Chapter 10
Sunday at the compound meant a cookout.
Diane hadn't known that until she woke to the smell of charcoal and the sound of brothers arguing about something in the lot below her window. She'd pulled on jeans and a tank top and wandered downstairs to find the entire back lot transformed into a party.
Grills smoking. Coolers sweating in the afternoon heat. Brothers sprawled across picnic tables and lawn chairs, drinking beer and talking shit while the L train rumbled its bass note in the distance.
It looked almost normal. Almost like a family gathering.
Except for the cuts. And the scars. And the guns she could see tucked into waistbands when brothers shifted position.
"Diane!" Lakeshore waved her over from the garage entrance. "You still good to look at Scout's bike?"
She'd promised yesterday, between fixing the Softail and three other machines that had mysteriously appeared in her bay. Word had spread fast—the mechanic in the compound could actually fix things—and now her reputation preceded her.
"Yeah, give me twenty minutes to set up."
She grabbed a shade canopy from the garage storage and wrestled it into position over bay one. Grilling weather was working weather, her father used to say, and she wasn't about to sit idle while there were bikes that needed attention.
Scout's Road King was already on the lift when she turned around. The man himself stood beside it, lean and watchful, with the particular stillness of someone who'd spent years reading streets and people.
"Lakeshore says you're good," Scout said.
"Lakeshore's right."
A ghost of a smile crossed Scout's face. "Engine's been running rough. Sounds fine to everyone else, but I can hear something off."
"Then let's find it."
She started working while the cookout continued around her. Brothers drifted over to watch, offering opinions she didn't ask for and getting grunts in response. The engine was clean, well-maintained—Scout clearly took care of his machine—but she found the problem within fifteen minutes.
Intake gasket. Hairline leak that wouldn't show up in a standard inspection but would absolutely create the slight roughness Scout had described.
"You've got good ears," she told him. "Most riders wouldn't catch this for another six months."
"Catching things early is how I stayed alive on the force."
She raised an eyebrow. "You were a cop?"
"Gang unit. Eight years." Scout's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "Quit when the job stopped being about protecting people."
Diane nodded and went back to work. She understood that—leaving something you loved because it had become something you hated.
She was seating the new gasket when a plate appeared on the workbench beside her.
Fang.
The massive Sergeant at Arms set down a burger, chips, and a beer without a word. His expression gave nothing away, but the gesture said everything.
"Thanks," Diane managed.
Fang nodded once and walked away.
She ate standing up, one eye on the bike and one on the lot. The brothers had organized themselves into clusters—prospects handling the grunt work, older members holding court at the picnic tables, old ladies circulating with drinks and food like they'd done this a thousand times.
And Union.
Union stood at the biggest grill, spatula in hand, arguing with Stockyard about something that had both men gesturing emphatically.
"Charcoal gives you better flavor!" Union's voice carried across the lot. "Gas is for people who don't know how to cook."
"Gas gives you control," Stockyard shot back. "You can't regulate temperature on charcoal worth a damn."
"Temperature regulation is for amateurs. Real grilling is about feel."
"Feel." Stockyard shook his head. "You sound like my grandmother."
"Your grandmother knew how to cook!"
Diane found herself smiling despite everything. Union was passionate about this—genuinely, absurdly passionate about the proper way to grill meat. His whole body was involved in the argument, his scarred hands waving to emphasize points, his face animated in a way she hadn't seen before.
He caught her watching and winked.
She looked away, heat creeping up her neck.
The afternoon slid by in a haze of engine grease and sunshine.
Diane finished Scout's bike—running smooth now, the roughness gone—and moved on to a prospect's machine with a lazy idle. Brothers came and went, some watching her work, some just passing through to grab another beer.
The old ladies stopped by with cookies from Jessica's bakery. Claire brought her a fresh drink and an update on the Bartosz situation—nothing new, the Wolves were still gathering intel before their next move.
"They're being careful," Claire said. "Smart. Bartosz has connections, and the boys don't want to start something they can't finish."
"How long?"
"However long it takes." Claire's voice was gentle but firm. "These things can't be rushed."
Diane wanted to argue—wanted to demand faster action, immediate resolution, her life back now instead of eventually—but she'd learned young that some fights couldn't be won by pushing harder.
So she turned back to the prospect's bike and let her hands do the work her mind couldn't settle.
The sun was setting when she finally cleaned her tools and packed up. The cookout had wound down, brothers drifting back to the clubhouse or heading out on evening runs. The lot was quieter now, just a few stragglers and the lingering smell of charcoal.
She found Union in the common room, sprawled on one of the battered couches, a beer dangling from one hand and exhaustion in every line of his body.
"Long day?" she asked.
"Always." He shifted to make room. "You fixed three bikes and ate half a burger. That's not a real lunch."
"I was working."
"You're always working."
"So are you." She settled onto the couch beside him, closer than she should have. "I saw you organizing that supply run yesterday. You ran it like a—"
She stopped.
Union raised an eyebrow. "Like a what?"
"Like a union coordinator." She met his eyes. "The way you organized the teams. The check-ins, the contingencies. That's not just motorcycle club stuff."
Something flickered in his expression. Pride, maybe, or memory.
"Fifteen years of running picket lines teaches you logistics," he said quietly. "How to keep people fed, equipped, rotating shifts so nobody burns out. The skills transfer."
"You miss it."
"I miss the solidarity." He took a long pull from his beer. "I don't miss watching it fail. Watching everything my family built get torn down by money and politics."
Diane thought about her father's shop. The forty years he'd spent building something, the six months Eddie Bartosz had spent trying to destroy it.
"I understand that," she said softly.
Union turned to look at her—really look, his eyes tracing her face like he was memorizing it.
"Yeah," he said. "I think you do."
They sat in comfortable silence while the compound settled around them. Brothers headed to their rooms. The TV in the corner played some game nobody was watching. The L train rumbled past, shaking the windows.
Diane's eyes grew heavy. The couch was comfortable, and Union's presence beside her was warm and solid, and she was so tired from days of stress and work and trying to stay strong.
Her head drooped.
She felt movement—Union shifting, something settling over her shoulders. Warm fabric. Flannel. His flannel, she realized dimly, smelling of charcoal smoke and something that was just him.
"Sleep," he murmured. "I've got you."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that she didn't need watching over, didn't need protecting, didn't need a man's jacket like some kind of claim.
But she was too tired, and it was too comfortable, and somewhere along the way she'd stopped wanting to fight everything.
She closed her eyes and let sleep pull her under.
Union watched her drift off, her head heavy against the couch cushions, his flannel draped over her shoulders like a promise he wasn't ready to make out loud.
Engine grease still marked her hands. A smudge of it streaked her cheek where she'd pushed hair from her face. She looked exhausted and fierce and more beautiful than any woman had a right to look after a day of fixing bikes in a motorcycle club's garage.
He should move. Should let her sleep and go check on the perimeter, talk to Alpha about the Bartosz situation, do any of the hundred things that needed doing.
Instead, he stayed.
He pulled out his grandfather's union pin and turned it between his fingers, watching Diane sleep, thinking about solidarity and protection and the way her smile had made his chest tight when she'd caught him watching her earlier.
She'd thrown a shop rag at his head yesterday.
He'd laughed for the first time in months.
That had to mean something.
Union tucked the pin back in his pocket and settled deeper into the couch, keeping watch while she rested.
Tomorrow the war would continue.
Tonight, he'd make sure she got one peaceful night.