Chapter 17
Sarge
Secrets destroy trust.
Hannah is drifting back to sleep. I feel better now that she’s seen me here beside her. Before, all I could do was try to soothe her with my touch, but now she knows she’s not alone and that I’m the one beside her. Her breathing becomes even and shallow, and I can tell she’s at peace.
Sitting here, I think about the delivery the club has coming in tonight and how I’m supposed to be on that run.
No way in hell I’m leaving her.
She’s different. Gets under my skin in a way I can’t ignore. She pulls me in, and I don’t even fight it. How has no one married this woman yet? I feel thankful that no man has, means I have a fighting chance. There’s so much love in her, locked up behind walls she never asked to build.
But sometimes you have to. To survive. To overcome.
That part, I get. I’ve buried myself plenty, built my own walls out of barbed wire and regret.
She’s scared, but she still gives. That’s rare.
The guys can handle the pickup without me. They’ve done this enough times to know the drill.
The club’s got a legit front with the pawn shop. Keeps the books clean and the IRS off our backs. Plus, some of the members have kids. I don’t tolerate deadbeats in my club. We respect women, and we take care of the ones who come from our choices.
So the pawn shop stays clean, legit income. A little security for the people who matter.
But the real money? That comes after hours.
We don’t run guns. We don’t run street drugs. Not our style.
We’re a couple of hours from the border and have some friends on the other side. We even started a chapter in Nogales. Down there, everything’s cheaper, especially medicine.
That’s our trade. We move pharmaceuticals, treatments, and therapies. Bring them back across for those who can’t afford what this country charges.
Some people call it smuggling.
I call it helping.
It might look gray to some, but to me, it’s crystal clear.
My little brother almost died because of Big Pharma’s prices. He’s asthmatic—bad in the summer, when the ground’s dry and dust kicks up.
It was my summer between seventh and eighth grade. He was ten.
We’d paraded down to the park while our parents were at work. We were allowed to go, as long as we stayed together, didn’t talk to strangers, and only went there and back.
I packed one of our empty school backpacks with water, snacks, and most importantly, his inhaler.
We got there fine. Dropped the bag in the shade and went to play.
He tagged me out of nowhere and took off running. I chased him, laughing, because my legs were longer. I tagged him easily. He pivoted to tag me back—and then he started wheezing.
Wheezing meant breathing. I could handle that.
But I also knew what it meant, what I had to do.
I sprinted to the bag, grabbed the inhaler, and handed it to him. He took a puff, but nothing.
It was empty. I shook it, hoping for a miracle that didn’t come.
We should’ve had backups. We didn’t.
My parents worked hard and were gone most of the time. Made “too much” for state insurance, but not enough to afford what he needed.
I don’t blame them for him going without. They worked hard and did what they could.
But that day changed me.
I can still see him. Lips turning blue, collapsing, while I stood there helpless with an empty inhaler in my hand.
We didn’t have a cell phone. Couldn’t afford that shit back then.
I ran to the nearest person I could find, a mom with her kids, and quickly explained what was happening. Thank God she had a phone and called 911.
Without her, I don’t know how that day would’ve ended.
That was the moment I swore I’d do whatever I could to make sure no one else would ever feel that helpless.
I met Raydar soon after in high school. Back then, he was just Travis, and I was Gavin. Nobody really calls us by those names anymore.
His uncle was a patched member of the Saints, and he introduced us to this life. To this world.
Back then, the club ran cocaine across the border. Over time, I’ve steered things in the direction we’re in now.
Purposeful. Measured. Controlled.
Few people know how we make our money outside the pawn shop. Only a handful from my past, people I grew up with. The list isn’t long.
We operate on a legitimate front. The club donates, holds charity events, opens its doors once a month, and throws a pancake breakfast every Sunday.
We’re pillars in the community, and we give no reason for anyone to believe we’re anything else.
That’s what scares me. Hannah, she’s so good. Honest. Pure.
Will she accept what we do? Who we are?
The Old Ladies know everything before they’re in with one of the Saints. No secrets. There can’t be.
Secrets destroy trust. Trust—or the lack of it—causes drama, and drama ruins relationships.
We don’t date to break up. We don’t marry to divorce. Saints make mistakes, sure, but when it comes to choosing an Old Lady, we’re careful. Given the nature of the club’s business, we have to be.
Part of why I’ve stayed solo is that, now with my handicap, it’s even more complicated. I try not to see it that way, but I can’t ignore that I can’t do everything I used to.
I try not to dwell on it. There’s still plenty I can do, and I’m grateful for that.
My last deployment ended with our Humvee being bombed. I blacked out in the explosion and woke up being dragged out, too out of it to realize I was on fire. Fuel had soaked my clothes, and I lit up like a Griswold Christmas tree.
I’m thankful. I know it could have been so much worse. My brothers on the field acted fast and put out the flames.
Nine surgeries later, skin taken from my thigh to repair my arm, and here I am. Mostly put back together, like a biker version of Frankenstein’s monster.
The skin isn’t fully healed yet. It’s still a little pink and swollen, but it’s nowhere near where it was. I have to acknowledge the progress I’ve made. Every scar, every stitch reminds me how far I’ve come and how much I can still do.
It changed me, making me sharper and more intentional. I learned to assess risk differently, protect what matters, and never assume control is a given. I carry that with me every day—in the club, in business, and with the people I care about.
Hannah... I’ll let her pull me in, not the other way around. I’ll never let her feel helpless if I can help it.
I’ll do anything I can to protect her. My world can be dangerous, messy, and chaotic, but I control it. I can keep her safe if she’s with me.
Something about Hannah makes me feel like she’ll be able to look past my injury and my limited ability with my hand. I hope she accepts me and club life, because this is my family.
I shift closer, feeling her presence—the warmth that somehow makes everything else fade. The thought of jeopardizing her trust in me is a reality I don’t want to face.
Brushing a strand of hair from her face, I take in her beauty. For a moment, time stills. I don’t know where this will lead or how much of myself I’m about to give, but I know one thing: I’m all in. I can’t hold back with her.
I just don’t know how or when to tell her how serious I am about this without scaring her off.