Chapter 12
MASON
The wedding was finally over, and thank fuck for that.
Tank looked like a man who’d just won the lottery and the Super Bowl on the same day—grinning ear to ear under all that ink and leather while his bride clung to his arm like she’d been born there.
I was happy for him. Really. The brother had earned his slice of forever after all the shit we’d waded through together.
Regan had gone full fairy-tale again, but this time she’d played it smart.
Fooled the country-club suits by posing as some out-of-towner from Tucson, all sweet smiles and fake Southern drawl when she signed the contract.
Security was tight as a virgin’s thighs—prospects at every gate, brothers posted like shadows, eyes on the perimeter.
When the rest of us rolled up in a thunder of chrome and cut colors, the country-club manager damn near popped a vein in his forehead.
But the papers were signed, the deposit cleared, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do when his fancy ballroom turned into a Royal Bastards wedding.
The whole place went epileptic—old money wives clutching pearls, golfers in pastel polos staring like we’d just pissed on their golf carts. I loved every second of it.
Now the reception was winding down, lights low, music slow, and I was three bourbons deep at the bar, nursing the fourth like it owed me money.
Still no sign of Sienna. Or her so-called date.
I’d scanned the room a hundred times, telling myself I wasn’t looking, telling myself the knot in my chest was just the whiskey.
She’d said she was bringing someone. I’d growled that she’d still save me a dance.
But the night had dragged on and the chair next to the one I’d been eyeing stayed empty.
Until it didn’t.
I caught the movement near the edge of the dance floor—Sienna in some slinky green dress that hugged every curve like it was painted on, laughing soft at something the big silver-haired bastard beside her said.
Rick. Royal Scorpions. Late fifties, built like a papa bear who’d spent thirty years bench-pressing engines and bad decisions.
His old lady had died of cancer five, six years back.
Next to him sat Eddie—same club, early sixties, another silver fox with shoulders that could block out the sun.
His wife went in a car wreck back in the nineties.
Both of them richer than sin. They’d helped start the first Scorpions chapter, back when their old men were running powder and pills across the border in the ‘70s, ‘80s, ‘90s—before everything went digital and the game got bloodier. Old-school money. The kind that didn’t need to flash.
And there was Sienna, basically in Rick’s lap, his big arm slung casual around her waist while she leaned into him like she belonged there.
Her mystery “date”—some woman I didn’t know, pretty in that polished way—had her fingers laced tight with Eddie’s, head on his shoulder, fake tears shimmering every time the music hit a sad note.
Holding hands like teenagers. A few sniffles thrown in for effect.
My stomach turned to lead.
I never figured her for a gold digger. Never figured her friend was either. But with every single brother in this room—single, patched, ready—and she picks the two richest old-timers from a sister club? The ones who could buy half the desert and still have change for a new bike? What the fuck.
“Fuck this,” I growled under my breath. I slammed the rest of my bourbon, set the glass down hard enough the bartender flinched, and turned my back on the scene.
The women had been circling me all night anyway—club girls, a couple of civilian chicks who liked the leather and the danger.
I picked the first one who caught my eye: tall, dark hair, dress cut low enough to make promises.
I flashed her the grin that usually worked, pulled her onto the dance floor, and let the slow song wrap around us.
She pressed in close, perfume sweet and cheap, hands sliding up my chest like she’d been waiting for an invitation.
I felt Sienna’s eyes on me before I even looked. When I finally did, our gazes locked across the room. She was still tucked against Rick, but her face had changed—frown pulling at her mouth, that scientist look like she was judging every inch of me and finding it wanting.
Good.
I yanked the brunette tighter against me, one hand dropping low on her back, the other sliding into her hair.
I dipped my head and nuzzled into her neck, lips brushing skin that wasn’t Sienna’s, breathing in perfume that didn’t taste like lime and chocolate and fire.
The woman giggled, arched into me, but I kept my eyes on Sienna the whole time.
Let her watch. Let her stew the way I’d been stewing since the sidewalk and the cat and the almost-fuck in her kitchen. She wanted to play games with silver-haired Scorpions who could write her a blank check? Fine. I’d play right back.
The knot in my chest pulled tighter, but I didn’t let it show. Just kept dancing, kept nuzzling, kept pretending the woman in my arms was the one I wanted.
Because fuck her for making me care.
The cake had been cut, the toasts done, and the dance floor was still packed, but the real party for the brothers had moved to the big white tent out back.
Cigar time. The expensive scotch was already breathing on a side table—stuff that cost more per bottle than most prospects made in a month.
I followed the rest of the guys inside, lighting up a fat Cuban and trying to act like I gave a shit about tradition.
Regan was out there with the girls under the string lights, laughing too loud, waving off the younger prospects like they were annoying flies.
The whole group was clustered tight around Sienna and her mystery friend, the two of them glowing like they owned the night.
Rick and Eddie were long gone—probably back at their table with fresh drinks—but the girls weren’t done with Sienna yet.
Too much fun, apparently. Too busy to bother with the men and their cigars.
I watched Regan shoo another prospect away with a grin and a middle finger, then turned back to the tent before I put my fist through something.
I blew a slow smoke ring toward the canvas ceiling, watched it drift and fade. Did it again. And again. Each ring tighter, each one angrier. The scotch burned going down, smooth and expensive, but it didn’t touch the knot twisting tighter in my gut.
River leaned against the bar beside me, cigar clamped between his teeth. “Yo, man. What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
Tank wandered over, still in his cut but with the tie loosened, looking every bit the happy bastard he was. “Dude. It’s my wedding. Why the fuck do you look like it’s a funeral instead?”
I took another pull off the cigar, let the smoke curl out slow. “To me it kinda is. Since like… running into my ex this week. Okay? I’m happy for you, brother. Really. But weddings and exes just… fuck it. I need some air.”
I grabbed my glass and the cigar and shoved out the side flap before either of them could say another word.
The night air hit cooler out here, the garden path winding between manicured hedges and fairy lights Regan had insisted on.
I took a long swallow of scotch, the ice clinking, and rounded the corner.
There she was.
Sienna, standing alone under a trellis thick with white roses, phone pressed to her ear, voice low like she didn’t want anyone to hear. That green dress still looked illegal on her.
“If it isn’t the little gold-digger whore,” I growled before I could stop myself.
Her head snapped up. Eyes wide, then narrowing fast. “Mason. You drunk?”
“So what the fuck if I am?” The words came out rougher than I meant. My mouth was running ahead of my brain, but the bourbon and the jealousy had the wheel now.
“Mason.” Her voice cracked, hurt flashing across her face like I’d backhanded her. “Why are you speaking to me like this?”
“I’m the one whose pissed at you, remember?” I stepped closer, cigar smoke drifting between us. “Over a freaking cat who never wanted to be with you anyway.”
I knew it was wrong the second it left my mouth. Knew I sounded like a bitter asshole. But the image of her in Rick’s lap, her friend all over Eddie, the way they’d looked so comfortable with men old enough to be their fathers—it burned hotter than the scotch. I couldn’t shut it off.
Her friend appeared from the shadows of the path, stepping up beside Sienna like she’d been listening the whole time. Pretty. Polished. Same pissed-off glint in her eyes.
“Oh, gold-digger number two, huh?” I laughed, low and ugly.
“Should’ve pegged you. I knew something wasn’t right when you showed up at that bar worming your way in.
Their little Airbnb weekend. You and that beat-down truck.
I felt bad for you. Getting you that furniture, thinking you were an honest working woman.
Maybe on your back, huh? Is that why you—”
The slap cracked across my face so hard my head snapped sideways. The cigar almost dropped. Heat bloomed across my cheek, sharp and stinging.
The friend glared up at me, chest heaving. “You want to finish that sentence, Mace? Is that why what?” Her voice was ice. “We never slept together.”
I worked my jaw, tasting blood where my lip had caught my teeth. “So you’re gonna fuck the old man tonight?”
Sienna’s eyes flashed. She licked her lips slow, deliberate, like she was tasting the words before she threw them. “Maybe. He speaks to me a hell of a lot better than you just did.”
Her friend stared at me then, eyes going wide like she was seeing me for the first time. “You’re… Mason?”
I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. “What? Expecting something different?”
“Yeah,” she said, voice flat and disappointed. “Yes, I was.”
Eddie and Rick stepped out of the shadows of the garden path right then, cigars glowing in one hand, heavy tumblers of scotch in the other.
They took one look at the scene—me with my jaw still stinging from the slap, Sienna and her friend standing there like they’d just watched a train wreck—and their faces hardened into that protective papa-bear mode these old bastards did so well.
Rick’s eyes narrowed on me first, then flicked to Sienna.
He didn’t even hesitate. Just slid a big arm around her waist and pulled her snug against his side like she was something fragile he needed to shield.
“Everything alright, sugar?” he rumbled, voice low and calm, the kind of tone that said he’d bury a body for her if she asked nice.
Something in me snapped clean in two.
I wanted to crack him. Right there. One punch, straight to that silver-fox jaw, watch the scotch go flying.
But I didn’t. Couldn’t. Rick and Eddie had been friends with the club longer than I’d had my patch—back when I was still a snot-nosed prospect learning how to keep my mouth shut.
My beef wasn’t with him. It was with her.
With the way she’d let him pull her close like it was nothing.
With the way I’d let myself think she was different.
With the stupid fucking plan I’d been turning over in my head all week—inviting her out to the forty acres I’d just closed on, build a fire, crack open some overpriced wine and cheese I didn’t even like, lay under the stars and talk about shit that didn’t involve clubs or exes or poisoned water.
What the hell kind of date was a campout anyway? Jesus Christ. Fucking women.
I growled it under my breath—“Fucking women”—and stepped forward instead.
Rick’s eyes met mine. We held it for a beat, two old dogs sizing each other up. He didn’t flinch. Neither did I. But I knew he saw it—the drunk, the jealousy, the whole ugly mess—and he didn’t push. Good thing. I wasn’t sure I could stop myself a second time.
I snatched the scotch right out of his hand, tipped it back in one long swallow, and let the burn chase the taste of blood in my mouth. “Thanks, brother,” I said, cocky as hell, flashing him that shit-eating smirk I knew pissed people off. “I needed that.”
I undid my tie with one hand, let it hang loose around my neck like a noose I was done wearing, and shouldered past them all. The garden path felt too narrow, the fairy lights too bright, the whole goddamn night too loud.
Behind me I heard Sienna’s voice, soft and quick. “No, don’t—he’s just drunk. He ran into his ex this week. As if…”
As if.
As if I needed her talking me down like some kid who couldn’t handle his liquor.
As if she had any right to make excuses for me after the way she’d played it all night with Rick’s arm around her and that little smile on her face.
The anger flared hotter, burning right through the scotch.
I’d lay that fucking old man out cold if he touched her again.
Friend or not. Brother club or not. I’d do it and not lose a minute’s sleep.
I kept walking, boots crunching on the gravel, cigar smoke trailing behind me like a bad decision I couldn’t outrun. The knot in my chest was back, tighter than ever, and this time it had her name all over it.