Chapter Seventeen
Vic
Vic had been in a shitty mood for days.
Bonnie’s continued silence felt like a slow knife twist. Every unanswered text, every ignored call, every night he spent staring at the ceiling where he second-guessed himself, wondering if he’d pushed too hard, too fast. He threw himself into rehearsals with OY, pounding the kit until his hands ached and his shoulders burned, but the music couldn’t drown her out.
She was everywhere—in the pocket of every groove, in the quiet moments between songs, in the way his chest tightened when he thought about her fierce eyes and the walls she’d slammed back up the second he’d said the words.
Bear had noticed, of course, after the marathon session they’d had. The big man didn’t push or offer platitudes. He just started dragging Vic along on more club errands—anything to keep his hands and mind busy. Tonight, it was moving “sensitive cargo” from one safe house to another.
“I’m just the extra set of hands, right?” Vic asked as they pulled up behind an old warehouse on the edge of town. The clock on the dash read 1:37 a.m.
Bear grunted, killing the engine. “Right. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Should be smooth.”
It wasn’t.
They were halfway through loading the unmarked crates into the back of Bear’s truck when the low rumble of motorcycle engines cut through the quiet.
Three bikes rolled into the lot, riders wearing cuts from a rival crew, the Midwest Vipers.
Vic didn’t know the patches, but he recognized trouble when he saw it.
The lead rider, a stocky man with a scarred jaw and a nasty sneer, killed his engine and swung off the bike. “Well, well. Bear and his new pet project. You boys lost?”
Bear straightened slowly, shoulders squared. “This ain’t your territory. Keep riding.”
The man laughed. “Everything’s our territory if we say it is. Those crates look heavy. Why don’t you let us lighten your load?”
Words flew fast after that. Insults turned to threats. One of the bikers stepped too close, shoving Bear’s shoulder. That was all it took.
The fight exploded.
Bear moved like a freight train, slamming a massive fist into the first man’s face with a sickening crack. The man dropped hard. But the other two were already on them—one lunging at Bear with a wild haymaker, the other pulling a knife from his belt.
Vic didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in beside Bear without thinking, years of bar fights, stage adrenaline, and sheer protective instinct taking over.
When the second Viper swung at Bear’s blind side, Vic threw a solid right hook that connected with the man’s jaw and dropped him like a sack of bricks.
Pain flared through his knuckles, but he barely felt it.
“Behind you!” Vic shouted as the third man came at Bear with the knife.
Bear pivoted, but the blade was already slicing through the air. Vic snatched a loose piece of rebar from the ground and cracked it across the attacker’s wrist with a sharp metallic thunk. The knife clattered to the pavement. The man howled, clutching his broken wrist.
Vic followed up with a hard kick to the knee, dropping him. Bear finished the job with one heavy boot to the chest, leaving the man gasping on the ground.
The fight was brutal, fast, and ugly—over in under two minutes.
Panting, adrenaline still surging, Vic stood over the fallen Vipers with the rebar still gripped tight in his hand. His right knuckles were split and bleeding. His shoulder throbbed where one of them had landed a glancing blow. But Bear was upright, and the cargo was safe.
Bear looked at him, breathing hard, a glint of respect in his eyes. “Not bad, kid. You didn’t have to jump in like that.”
Vic tossed the rebar aside with a metallic clatter. “Yeah, I did.”
Bear clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, careful of the sore spot. “Appreciate it. Let’s get this shit loaded and get the hell out of here before more of them show up.”
They finished loading the crates in silence, both men moving faster now, adrenaline sharpening every motion. As they climbed back into the truck, Bear glanced over at Vic’s bloody knuckles.
“You good?”
Vic flexed his hand and winced. “I’ll live.”
Bear started the engine. “You’re solid, Montrose. Club appreciates men who step up when it counts.”
Vic leaned his head back against the seat as they pulled away, the warehouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. The fight had burned off some of the restless anger that had been simmering in him for days, but it hadn’t touched the deeper ache.
Bonnie was still there, quiet and sharp in the back of his mind.
He wondered if she’d ever let him back in.
***
Back at the clubhouse, the mood was heavy.
Mason was already waiting when Bear’s truck pulled into the lot, the national president’s massive frame silhouetted in the doorway like a storm cloud.
Vic’s knuckles throbbed in time with his pulse as he climbed out, shirt torn at the shoulder, blood drying on his hands.
The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight was crashing now, leaving behind a familiar hollow ache.
Bonnie still hadn’t answered a single text.
Days and days of silence. So many days and nights of staring at his phone like a fool, replaying the way she’d looked at him when he said he loved her—the flash of panic, the walls slamming down.
He’d thought the club, at least, was solid. A place where he belonged, where people didn’t disappear when things got real.
Now even that felt like it was slipping.
Bear gave him a quick nod—stay calm—and they walked inside together.
Mason’s stare was ice-cold as Bear laid out what had happened. The room was crowded with patched members, the air thick with cigarette smoke and tension. Vic stood off to the side, jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral even as frustration and exhaustion warred inside him.
“You’re not patched,” Mason said flatly, looking Vic over from head to toe. “You’re not even a prospect. You had no business swinging in club business.”
The words landed like a slap.
Vic met the older man’s gaze steadily, though inside he felt the sting of rejection.
These men—Bear, Hurley, Pinto, even Mason—had started to feel like the family he’d never really had.
People who showed up. People who had his back.
Now they were looking at him like he was an outsider who’d overstepped.
“Bear needed help,” Vic said, voice low but firm. “I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch him get jumped. Not when I could do something about it.”
A few of the older members muttered. “Reckless fool like that, we don’t need it.” “Way out of line. Hell, even our prospects earn their place.” “This guy is some kind of hothead, jumping in like that.”
Disfavor settled heavy in the room, thick as the smoke.
Vic’s chest tightened. He’d thought he was earning trust. Thought stepping up when it counted would mean something. Instead, he felt the same old isolation creeping back in—the same feeling he’d had watching his father chase ghosts while the world moved on without him. Not one of us.
Bear stepped forward, voice steady. “He handled himself. Took one down clean, disarmed the guy with the knife. Didn’t ask questions, didn’t hesitate. Kid’s got good instincts.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed on Vic. “That true?”
Vic nodded once. “Did what needed doing.”
The president stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, the weight of that gaze pressing down like judgment. Then Mason jerked his chin toward the bar.
“Sit. We’ll talk later.”
Vic obeyed, dropping onto a stool and flexing his split knuckles. The pain was almost welcome—something real to focus on besides the radio silence from Bonnie and the side-eyes now coming from men he’d started to care about.
***
The next few days were tense.
Vic kept his head down. He helped around the clubhouse when asked—swept the garage, restocked the bar, ran errands with Hurley and Pinto—but stayed far away from any club meetings and kept his mouth shut.
He could feel the standoffishness from some of the members.
The way conversations quieted when he walked into a room. The subtle distance.
He wasn’t one of them. He was the outsider who’d stuck his nose into club affairs, no matter how well he’d handled himself.
It stung more than he wanted to admit.
These were the people who had taken him in after Benny went down. The ones who had his back when he needed it. They were rough around the edges, but solid. Now that foundation felt cracked, and Bonnie’s continued silence only made the ground underneath his feet feel shakier.
He was losing both the woman he loved and the brotherhood he’d come to rely on, all at the same time.
***
Two nights later, the Vipers tried to retaliate.
Vic had been helping Hurley and Pinto close up the garage when the drive-by hit—bullets shattering windows, engines roaring past. He didn’t freeze.
He moved on instinct, helping herd a couple of civilian mechanics inside to safety while the patched members returned fire.
No heroics. Just calm competence under pressure—dragging a bleeding Pinto behind cover, keeping his head low, and staying useful without getting in the way.
When the shooting stopped and the Vipers fled, Bear found him pressing a rag to Pinto’s wounded arm.
“You good?” Bear asked, breathing hard.
Vic nodded, adrenaline still buzzing. “Yeah. Pinto needs a doctor, though.”
Bear clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his teeth. “You did good, kid. Real good.”
Even Mason, arriving on scene minutes later, gave him a curt nod of acknowledgment. The disdain that had settled over Vic like a shroud started to thaw, replaced by something that felt closer to respect.
But as he sat on the curb afterward, blood on his hands that wasn’t his own, the ache in his chest remained.
Bonnie still hadn’t called.
And no matter how many times he proved himself—to the club, to Bear, to Mason—it didn’t fill the hole her silence had carved out.
***
The real turning point came with Chase.