CHAPTER TWELVE
AT NIGHT I fall asleep with my head on Wyatt’s shoulder.
In the mornings, I wake up in his arms. But we never speak about it.
Wyatt gets up without saying anything, goes about his day as Ryan, flirts with me in public but treats me with quiet concern in private—as if everything between us isn’t shifting like sand.
But it is. Everything’s shifting.
By the time the clubhouse comes together for a patching-in ceremony, the air feels so charged I can’t tell if it’s because of us or them.
Two prospects stand shirtless in the center of the hangar at sundown, the doors open to let in the golden light, as ritualistic as any religious ceremony.
One of them is Cash, the kid who used to follow Billy like a stray dog.
I used to think he was harmless. But now he’s a patched-in member of the Order of Disorder and not harmless anymore.
While they bow their heads, bare chests rising and falling with their nervous, bated breaths, Billy circles them like a preacher and gives a speech about brotherhood, blood, and debt. Silas stands in the circle too, smoking and unmoved. Wyatt is beside him, stone-faced and unreadable.
Road Captain.
I hate seeing him in that role. Hate how seamlessly he wears the mask. How easily he passes for one of them.
After the ceremony, the prospects are given their new cuts—fresh leather stitched with screaming skulls—and the mood turns. The hushed, ritual silence gives way to the unhinged, orgiastic energy of an O.D. party.
Wyatt finds me right after, hanging back by the far wall with the other women, and pulls me into him—big and solid and smelling of leather.
Even though so much of what we do in public is a performance, his body against mine feels real.
As Ryan, he tries to act harder. More distant.
But he’s still Wyatt underneath. Still my tether.
“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, brushing his lips against my cheek.
I melt into him. Pathetic, maybe, how much I’ve come to crave these fake romantic gestures. But they soothe something raw in me. Babydoll, one of the girls who’s been around as long as I have, catches my eye and winks like I’ve lucked out.
We wander into the center of the crowd as it disperses into the four corners of the hangar, a diaspora of chaos. Four men take up posts behind the bar, slinging drinks. Laughter rises. The smell of pot starts wafting over us.
Wyatt’s eyes scan the room, cataloguing threats and possibilities.
I only see it because I know him, but no one else would know he’s running calculations behind his eyes.
They only see Ryan the Road Captain, competent, calm, and powerful.
The man who climbed the ranks fast enough to make Silas nervous. Billy’s right hand.
Billy himself emerges from the crowd, bottle of tequila in one hand, a wide grin stretched across his face. He slings an arm around Wyatt’s shoulders, dragging him in with a burst of mock affection.
“C’mon,” he says, jerking his chin toward two leather couches facing each other. “Let’s have a drink.”
Silas is already waiting, sunk deep into one of the couches, a dead-eyed grin carved into his face, watching us.
Murderer.
Wyatt catches my hand and brings me with him, his grip tight. He knows I don’t want to be near Silas, but he won’t leave me behind. Billy drops onto the couch beside Silas with a satisfied exhale and sprawls out.
Silas is silent and watchful, one elbow up on the arm rest, cigarette burning slow between his fingers, black beady eyes locked on me.
My stomach twists. It’s instinct now. Muscle memory, rage in my bones. Every time I see him, I taste blood. I see Ryder fall to the gravel.
I avert my eyes in disgust. Wyatt lowers himself onto the couch opposite and I sit next to him, pressing my thigh against his for comfort.
Billy pops the cap off the tequila and pours into four mismatched glasses sitting on an ottoman between us, and passes them around.
“Hell of a ceremony,” he says, lifting his glass. “Those boys earned it.”
Wyatt lifts his own, hesitates a beat, then takes the shot, jaw tight. “They did.”
I follow his lead and down my glass too. Billy refills us.
Then he leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping.
“We gotta keep an eye near the back exit,” he says to Wyatt. “Might wanna post Cipher or one of the boys there. Last thing I need is someone stumbling into the armory.”
Wyatt nods. “On it.”
“And the lot?” Billy’s eyes flick toward the back of the hangar like he can see through the walls. “We keeping the gates tight? You checking tags?”
“Yep. All clear,” Wyatt says. “Brandon and Knox are on perimeter. I’ll have them sweep again in twenty.”
Billy grins. All teeth. “That’s why I keep you close. Ryan fucking ten-steps-ahead Porter. Okay, keep an eye on them too. I don’t want a repeat of that bullshit with Danny.”
Danny’s one of the newer prospects. Apparently he left the back gate unmanned during a security shift, and was caught fooling around with someone he wasn’t supposed to. Word’s been circling all week.
Billy downs his drink and drops the glass back on the ottoman.
“Club’s got a name now,” he continues. “Respect. Reach. We don’t just fuck around and ride anymore. And Disordered is getting bigger every year. Next week we’ll have hundreds of riders rolling in. We can’t miss a thing.”
Disordered. Billy’s annual race takes place next week.
I’ve seen him build it year after year, turning the old airstrip into a stage, a battlefield.
Disordered means everything to him. Clubs flood in from across the state, engines screaming down the tarmac, bets flying, half-naked girls everywhere.
It’s Billy’s day to play emperor, the O.D. ’s time to flex.
We lift our glasses again and drink. Billy pours another round, splashing tequila onto the ottoman. It soaks into the cracked vinyl.
“So yeah,” he goes on. “Standards matter. We keep things tight. Look sharp. Keep morale high. And when someone with real pull starts sniffing around…”
We all take shots again. Tequila hits the back of my throat like fire. Billy doesn’t miss a beat, already pouring another round.
“We roll out the red carpet. Make sure everything’s running right. Everybody happy. Everybody…cooperative.”
He looks directly at me. “Right, Max?”
My skin goes cold.
I feel the ghost of menthol in my nose. Hear the taptaptap of the senator’s silver ring against glass.
I press my hand to Wyatt’s thigh, grounding myself.
Billy raises his glass. “To loyalty.”
“To loyalty,” Wyatt and Silas echo.
I drain my drink, eyes downcast. I can feel Billy’s gaze like a collar tightening around my neck.
Loyalty.
In Billy’s world, everyone owes him. And the price always gets higher.
He smiles, eyes settling on me again, slow and appraising. “You’re looking good tonight,” he says casually. “Isn’t she, Silas?”
Silas smirks and takes a long drag on his cigarette, his eyes crawling over me hungrily, like he’s not just imagining me naked, but tied up.
I press my legs together.
I’m in cutoff shorts and a black tank top, nothing special, but the air is heavy and the fabric is clinging to me. My legs and shoulders are bare, and the exposed skin prickles under Billy’s and Silas’s stares like it’s crawling with ants.
“Always did have a fuckin’ great body,” Billy says evilly, trying to goad me on purpose. “And flexible, eh, Ryan?” Billy jerks his chin at him, keeping his eyes on me. “You treating him right, princess? Keeping him happy?”
Wyatt’s arm tenses against my side and his hand finds mine, where it’s digging into his thigh, and squeezes a little too hard. Billy leans back, grin sharpening.
“Nothing’s permanent, though,” he says to Wyatt. “You know how this life is. Shit changes fast. Maybe I get nostalgic one day. Maybe I take her back.”
Wyatt doesn’t blink. A silence stretches just long enough to be uncomfortable, the two men looking at each other and neither saying anything. Then Wyatt stands, and pulls me up with him. It’s as openly defiant as I’ve ever seen anyone be to Billy.
“I’ll check in with Brandon and Knox,” he says calmly, simply picking up the previous conversation where they left off. “Make sure the back gate’s clear.”
But Billy lifts a hand, grinning with malice. “Why don’t you leave Max here with us? Silas’ll keep her warm for you.”
Silas chuckles. The sound makes my stomach turn.
“Not tonight,” says Wyatt easily. “I’ve been surrounded by guys all day. She’s mine tonight.”
Billy laughs. “Fuckin’ romantic.”
Wyatt touches my back, his touch firm. “We’ll catch up with you later.”
He steers me away, and I can feel the tension vibrating in his hand, in his body, in the space between us.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, once we’re halfway across the room. He puts an arm around my shoulder, smiling and nodding at a couple of guys who lift their glasses to him. “Let’s go see Brandon and Knox.”
I nod and wrap my arm around his back, leaning into the opportunity to touch him. I spread a palm against the side of his stomach to feel how flat it is, how the muscles move right under the skin, and realize I’m drunk.
“Oh, you are trouble, kid,” he says with a low laugh, patting my wandering hand affectionately. I wonder if he’s drunk too. He seems…genial.
We approach the lot-side doors, where Brandon and Knox are smoking and deep in conversation. Their shoulders straighten when they see Wyatt.
“Keep your eyes on the back gate,” he says. “Too much foot traffic near the fence. No one near the armory. You see anyone by that door, pull them away. In twenty minutes, do a perimeter sweep. Check the gates. Look for any signs of life—cars, wanderers. Anything off, find me or Cipher.”
“Got it,” Brandon says.
“After midnight, tighten the rotation. Check tags. Be smart.”
“Copy,” Knox says, dropping his cigarette and grinding it under his boot.
Wyatt gives a single nod, then puts his arm around me again and turns us back toward the chaos.