Chapter Seven #2
“Of course, Mrs. Henderson,” Nitro replies. He gives a nod to Ro, and I watch in amazement as they launch into what I recognize as “Canon in D.”
This continues for another twenty minutes, where requests are shouted out, Nitro fulfilling every one of them with the patience of a saint and the skill of a professional musician.
Ro, teasing and taunting the old folks, adds rock flair to the songs.
When they finally take their bows, the room erupts again.
But the surprises aren’t over.
Bear moves to an old radio in the corner and starts fiddling with the dials until swing music fills the air.
Glenn Miller, I think. I raise my brow as Deek rises to his feet beside me, and suddenly, the brothers are moving through the room, extending their hands to the elderly women with the grace of old-world gentlemen.
Ghost, toothpick nowhere to be seen, is waltzing with a woman who can’t be under ninety.
Deek is teaching a group of ladies some kind of line dance, and they’re cackling with delight.
Koa is deep in conversation with several men about what sounds like motorcycle engines, his hands moving animatedly as he explains something.
Ro moves to the eldest gentleman and dances with him in a way that is probably giving him palpitations.
And then, with the haunting presence of a ghost, Sin appears.
I hadn’t noticed him come in, but suddenly he’s here, offering his hand to Queenie with a small bow.
My stomach flutters while Queenie preens like a teenager as he leads her onto the makeshift dance floor.
Even in this setting, he maintains that controlled, stoic presence that seems to be his default, but there’s something softer around the edges.
Watching him like this, this hardened man, dancing with this flamboyant elderly woman like he doesn’t have a care in the world right now, somehow is doing things to me that I shouldn’t let happen.
The way his biceps bulge with the strength he has, making sure to hold her steady.
The way he moves, somehow gracefully around the floor, even though he’s a beast of a man, is making me think things.
Feel things.
I sit back in my chair, forgotten for the moment, and just watch.
My notebook lies open in my lap, my pen poised, but I can’t seem to form words for what I’m witnessing.
These men, these supposed criminals, these members of a motorcycle club that the media paints as dangerous outlaws, are spending their afternoon making elderly people happy.
Not for show, not for publicity, but because they genuinely care.
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
I turn to find Bear settling into the chair beside me, slightly out of breath from dancing.
“I don’t understand,” I admit. “How… why do you do this?”
Bear follows my gaze to where Nitro is now sitting with Queenie, showing her pictures on his phone.
“Queenie raised that boy when his parents couldn’t.
Worked three jobs to put him through school, paid for his flute lessons when he showed interest. When she couldn’t live alone anymore and had to come here, we started visiting.
But then we saw how much it meant to all of them, not just her. ”
He gestures around the room. “Most of these folks don’t get visitors. Their families are busy, or far away, or…” He shrugs. “We’ve got the time, and it makes them happy. Makes us happy too.”
“And the flute?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Kid’s been playing since he was eight. Got a scholarship to Juilliard, if you can believe that.”
I stare at him, eyes wide. “Juilliard? The music school?”
“Turned it down to join the club,” Bear says simply. “Said family was more important than fame. Wanted to be close to Queenie, and help find a way to pay for her medical bills, and then her retirement plan.”
“Medical bills?” I question.
Bear weakly smiles. “Yeah, when Nitro got accepted into Juilliard, Queenie was diagnosed with breast cancer a week later. It was real touch-and-go there for a while. But like the queen she is, she beat that motherfucker. And Nitro stayed back, joined the club, and she’s kind of been our matriarch ever since. ”
“Jesus… I’m so glad she’s okay.”
“We all are. I can’t imagine this club without her crazy ass.” Bear chuckles.
My head is spinning.
Nothing about this makes sense with the narrative I’ve built in my mind about these people.
A soft touch on my arm draws my attention. It’s an elderly woman with kind eyes and perfectly styled gray hair. “Would you like some tea, dear?” she asks. “I’m Ethel. Queenie mentioned you were writing about our boys.”
“Thank you,” I manage, accepting the delicate china cup she offers. Earl Grey, I realize after I take a sip. “They seem to really love coming here.”
“Oh, they do,” Ethel says, settling beside me.
“They’re such good boys. They fixed my grandson’s motorcycle when he couldn’t afford the repair shop.
And when Margaret’s grandson got into trouble with drugs, they helped get him into a program.
Wouldn’t take a penny for it either. Not to mention how devilishly handsome they are…
especially Deek,” she says while glancing over at her favorite biker.
And if to prove her point on how good these guys are, I watch Ghost carefully help a man in a walker navigate back to his chair, then fetch him a glass of water without being asked. Deek is now teaching a group of residents card tricks, his hands moving with surprising dexterity.
Koa is teaching one of the old ladies how to do the Hawaiian Hula, from the looks of it, and Sin?
Sin catches my eye across the room. Even from this distance, even in this unlikely setting, the pull between us is undeniable.
He says something to Queenie that makes her laugh, but his gaze stays fixed on me.
My stomach flutters despite everything.
Despite the confusion.
Despite his hot-and-cold behavior.
Despite the fact that I’m here under false pretenses.
There’s something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room.
Focus, Elizabeth. You have a job to do.
But as I sit here, sipping Earl Grey and watching these supposedly dangerous men bring joy to a room full of forgotten elderly people, I can’t reconcile what I’m seeing with what I came here believing.
Something isn’t right about my assumptions.
There’s more to this story, and I know I need to find out what the hell it is.
The thought of Marcus flickers through my mind—my brother, who died under circumstances that still don’t make sense. These men, who would clearly move heaven and earth for the people they care about, would they really cover up a murder? Would they really let someone’s family suffer without answers?
The pieces don’t fit.
And that realization both terrifies and relieves me.
But that can wait.
Because right now, as I watch Sin spin Queenie in a careful circle while she laughs like a young girl, I feel the most relaxed I have in ages. The tension that’s been my constant companion since starting this assignment seems to ease, if only for a moment.
And I don’t want to let that feeling go.
Not yet.