became the exact liability I warned them against. The gavel hasn't even hit the plank yet, but the silence of the men I lead is already sentence enough.
My throat feels like I’ve been swallowing glass, dry and raw, but I’m the one who finally breaks the suffocating silence.
Rip hasn’t even called for a vote yet, but the weight of my choice is real, and I won’t make him drag it out of me.
“Guilty,” I bark, the word like a jagged rock in the air as I lay my own neck on the line.
The word hangs in the stagnant air of the room, heavy and indisputable.
I look down the length of the table, meeting the eyes of the men I’ve bled for, the ones I’ve led into hell and back.
There is no anger in their expressions, only a somber, shared weight.
They know why I did it, but in this room, the reason doesn't outweigh the risk I posed to the patch. Icer’s face is a mask of stone, his loyalty to the brotherhood as cold and unyielding as his name.
Next to him, Sketch keeps his pen poised over the ledger, waiting to record the fall of a Vice President who momentarily forgot that the club comes before everything.
Indiana shifts his eyes, refusing to look at me, as he echoes my word in a somber voice, “Guilty.”
One by one, the voices fall like hammer strikes.
Scripture’s tone is a mournful prayer, and even Kodiak, who usually has a joke to break the tension, keeps his gaze fixed on the scarred wood of the table as he adds his vote to the tally.
Each “guilty” is a reminder of the bond I strained.
I take it all, letting the weight of their collective judgment settle into my bones.
This is the price of the life we chose, there are no shortcuts, no exceptions for family, and no special treatment for the man wearing the VP rocker.
I cast no judgement toward them as they unanimously vote.
Every vote that convicts me rings out in the room like a heavy stone added to the pile of my own guilt, but I don't begrudge them for it. They are holding the line I helped draw. If anything, there’s a sense of pride for the brotherhood I helped build.
They may feel bad that they have to vote this way because of the circumstances, but they’re doing the right thing.
“I’m not sure what the right punishment for this is, pres,” Nova states, his voice breaking the heavy silence that followed the final vote, “but if any of us were in his situation, we’d do the same thing.”
Every brother at this table has faced a moment where blood called louder than the patch we wear on our bodies, and I see that recognition flickering in their eyes.
They know the lengths any one of them would go to if their own kin were in the crosshairs, trapped in a situation they couldn’t control.
But the reality of our world is unforgiving, and we all know that making an exception for the Vice President would be more than just a favor—it would be a crack in the foundation of our entire brotherhood, a weakness our enemies would be all too happy to exploit.
Riptide doesn’t look at Nova, even though he’s the one who voiced the conflict they’re all feeling.
His focus remains locked on me, his eyes searching for any sign of resentment or rebellion.
He won't find any. I knew the price of my choice before I ever kicked the stand up on my Harley and roared out of the compound. Riding solo during an active war with the Dragon fuckers wasn’t just a lapse in judgment, it was a gamble with the club’s safety that I had no right to make.
I had put my brothers at risk to save my own, and now, the bill is due.
I’m ready to pay it, whatever the cost, so we can move past this and get back to the business of protecting our own.
“I’m not sure how to hit you, Slayer,” Riptide confesses, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that echoes off the clubhouse walls. “Do I get you in your wallet or do I put you in a ring with your brothers?”
I know what I deserve but it’s not what I prefer.
My brothers are hard hitters and I know that I’ll be pissing blood if I have to be the center of a ring full of them.
The silence that follows Riptide’s ultimatum is heavy, vibrating with the unspoken history of every man in this room who has taken a beating for the patch.
I can feel the weight of their gazes. Some sympathetic, like Nova’s, and others as unyielding as a tombstone, like Icer’s and Shade’s.
The choice isn’t just about my comfort, it’s about the message we send to the brothers.
A fine is a slap on the wrist for a man with my resources, but blood? Blood is the currency of the Kings.
I look Riptide dead in the eye, my jaw tight enough to snap.
I’ve led these men through fire, and if I want them to follow me back into it, I can’t hide behind my wallet.
If I expect the youngest prospect to bleed for his mistakes, then the Vice President has to be willing to do the same.
I think of Boston and Carolina, safe in Jersey’s trailer because I took that risk, and I know I’d pay the price ten times over to keep them there.
Taking a beating is a small price to pay for my brother’s freedom, even if it means I’ll be nursing broken ribs for the next month.
“Put me in the ring, Rip,” I ordered, the words feeling like jagged lead in my mouth.
I don’t look away from my president, keeping my gaze steady as I deliver the ultimatum.
“If I’m gonna be held up as an example, then let the brothers see exactly what the code costs.
I’m not gonna buy my way out of a debt I owe to this table.
” The room shifts as a collective breath is released, the tension snapping like a frayed cable.
There’s no turning back now. Riptide gives a single, sharp nod, his expression a fractured mix of regret and grim respect.
He knows as well as I do that this is the only way to mend the crack I’d put in our foundation.
Tomorrow, I’ll be the target, but today, I’ve proved that the patch still means more than the man wearing it.
Rip stands, his chair scraping against the floor with a sound that grates against my nerves.
He leans forward, his knuckles gripping the edge of the table.
“Then your penance will be paid tomorrow, make sure the women and kids stay behind closed doors. We don’t want any of them witnessing this.
Slayer, make plans for Boston and Carolina to not see you for a few days afterward.
They’re already scared of us, let’s not amplify that,” Rip orders.
The command hits home, a sharp reminder of the fragile peace I’d just secured at Jersey’s trailer.
Boston already thinks Riptide hits like a girl thanks to my persuasion, but he won’t think that after seeing a full-blown club correction.
I have to protect their innocence while paying for my transgression.
It’s a fine line to walk—being the monster the club requires and the guardian my brother needs.
I nod once, accepting the terms of my sentence, knowing that by this time tomorrow, I’ll be a bruised and broken mess, but I’ll be a VP who has finally cleared his tab.