Chapter 8 - Viper
Her question hits like a sucker punch, direct and unexpected. Is that why I joined the MC? Looking for a break?
No one asks about our pasts here. It's an unspoken rule of the club. But something about Amy's direct gaze makes me want to answer honestly.
"No," I say finally. "Not a break. Justice."
She waits, those hazel eyes steady on mine, patient in a way that invites confession. Fuck, those eyes could pull secrets from a dead man.
I look out across the lake, buying time, wondering how much to share. The sun glints off the water, turning it into a mirror of fractured light. Behind us, laughter erupts from the horseshoe pit where Ace has apparently made a spectacular shot.
"My father owned a small repair shop," I say, the words feeling strange in my mouth after so many years of silence.
"Fixed everything from lawn mowers to motorcycles.
Taught me everything I know about engines.
" I pause, swallowing against the familiar tightness in my throat.
"Three men robbed his shop six years ago.
Shot him point-blank when he couldn't open the safe fast enough. "
Amy's hand moves to cover mine on the dock, her touch light but grounding.
"Police investigation went nowhere," I continue.
"Too many unsolved cases, not enough resources.
Just another statistic." My jaw clenches at the memory of the detective's empty promises, the fading interest as weeks passed with no leads.
"I was working on my engineering degree then.
Dropped out, moved back home to take care of my mother and the shop. "
"I'm sorry," Amy says softly, and unlike when most people say it, I believe she means it.
I shrug, trying to ease the tension in my shoulders. "Started looking into it myself. Asking questions around town. Got nowhere until Reaper and the club rolled through one night, stopped at the bar where I was drinking."
The memory is still vivid. Reaper in his prime, commanding the room without saying a word, Ghost at his side looking menacing as fuck. Me, drunk and angry, picking a fight with a guy twice my size who happened to be a friend of theirs.
"Impressed them with my fighting skills, I guess.
Or my stupidity." I smile wryly. "Reaper pulled me aside afterward, asked why I had such a death wish.
I told him about my father. Turned out they had information on the crew responsible.
Same guys had been hitting small businesses across three counties. "
Amy's eyes widen. "So, the club helped you find them?"
"Better than that. They helped me end them." I meet her gaze directly, not softening the truth. "Three bullets for three killers. Clean. Final. More mercy than they showed my dad."
I expect her to pull away, to recoil at this confession of premeditated murder. Instead, her fingers tighten slightly over mine.
"Did it help?" she asks. "Killing them?"
It's not the question I expected. Not "How could you?" or "Wasn't that wrong?" but a practical inquiry about the result. This woman continues to surprise me.
"Not like I thought it would," I admit. "Didn't bring him back. Didn't erase what happened. But it closed a door that needed closing." I turn my hand beneath hers, our palms meeting. "After that, I joined the club. Found a purpose bigger than revenge."
"Protecting people," she says, understanding dawning in her eyes.
I nod. "My father couldn't be saved, but others could. People like you and Kelly. Like Evelyn. Like Debbie and Tyler."
She looks across the picnic area where Ghost is pushing Tyler on a swing Ace rigged from a tree branch, Debbie watching from a nearby blanket.
"All of them have stories like mine?" she asks.
"Not exactly the same, but similar themes. The women found protection with us. The men found purpose, brotherhood."
"And you?" Her eyes return to mine. "What did you find besides purpose?"
"Belonging," I say simply. "A place where the darkness inside me makes sense."
Her eyebrows rise slightly. "You don't seem dark to me."
That pulls a genuine laugh from me. "Then you're not looking hard enough, Amy. I've got blood on my hands. I've made choices most people couldn't live with."
"And yet here you are, having a picnic by a lake, drinking water instead of beer, making sure I'm hydrated." She tilts her head. "Darkness isn't all you are, Viper."
Something warm expands in my chest at her words. This woman who's been through hell sees something in me beyond the violence, beyond the cut I wear.
"Careful," I warn, only half-joking. "Talk like that might give a man ideas."
A faint blush colors her cheeks, visible even beneath her bruises. "I'm just stating facts. You're more complicated than you want people to believe."
"Look who's talking," I counter. "The woman who survived and still has the capacity to defend a killer's humanity."
Her expression shifts, eyes dropping to our still-joined hands. "Maybe we recognize something in each other."
She's right. There is something between us, some recognition that goes beyond the circumstances of our meeting. I want to explore it further, to understand this pull I feel toward her, but now isn't the time. She's still healing, still processing her trauma.
I reluctantly release her hand and reach for my water bottle. "We should probably head back to the group before they send a search party."
She nods, though I catch a flicker of disappointment in her expression. "Yeah, probably."
I stand first, offering my hand to help her up. She takes it, wincing slightly as her ribs protest the movement. Once on her feet, she doesn't immediately let go, and I don't rush her.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "For telling me about your father. I know that wasn't easy."
"You're easy to talk to," I admit. "Dangerous quality in a woman."
That earns me a small smile. "I'll try to be more difficult in the future."
"Don't you dare." I tease.
We walk back to the picnic area side by side, not touching but close enough that our arms occasionally brush. Jesus Christ, I'm acting like a horny teenager, not a grown man with nearly a decade of MC life behind me.
"There you are!" Kelly calls as we approach. She's sitting at a picnic table with Blade, Emma, and Wilder, playing some card game. "Come join us. We need more players."
Amy glances at me, then nods. "Sure, what are you playing?"
"Bullshit," Emma says with a grin. "And I'm currently kicking everyone's ass because they all have terrible poker faces."
"Amy's pretty good at cards," Kelly says as we sit down. "She used to clean out the other kids in foster care."
"Only the ones who deserved it," Amy protests, but there's a hint of mischief in her eyes I haven't seen before.
We play several rounds, and Kelly wasn't exaggerating. Amy is good. Her face gives away nothing, her voice steady whether she's telling the truth or lying completely. She even manages to bluff Emma, which is no small feat.
"Where did you learn to lie so convincingly?" Wilder asks after Amy successfully puts down four kings that I'm almost certain weren't actually kings.
"Foster care," she says. "Then waitressing. Then bar work. Life in general."
"Remind me never to play poker with you for actual money," I say, impressed despite myself.
"Wise decision," she replies, a hint of pride in her voice.
"Alright, deal me in," Reaper says, dropping onto the bench beside Emma. "My daughter isn't the only one with a decent poker face in this family."
"Oh please," Emma scoffs, shuffling the cards with practiced ease. "I caught you sneaking cookies at midnight last Christmas because you looked so guilty."
"That was a tactical decision to let you think you caught me," Reaper argues. "I was hiding the fact that I'd already eaten the entire second batch."
The game expands as more people join in, the trash talk increasing with each round.
Amy holds her own against everyone, her competitive streak emerging with each win.
There's a lightness to her now, a spark that wasn't there before.
It's like watching someone remember who they used to be before life beat them down.
"Bullshit!" she calls when Ghost tries to put down three aces. His face falls as she grins triumphantly. "Never try to out-bluff a professional bullshitter, VP."
"Damn," Ghost grumbles, collecting the large pile of cards. "That's what I get for playing with civilians."
"Former waitresses aren't civilians," Debbie chimes in. "They're battle-hardened veterans of the service industry."
"Damn straight," Amy agrees, high-fiving Debbie across the table. "I've faced down drunken frat boys and entitled Karens. Your biker intimidation tactics don't work on me."
It strikes me how quickly Amy is adapting, finding her place within the group's dynamic. There's a resilience to her that's rare, the ability to move forward without forgetting what's behind her.
We play until the afternoon stretches toward evening, the sun beginning its slow descent toward the tree line. Reaper finally checks his watch and stands.
"Time to pack it up," he announces. "We've got club business tonight."
A groan rises from the group, but everyone starts gathering cards and clearing tables. I notice Amy's smile fade as she watches the activity around her, a shadow passing over her face.
"You okay?" I ask, helping her collect the empty bottles and cans near our table.
"Yeah," she says, but her eyes remain on the lake, its surface now painted with the orange and pink hues of approaching sunset. "I just... I don't want to go back yet."
I understand what she isn't saying. The clubhouse represents safety, but also confinement. Another place where she's dependent on others, where her freedom is limited by circumstances beyond her control.
"I can stay," I offer. "If you want to hang out a bit longer."
Her head turns sharply toward me. "Really? Don't you have club business too?"
I shrug. "Nothing that requires me specifically. Reaper will understand."