11. The Brotherhood #2
"She's hiding something," Colt says, his voice losing its rough edge, turning protective. "A woman doesn't get terrified over a real estate deal. Maybe the suit did something to her?"
"I don't know what the history is," I say, my fist clenching at my side until the knuckles click. "But he touched her face at the diner. Like he owned her and had a leash on her. And when I brought his name up, she looked like she wanted to stop existing."
Knox finally shifts his gaze from the ceiling. He looks directly at me, his face dark, his massive frame shifting forward on the bench. "She stays, or she goes, Jax?"
I don't hesitate. I don't even have to think about the answer.
The memory of her fragile, trembling shoulders on that porch wars with the fierce, independent woman who drove her finger into my sternum.
She's a disaster, she's a city girl, and she's completely turned my world upside down in less than a week.
"She stays," I say.
Knox nods once. "Finished."
The agreement in the room is instantaneous and silent.
Nobody asks why. Nobody asks how long. Nobody asks what she means to me.
That's the code.
"The Hargrove family uses a private security firm out of Houston," Rafe says, pulling a small notebook from his vest pocket and flipping it open.
"They aren't street thugs, Jax. They use ex-federal contractors, high-end corporate intimidation, and deep-pocket legal teams. They will try to tie you up in court with eminent domain filings.
They will try to bleed your shop dry with building code violations and environmental suits until you can't afford to keep the lights on. "
"Let 'em try," I rumble, my jaw tightening. "They want a legal war, I've got titles to every piece of iron in that yard going years back."
"They don't know who they're dealing with," Reed says, his face turning cold as he leans over the table.
"They think they're dealing with a couple of ignorant locals and can wave a few million bucks and pave over the marsh.
If they bring their Houston lawyers down here, we'll show 'em that Jax has men by his side who know how to bury bodies where the tide doesn't reach. "
"We keep it clean until we can't," Priest cautions. He looks at me, his eyes drilling into my skull. "But we don't back down. Not an inch."
Rafe taps the edge of the map, his fingers tracing the boundary line between my salvage yard and the Beckett cottage. "Your mother bought that eastern parcel because she believed the river was worth protecting, Jax."
Nobody looks at the cleared shelf in my workshop where Margaret's old ledger still sits. Nobody has to. Every man in this room remembers my mother.
Reed's jaw tightens. Colt stops moving his glass. Rafe goes very still.
Grief looks different on every man. But it always looks like something.
They remember the woman who wouldn't let the county road pave over the marsh grass because she said the water needed room to breathe. That dirt isn't just property lines; it's her memory, bound up in the roots of the live oaks and the mud of the riverbank.
"They're not getting either parcel," I repeat, the words a sacred vow.
The weight of his words hangs in the humid air of the office for a few moments. Then the corners of Colt's mouth twitch, and the familiar, inappropriate grin slowly returns to his face.
He winks at me. "Plus, they will have to get through you before they get to her. After all this, brother — if you don't marry her, I might have to start buying my parts from another yard."
"I'm writing that down," Reed says with a sharp laugh, the tension breaking instantly as he reaches for his cigarette. "Colt's guide to romantic philosophy and maritime real estate. Truly spectacular."
"Go to hell," I grunt, but the knot in my chest loosens by a fraction of an inch.
"Sunday," Colt says, his face setting back into business mode. "Same road. All of us."
"The river road," Reed agrees, nodding. "All six bikes will take the long way past the Beckett fence line and ride straight through the center of town past the diner. Let every corporate spy and local in Moonrise hear the iron. Let 'em know the line has been drawn."
No one argues. Priest stands up from the table. His massive frame fills the small room, the leather of his vest catching the low light. "That is the call and the answer. We ride on Sunday."
The meeting breaks up with the slow, synchronized movement of a military unit dismissing. Knox stands first, his shadow stretching across the ceiling as he walks out the door without a word.
Reed and Colt follow, their voices rising as they start arguing about a carburetor design before they even hit the hallway. Rafe gathers the printed documents, slides them back into his vest, gives me a brief, tactical nod, and clears the room.
I turn to follow them, my hand reaching for the brass doorknob, when a voice stops me cold.
"Jax."
I turn back. Priest hasn't moved from the head of the table. He's standing there, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jeans, watching me through the blue smoke of the room.
"Yeah?" I ask.
Priest walks over to me slowly and stops a foot away, his physical presence forcing me to look him straight in the eye. He's older than the rest of us, his face lined with the history of this town and the things he's seen on the road.
"Whatever she's not telling you," Priest says, his voice a quiet warning that vibrates straight into my chest, "she'll tell you when she's ready."
I stiffen, my defensive walls snapping back up. "I'm not pushing her for answers."
"I know," Priest replies bluntly, a slow, knowing expression softening the harsh lines around his eyes. "I'm telling you anyway."
He reaches out, pats my shoulder once with a heavy, calloused hand that feels like a block of concrete, and walks past me, his boots fading down the hallway until the heavy door to the main bar closes behind him.
I stand alone in the dim office.
The single lightbulb sways slightly in the draft from the hallway, making the shadows on the wall dance. I look down at the table, where the printed image of Stanley Hargrove III still sits, forgotten in the rush to leave.
My protective instincts have completely overridden the red haze of my anger. The pride that was roaring on her porch is gone, replaced by a cold, calculated fury that makes my blood feel like ice water.
I step to the table, reach down, and grab the piece of paper. My hand closes around the high-resolution face of the Houston suit, crushing the paper into a tight, hard ball until the edges bite into my skin.
I don't know what he did to her. I don't know what kind of ghost she's running from. But as I toss the crumpled paper into the overflowing trash can in the corner, I know one thing with absolute, terrifying clarity.
If he comes back to Moonrise to finish what he started, I am going to destroy him.
And the river won't care about what's left of him either.