5. Lock #2
"Broke into her apartment last night. Waited in the dark for her to come home. Grabbed her. Threatened her."
Rocky's jaw tightens. He turns to face Colt fully. "That true?"
Colt's jaw works. "She's my—"
"Is. It. True."
The silence stretches. Finally, Colt gives a jerky nod.
Something passes across Rocky's face. Disgust, maybe. The weariness of a man who's seen too many idiots cause problems over wounded pride.
"Get inside."
"What? Fuck that, Rocky. This guy—"
"Get. Inside."
"He came here! To our bar! You're just gonna let him—"
"I'm gonna let him leave." Rocky's voice goes cold. "Because unlike you, I can see what happens if this goes any further. You think I'm starting a war because you can't accept that a woman doesn't want you anymore? You think the club's gonna back you on this?"
"She was mine—"
"She left you. Get over it." Rocky steps closer, getting in his face. "Instead you've been stalking her, breaking into her home, and now you've got a Sons SAA standing in our parking lot. You've made your personal bullshit into club business. That makes you a liability."
The words land like blows. Colt's face goes red, then white.
"Rocky—"
"You've got five seconds to get inside before I put you there myself. And tomorrow, you and I are gonna have a conversation about what it means to wear these colors. About whether you still deserve to."
For a moment, I think Colt might actually try something. He's got that wild look — cornered animal, all teeth and no brain. His hands are shaking at his sides. Every muscle in his body screaming for a fight.
But Rocky is staring him down with thirty years of violence behind his eyes. Thirty years of being the one who handles problems. Thirty years of putting men in the ground who pushed when they should have backed off.
Even Colt isn't stupid enough to test that.
He holds my stare for a long moment, something ugly in his eyes. "This isn't over."
"Yeah," I say. "It is."
He storms past Rocky and disappears inside. The door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.
Rocky and I stand there, the parking lot suddenly quiet. The neon sign buzzes overhead. A car passes on the road, headlights sweeping across the lot, then gone.
"He's a liability," Rocky says after a moment. "Always has been. Should've dealt with him years ago."
I don't respond. Nothing to say that wouldn't make things more complicated.
"The woman — she's yours now?"
"Yeah. She's with me."
Rocky nods slowly.
"I'll handle Colt," he says finally. "He won't bother her again."
"I appreciate that."
"Don't appreciate shit." His voice hardens. "I'm not doing you a favor. I'm not doing King a favor. I'm keeping my club out of a mess some idiot created." A pause. "That's all this is."
"Understood."
I turn toward my bike. We're done here. Message delivered, received, and — thanks to Rocky — enforced. Better outcome than I expected, honestly. I was ready for this to get bloody.
That's when I hear it.
Another engine. Coming fast from the direction of Tucson. A sound I know as well as my own heartbeat.
King.
Rocky hears it too. His whole body goes still, every muscle tensing.
The headlight appears at the end of the street, bright against the darkness. The bike slows as it turns into the lot — deliberate, controlled. King pulls into a spot near mine, kills the engine, swings off.
He walks toward us, easy and unhurried.
"Couldn't let you have all the fun," he says to me.
Rocky hasn't moved. The history between them fills the parking lot like smoke — Demi, the betrayal, the ambush that never happened, the war that almost was. Two men who should be enemies, standing ten feet apart with nothing between them but old wounds and fading light.
"King." Rocky's voice is flat.
"Rocky."
Silence.
The neon sign buzzes. Somewhere inside, the music changes — something slower, quieter. The night holds its breath.
I watch Rocky's hands. Watch his shoulders. Looking for the tell that says this is about to go sideways. He's got every reason to hate King. Every reason to want blood. His daughter chose this man over her own family, and now King's standing in his parking lot like he belongs there.
If he's going to make a move, it'll be now.
Rocky doesn't move.
"Your boy handled it," he says finally. Clipped. Professional. "Colt won't be a problem."
"Good."
"This doesn't change anything between us."
"Didn't think it would."
More silence. Heavier this time. I can feel the weight of it — everything that's happened between these two clubs, these two men. The betrayal and the war and the daughter caught in the middle. None of it resolved. None of it forgiven.
Then Rocky gives the faintest nod.
Not warmth. Not forgiveness. Not even acknowledgment of any truce. Just... something. A recognition that tonight isn't the night. That this particular problem is handled. That whatever else lies between them, it isn't this.
King returns it.
The moment stretches. Holds.
Rocky turns and walks back inside without another word. The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the music, the light, the weight of his attention.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Thought I told you I'd handle it," I say.
"You did." King straddles his bike, kicks the engine to life. The rumble fills the parking lot. "And you did. I was just backup you didn't need."
"Then why'd you come?"
He looks at me for a long moment. The neon light catches the scar through his eyebrow. Something almost like a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Because that's what brothers do."
He pulls out of the lot without waiting for a response. I watch his taillight shrink, then swing onto my own bike. The engine roars to life beneath me.
I catch up to him on the highway. We ride side by side for a while, the desert stretching out around us, dark and endless. Stars punching through the sky one by one. The wind cold against my face.
We don't talk. Don't need to.
Some things don't require words.
By the time we hit Tucson, the tension has bled out of my shoulders. The night feels lighter. The weight I've been carrying since Josie told me about Colt — it's not gone, but it's different now.
Handled.