Chapter Twelve #2
“No, just got off the phone with Wildman. He said you were headed this way. I flipped the sign to Closed because while it will turn away most clients, it wouldn’t stop you. Figured I’d get ready while I waited.”
“Huh.” He set Daisy on the table, made sure Kent had his hands on her, and stepped back. “What’s the deal with you and Wildman?”
“What deal?” Kent sounded distracted, looking into Daisy’s ears. He crooned, “Good girl. Brave girl.”
“The deal with you and Wildman. Y’all are friends, right? How’d you meet?” Jock leaned against the wall. “Y’all buds from way back or what?”
“Oh, Wild and I go way back. I tried to kill him years ago.”
Jock straightened. “Tried to kill Wildman?”
“Yeah, he disrespected my sister. Man had it coming. I just lacked an opportunity that would have guaranteed success.” He put a palm under Daisy’s belly, helping her rise to standing so he could listen to her with a stethoscope.
“Not to say I didn’t try, because I did.
Every time I saw him, I tried to kill the bastard.
So often, in fact, that it finally turned into a joke between us. Now we’re friends.”
“But your sister? What happened there?”
“Oh, she didn’t give a shit after a couple of days. I was the one locked in on my self-appointed mission. Fortunately Wild’s a hard man to kill.”
“Fortunately.” Jock waited a beat, then asked, “Why haven’t I heard this before?”
“Well, it’s embarrassing to me, the failed assassin. And it’s past history. Has no impact on the relationship today.”
“That’s why you agreed to see Maynard so fast. It was well after your closing time when Ace and me got here. You waited because you feel a loyalty to Wildman.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I stayed because he asked. Isn’t that what friends should do?”
Jock leaned against the wall again, letting that resonate inside him for a minute. “Yeah, that is what friends do.”
“She looks great. Y’all are doing a good job with her. Why don’t we draw some blood and see if we can get her to poop, but on the surface, Daisy looks good to adopt.”
“Okay.” Jock stepped up to hold the dog as Kent started the more invasive testing methods.
His anxiety spiked, the smell of alcohol bitter and biting.
Something I can see: Kent’s diploma on the wall.
Something I can hear: Daisy’s breathing fast and steady.
Something I can touch: the table I’m leaning against.
“You good, Jock?”
He looked up to find Kent studying him. “Yeah, just got pulled back into some not-so-good memories for a minute there.”
“And you’re good? Need me to go get the boys?”
He pulled in a deep breath. Admit the need. It doesn’t make you weak. “Yeah, that’d be good, actually.”
A moment later, Tank was leaning heavily against his legs, wedging himself between Jock and the table. Maynard sat in heel position, but bumped Jock with his head. The anxiety swirled down, leaving him astonished. “They really help.”
“No surprise, that. Tank’s known you a long time.
From what you’ve said, from way before you had PTSD, so he knows the before and the now you.
You’re his person. Makes sense he’d learn ways to help you deal, even without formal training.
I bet he does that deep pressure lean a lot, and you just go with it. ”
“He does. I didn’t realize what he was doing until just now.” Jock rubbed Tank’s head with both hands, petting and scratching him. “Good boy.” He dropped one hand over to Maynard’s head, caressing the tips of his ears. “Good boys, both of you.”
***
The courtroom smelled of polished wood and stale coffee, a sterile contrast to the diesel and leather Jock was used to.
He sat in the witness stand, his IMC cut replaced by a borrowed jacket that felt too tight across his shoulders.
It wasn’t. It just felt that way, like it had a stranglehold on him.
Calder’s trial had dragged on for weeks, and now it was Jock’s turn to testify, to lay bare the bastard’s dealings with the Steel Serpents MC.
The prosecutor’s questions had been straightforward, but the defense attorney, a slick guy with a shark’s smile, was circling, ready to tear into him.
“Mr. Tinney,” the lawyer drawled, pacing, “you claim Mr. Calder was colluding with a rival organization. Yet your own group, the Iron Motorcycle Club, has a history of violence, doesn’t it? Why should we trust your word?”
Jock’s pulse spiked, his hands clenching the stand’s edge.
The room felt too small, the eyes of the jury boring into him.
Memories of Calder’s arrogance rolled through him, that of first seeing his smug face at The Bent Anchor, the dogs in cages, and Jock’s anger flashed hot, mixing with older ghosts.
He was pummeled by fists, blood, and nights he’d barely survived.
Stay sharp, stay steady, he chanted silently, his mantra a lifeline.
I can see Silly, I can hear this pissant lawyer, and I can smell the perfume from the court clerk.
“It’s Incoherent MC, not Iron. Sir. Also, I saw what I saw,” he said, voice low, controlled.
“Calder was selling and moving dope and setting up dogfights. I heard him.”
The lawyer smirked, pressing harder. “You’re a biker, not a saint. Ever bend the truth to protect your club?”
Jock’s jaw tightened, the anxiety clawing up his throat.
He glanced at the gallery, where Silly sat, her green eyes locked on him, steady and fierce.
She gave a small nod, her hand resting on her barely-there baby bump.
It grounded him, like a tether to the present.
“I’m here to tell the truth,” he said, meeting the lawyer’s gaze.
“Calder turned on us out of anger because he was dropped from a club merger years ago. He’s small-time and bitter and lacks the loyalty needed for the IMC. That’s fact.”
The cross-examination dragged, each question a jab at his credibility, his past. By the time Jock stepped down, his shirt was damp under the jacket, but he’d held his ground.
Silly met him outside the courtroom, slipping her hand into his. “You did good,” she whispered, squeezing. “Proud of you.”
He exhaled, the weight easing slightly. “Felt like a damn cage up there.”
The guilty verdict came fast, the jury only needing two hours to come to a decision. The sentencing wouldn’t be for a couple of weeks, but Calder would be looking at years, no parole.
The courtroom cleared, but the prosecutor pulled Jock aside, voice low. “We found evidence showing the SSMC are not done. Word is they’re planning something. Maybe revenge for losing what they consider to be their smartest man.”
Jock’s gut twisted. “What kind?”
“Not sure,” the prosecutor said. “But watch your back.”
That night, at their small house on the edge of Hammond, the air felt wrong.
Daisy, their foster fail, was restless, pacing by the door, her bent ear twitching.
The other dogs growled low, hackles up. Jock was on the couch, Silly curled against him, when headlights flashed through the window, too fast, too close.
Tires screeched, and a crack split the night. Gunfire.
Jock shoved Silly to the floor, his body over hers, heart hammering.
“Stay down!” he yelled. The dogs went wild, barking as glass shattered somewhere in the kitchen.
A roar of engines faded into the distance—SSMC, no question in his mind.
Jock crawled to the window and peered out.
The street was empty, but a bullet hole starred the front window, inches from where they’d been.
Silly’s breath was ragged, her hand clutching his arm. “The baby—”
“You’re okay,” Jock said, checking her over, his hands steady despite the adrenaline.
“We’re okay.” Something I can see, something I can touch, something I can hear.
Silly, the phone, the echoes of the gunfire.
He grabbed his phone and dialed Twisted.
“Drive-by at my place. Prolly SSMC. Need brothers, now.”
Twisted’s voice was all business. “On it. Lock down. We’re coming.”
Jock hung up, then grabbed his piece from the lockbox under the couch.
The dogs clustered around them, Daisy pressing close to Silly, sensing her fear.
Jock scanned the street again, the night too quiet now.
The SSMC message was clear: they knew where he lived, where his family was.
Calder’s trial had closed one chapter, but it had lit a fuse.
Silly sat up, her face pale but hard. “They’re not taking this from us,” she said, voice fierce. “Not our home, not our lives, and for damn sure not our kid.”
Jock nodded, his grip tight on the gun. He thought of the last meeting of the club and Wildman warning that the SSMC were a hydra. They could cut off one head, but another would grow. Twisted had said the same, his voice grim. “This ain’t over, brother.” They were right.
As headlights appeared, Twisted and the brothers rolling in, Jock pulled Silly close, the dogs quieting at his side. The SSMC had started a war, but Jock would protect what was his. Stay sharp, stay steady. He’d face the fire, and he’d make damn sure they burned first.
***
The house felt smaller under the weight of too many bodies, the living room crammed with leather cuts and tense faces.
Twisted paced like a caged panther, his boots thudding against the hardwood, while Wildman leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his usual wild grin replaced by a hard line.
Ace sat on the arm of the couch, knife flipping idly between his fingers, eyes on the living room window where the bullet had punched through.
The cops had come and gone after taking statements, but everyone knew this wasn’t the police’s fight. It was club business now.
Finished cleaning the glass from the shattered kitchen window, Jock stood by the kitchen door, his piece tucked back in its holster, but his hand itched for it.
Silly was in the bedroom with Penny, the door cracked just enough for him to hear her soft voice murmuring reassurances.
The dogs were with her. Protective to the extreme, Tank sprawled at her feet like a guardian, while Maynard pressed against her side, and Daisy curled in her lap, all three sensing the storm.
Silly’s hand rested on her belly, protective, and every time Jock glanced her way, his chest tightened.
That bullet could have...No. He shoved the thought down. Stay sharp, stay steady.
“They’re escalating,” Twisted said, stopping to face the room.
His voice was low, gravelly, a tone that commanded silence.
“Calder’s rotting in a cell, but the SSMC?
They’re pissed. This drive-by is a message that they want you to hear and fear, loud and clear.
They strafed the whole front of your house, corner to corner.
They want our territory, our runs, everything we’ve built. ”
Wildman nodded, his eyes flicking to Jock. “We knew cutting off Calder wouldn’t end it. Snakes like them shed skin and keep slithering. But hitting a brother’s home? With his old lady inside?” He shook his head, a dark promise in his tone. “That’s crossing a line.”
Ace sheathed his knife with a snap. “We hit back. Hard. Make ’em regret ever rolling up here.”
Jock felt the pull, the old fire stirring in his veins—the need to ride out, engines roaring, and settle this the way bikers did.
But Silly’s laughter from the bedroom, soft and defiant as she played with Daisy, settled him.
She was his world now, their kid on the way a fragile promise he wouldn’t risk.
“What’s the play, Prez?” he asked, voice steady despite the rage simmering underneath.
Twisted met his gaze, something like understanding passing between them.
“We protect our own first. Lock down the families, tighten security on the runs. As for the SSMC...” He trailed off, his jaw clenching.
The room hung on the unspoken, the air thick with anticipation.
Retaliation was coming, everyone knew it, but the how, the when, the blood it would cost..
.That stayed locked in Twisted’s mind, a card he wasn’t playing yet.
Silly emerged then, Penny at her side, the dogs trailing like shadows.
She crossed to Jock and slipped under his arm, her warmth cutting through the chill of the night.
“We’re okay,” she whispered, but her eyes said more.
He saw fear mixed with that fierce love he’d fallen for.
Daisy nosed her hand, and Maynard leaned against Jock’s leg, a silent reminder of second chances.
Twisted nodded to her, respect in his eyes. “We’ll handle this, Silly. You and the little one are going to stay safe. That’s priority.”
As the brothers filtered out into the dawn, engines rumbling to life like a war drum, Jock pulled Silly close on the porch. The street was quiet now, the bullet holes a stark scar on their home. “Whatever comes,” he said, kissing her forehead, “we face it together.”
She nodded, her hand on his chest over the tattoo of Maynard’s eyes. “Yeah. Us, the dogs, the club. Family.”
The sun crested the horizon, casting long shadows, but the road ahead stretched, uncertain. The SSMC had drawn first blood. What the IMC would do next...That was a story for another day.
The End