Chapter 3
OPEN ROAD
VIKING
The roar of another engine pulling into the lot disrupts our conversation. The sound ricochets off the compound’s metal buildings, vibrating through the concrete beneath my boots.
Exhaust hangs in the thick, humid air, mixing with heat radiating from the pavement. It’s a scorcher today. Gasoline from our personal pump and the scent of sun-aged leather invade my senses, exciting my nerve endings for the ride.
Only two more to go and we’ll be ready to hit the road.
Punctuality isn’t the group’s best quality, so when I told them to be here at nine am, I was expecting everyone by ten.
Experience has taught me to pad my expectations where the club is concerned.
Nothing ever runs exactly on time, yet somehow it always works out anyway.
A perk of being a crew that’s happy to get there when we get there.
Hugging Josie to my front, I watch Haley run after Pierce’s little girl, Sienna, whose blonde locks, like her mom’s, fly behind her in the breeze. Their laughter cuts through the purr of engines and idle chatter. It’s light and carefree in a place that’s seen its fair share of blood and loss.
I love that my girl finally has someone to play with.
And that thought only solidifies my focus on making sure the club survives, whatever that may mean.
This club life is so much more than just us now.
It’s about making sure they’re safe and protected, that their dads don’t end up behind bars or worse, six feet under.
If only the guys saw it the same way I did, but with so many of them unattached with no old lady or kids to speak of, it’s not surprising they can’t.
“You’ll be sure to keep an eye on this one for me, won’t you, Lo?” My unnecessarily overprotective wife asks the only woman coming on this ride. Josie’s tone is teasing, but her grip tightens slightly around my arms across her chest, like she’s anchoring herself before letting go.
Harlow’s gaze focuses directly on me, inspecting the uncaring arch of my eyebrow, before she looks down at Josie in my arms, and a saccharine smile lights her face. It’s the kind of smile that looks sweet to anyone who doesn’t know better and terrifying to anyone who does.
“Oh, he won’t do anything stupid. I’d assume he’s a little attached to the balls between his legs to do anything that’d hurt my girl.”
Josie’s body jostles in my hold as her laughter breaks loose, carefree and unguarded, surrounded by our closest friends. But a shiver runs down my spine, sending an unpleasant ache to my balls.
We’ve all heard the story about Silas walking in on Harlow torturing the last mayor’s son for attacking Lexi.
It’s club lore at this point, passed around in hushed voices and dark humor whenever she’s around.
It’s precisely why she has a place among us, more than any old lady ever has.
She’s just as sick and twisted as her husband.
It’s probably why she caught his eye in the first place.
“Plus, you gotta keep an eye on that one for me.” Harlow nods to Lexi, who looks miserable. “Make sure my nephew doesn’t decide to come when I’m states away.”
Lexi huffs out an annoyed sigh, her free hand rubbing the full swell of her nearly due stomach.
Sweat beads along her hairline, and her patience is clearly wearing thin in the August heat.
“I love you, Lo. But this little boy can come out as soon as he damn well pleases. Being a beached whale in August is fucking terrible.”
“Swear jar, mommy,” Sienna pops up out of nowhere, grabbing onto her mom’s leg. Her voice is small but fierce, her chin tipped up as if she’s enforcing sacred law.
That damn jar’s got me a time or two. Josie and I never tried something like that with Haley because it’d be pointless. Her mama’s got a vocabulary worse than some of the guys, and I’m certainly no better. Having a baby didn’t change that.
“Worth it.”
“Deal,” Josie finally answers Harlow.
The trust in her voice is the hard-earned and solid type. The kind that doesn’t come easily in our world. The close relationship these three share is something Josie has always needed. I’m grateful my wife doesn’t have to shoulder the stress of being a president’s wife alone.
The last two of our party arrive, engines cutting off as the lot finally settles.
Pierce nods his departure before scooping his daughter up and leading his family back to their car.
He and Tank are in charge of the compound while we’re out of town, and I know I’m leaving it in good hands.
That knowledge eases some of the tension knotted in my traps.
Swinging Haley into my arms, I drop a big, noisy kiss to her cheek that makes her giggle and squirm in my hold.
She smells like sunscreen, dirt, and the faint sweetness of whatever candy she likely negotiated away from Chopper.
Her laughter lights up my world, and now that Josie’s finally agreed to having another baby, I can’t wait for that joy to double.
“You’ll be careful?” Josie asks, her dark eyes drill into my gaze.
There’s history in that look. Every ride, every close call, every goodbye that might not have been temporary, filters through them like b-roll.
“Always am.”
“You’ll call when you stop?”
“Always do.”
“You’ll come home to me.”
Haley wiggles from my arms, and I put her down while staring at my wife. I commit the sight of her to memory. The curve of her lopsided smile, the strength and determination in her eyes, keeping it together for my sake, the way she always holds it down for our family when I’m out on the road.
I lean down, capturing her lips, her grip in my shirt tightens, and her body presses dangerously into mine. The world narrows down to just us. My cock stirs, and since I don’t want an uncomfortable ride, I draw back.
“Always, mama. And when I get back, you better be peeing on a stick and telling me I’m gonna be a dad again.”
Her teeth bite into her bottom lip, but her head shakes in exasperation at my comment, even as a smile threatens to break through.
“Well, at least you have proper motivation to get back to me in one piece.”
“Call Pierce if you need anything while I’m gone. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
I leave my girls on the burning pavement and head for my bike. Heat radiates up through the soles of my boots, the sun glaring off the chrome and paint of the bikes before me.
There’s nothing different about this rally. We go every year. Same highways and backroads across the southern states. Same faces from other chapters of the Vipers. Same rituals and business conversations that are better left to the air than physical proof.
Engines fire up in unison, the lot filling with thunder as the bikes come to life beneath us. I swing my leg over the seat and settle in. The vibration rolling up my spine grounds me in the routine, but I’m still restless for what’s to come.
Helmets slide on, gloves tighten, and with a few sharp nods, we fall into formation, our muscle memory taking over. Tires crunch as we roll out, slow and deliberate at first, then smoother as we hit pavement, the pack stretching into its usual staggered line.
The wind greets us the moment we pick up speed, hot and heavy, tearing at my cut and roaring past my ears like it’s trying to drown out my thoughts. We ride straight through town, engines purring between brick storefronts and faded signage along Main Street.
Folks pause on the sidewalks—some with crossed arms and judgment-filled eyes, others with curiosity or quiet respect—watching us pass like we’re both a nuisance and a distraction.
They know our club exists. Most of us grew up here, got our spot from generations before us. But it doesn’t mean we’re welcome by all, even though our dirty money fills the donation bins at school fundraisers or buys tickets to the season’s festivals for town upkeep.
We’re not paying for country club memberships, and that rubs some the wrong way. Or maybe it’s the tattoos, gruff attitudes, and our refusal to conform to the quiet small town way of things.
Curtains shift in shop windows, conversations stall mid-sentence, and I can feel their gazes following us long after we’ve rolled by.
Just before we clear the town limits, fields of overgrown hemlock leading us out, a sheriff’s deputy sits parked on the shoulder. His cruiser angled just enough to be seen. A bald head that tracks us, though his eyes are hidden behind mirrored sunglasses, as we pass.
I don’t look back, but the tension of his gaze digs deeper into my back.
The freedom I usually feel at this point of the ride has yet to rear its head.
Unease tightens its grip even as the town disappears behind us in my mirrors.
No matter how wide the road opens up ahead, it refuses to let go.
The uncomfortable feeling clings to me, stubborn and impossible to shake.
I throw a prayer to the heavens and pull back on the throttle, doing my damndest to try.