Chapter Twenty-Three
Cherry
The late afternoon sun dipped low over the Louisiana bayou, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple as Cherry guided the motorcycle down the winding backroads towards the Incoherent MC clubhouse.
The engine thrummed beneath them, a steady rumble that vibrated through his bones and soul.
Heat grew from where Denis’s chest pressed close behind him.
Cherry’s hands gripped the handlebars with easy confidence, but every now and then, he’d reach back with one gloved hand to squeeze Denis’s thigh, a silent reminder that this—them—was real.
Weeks had passed since that blood-soaked night, the one where Cherry had come home to Denis battered and raw, whispering confessions in the dim light of their bedroom.
Months of healing, not just the knife wound that had scarred his side but the deeper cuts to his soul, the ones he’d carried for decades.
The wind whipped past, and Cherry felt peace settle over him like the warm leather of his cut.
The IMC had thrived in the aftermath. The ASMC’s remnants had been absorbed or scattered, their colors burned in a bonfire that had lit up the night like a promise kept.
LaBlanc had vanished into the night with Simba from Azrael’s Scimitars stepping up and taking out the trash.
For the men he’d been working with, they quickly found cops and feds closing in after documents Myron and Pony unearthed hit the right desks.
No loose ends, no blowback.
The chapter had grown stronger, tighter, with Busk and Ruger at the helm, and Cherry.
..Cherry had found his balance. The enforcer’s role still called for iron fists when needed, but now it sat alongside something softer, something he’d never imagined in his whole life.
Every wish had brought him closer to a life with Denis.
Mornings tangled in sheets, evenings with takeout and case files scattered on the coffee table, nights where Cherry’s rough edges met Denis’s sharp wit and they melded into something unbreakable.
“Turn up here?” Denis shouted over the roar, his arms tightening around Cherry’s waist as they approached the familiar gravel turnoff. His voice carried that easy laugh, the one that still made Cherry’s pulse kick up like he was a prospect again.
“Yeah, babe,” Cherry called back, downshifting as they eased onto the club lot.
Bikes lined the edges like watchmen, glossy paint gleaming under strings of outdoor bulbs that flickered to life as dusk crept in.
The clubhouse pulsed with life: laughter spilling from open doors, the sizzle of burgers on the grill, prospects hauling coolers of beer while old ladies and sweetbutts darted around with platters of ribs and cornbread.
A party like this was like victory laps after a clean run, no cops on tails, no rivals sniffing at borders and it felt like breathing after years underwater.
Cherry killed the engine, the sudden quiet amplifying the bass thump of zydeco from the speakers.
He swung off first, offering Denis a hand, pulling him close for a quick, possessive kiss that tasted like road dust and freedom.
Denis grinned down at him, hair tousled from the helmet, his button-down shirt untucked and casual.
Cherry had officially come out to the club months back, not long after what Busk and Ruger referred to as “the impound lot business.” They’d all clapped him on the back, poured shots, and Busk had muttered something about “love finding a way” with a wink that hid the sap under his gruff exterior.
The brothers? They rolled with it. Shades of gray in a world of black and white leather.
Cherry was still the Enforcer, still the steady hand, but now he was whole.
Everything in balance, his truth surviving the sun, and his heart happily claimed. No more hiding, no more shadows.
“Look at you two,” Rook hollered from the porch, a beer in one hand and a cigar in the other.
He lumbered over, pulling Cherry into a back-slapping hug that jostled the fresh tattoo peeking from under his sleeve, a small, discreet heart inked with “D” that matched the one Denis had surprised him with last week.
“Brought the lawyer man to the den of wolves. Brave fucker.”
Denis laughed, shaking Rook’s hand with that firm, courtroom grip. “Wolves? Nah, this is my pack now. Wouldn’t miss a party like this.”
The night unfolded like a well-oiled ride: plates piled high with grilled meats and fixings, stories swapped around fire pits where the air crackled with heat and half-truths.
Cherry kept Denis close, his arm slung over the back of a picnic bench, fingers tracing lazy circles on his shoulder.
Diesel, arm healed and sling long gone, recounted the highway clip with exaggerated flair, drawing roars from the crowd, and sympathy from the pretty sweetbutt sitting on his lap.
T-Bone passed around a bottle of bourbon, toasting to “the big dogs who keep the pack strong.” And through it all, Cherry watched Denis, his Denis, charm the room, trading barbs with Busk about some pro bono case, laughing at Pony’s tech jokes like he’d been patching in for years.
As the stars wheeled overhead, the bonfire roaring higher, Busk climbed onto a crate with a mic scavenged from god-knows-where, the feedback screeching before he tapped it quiet.
The crowd hushed, bottles clinking to a stop.
Busk’s eyes, sharp under that perpetual scowl, found Cherry and Denis in the throng, a grin cracking his beard.
“Brothers, sisters, hangarounds, and...well, you know who you are,” Busk started, voice booming with that VP gravel.
Laughter rippled. “Tonight, we raise a glass to the IMC because we are stronger than ever, from Florida’s Great Bend, to Hammond, and always to the Texas line.
We’ve burned bridges, patched colors, and stared down the reaper.
But more than that...” He paused, locking eyes with Cherry, then Denis.
“We’ve got men like Cherry here, who enforces not just with fists, but with heart.
And his man, Denis, who’s got our backs in ways no gavel can touch.
To loyalty, to love that don’t bend. May it ride forever. ”
The cheers erupted, bottles and cans smashing together in a chaotic toast. Cherry’s throat tightened, that old war drum in his chest now beating steady, not frantic.
He pulled Denis against him, kissing him deep right there under the lights, the club’s roar fading to a hum.
“Told you they’d take to you,” he murmured against Denis’s lips.
Denis’s eyes sparkled, hand fisting in Cherry’s cut. “They’re alright. But you’re my ride, Tattoo. Always.”
Cherry laughed, low and free, the weight of years lifting like smoke into the night.
The club thrummed around them, this found family, forged in steel and fire, and here, with Denis by his side, Cherry was at peace.
His truth was no longer buried, his love no longer a secret.
Just a man on a bike, with his heart in the wind, riding towards whatever came next.
The End