Chapter 19
Nineteen
Hawk
The ride back from Emma’s place should’ve cleared my head.
It usually does.
Cold air slicing against my skin, the open road stretching out before me, and the engine roaring beneath me like a wild beast ready to break free. Normally, that combination is enough to burn the bullshit out of my brain and put me back in my zone.
But not today.
Emma is still in my head. Still everywhere.
Her scent clung to my skin, a heady mix of vanilla and something uniquely her. I could still feel her soft breaths against my neck, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief last night, like she knew exactly the chaos she was stirring inside me.
Fuck.
I tighten my grip on the handlebars as the clubhouse looms into view, its familiar silhouette a stark contrast to the chaos brewing inside me.
I don’t understand what it is about that woman.
I’ve had plenty of others before. Club girls, women passing through town, looking for a wild night and a patch to cling to. They all knew the drill—no strings, just a good time.
None of them stuck in my head like this.
None had twisted something low in my gut the way Emma does.
And then there’s the part that really fucks with me—the way she said it, so quiet and honest.
“I don’t want to let go.”
My jaw tightens at the memory.
When she admitted she was mine? Jesus Christ. That thought alone nearly had my dick hard again as I hopped on the bike, the thrill of the ride only amplifying my need for her.
I roll into the clubhouse lot and kill the engine, the sound fading into the background of a place that feels both familiar and heavy with anticipation.
The place is already awake—bikes lined up outside, smoke drifting lazily from the back patio where brothers are gathered, sharing stories and laughter.
I swing off the bike and head inside, greeted by the rich, bitter scent of coffee mingling with the remnants of last night’s whiskey. A few of the guys nod as I pass through, a mix of respect and camaraderie in their eyes.
I push open the door to the conference room, and every patched brother already seated around the table looks up. Conversations die instantly, a hush falling over the room.
The president’s here.
I stride to the head of the table and drop into my chair, the weight of their expectations settling over my shoulders like a heavy cloak. I grab the gavel and slam it down.
BANG.
Diesel, my VP, leans forward, his expression serious.
Ghost slides a map across the table, his finger tracing the red lines cutting through highways and desert roads. “We’ve been looking at alternate shipping routes for the guns. The last run almost got tailed outside Carson.”
I study the map, the lines seeming to pulse with potential danger. “Buyers still solid?”
Ghost nods. “Picked up two more this week—one in Nevada and another in New Mexico.”
A few approving grunts ripple through the room. More buyers mean more money, but it also means more eyes on us.
“We test the route first,” I assert. “Small shipment.”
Ghost nods, making a note, and the conversation shifts through logistics—trucks, drivers, drop locations—each detail a thread in the fabric of our operations.
Then Ghost clears his throat again, drawing my attention.
“There’s something else.”
My eyes lift, curiosity piqued.
“Black Reapers.”
The room shifts slightly, the air thickening with tension.
“They’ve been quiet,” Ghost says, but I can sense the underlying unease.
One of the prospects scoffs, a hint of bravado in his voice. “Maybe they backed off.”
I shake my head slowly, the word coming out flat and final. “No. They didn’t forget.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, letting my gaze sweep over my brothers. “You really think a bunch of ego-drunk bastards like them are gonna let a woman make ’em look stupid and just walk away?”
A couple of brothers chuckle darkly, the truth hanging heavy in the air.
“They won’t forget Emma,” I continue, my voice steady. “Men like that don’t let shit like that go.”
Diesel nods, the gravity of the situation settling in. “They’ll want payback.”
“Or leverage,” Ghost mutters, and the thought sends something dark crawling through my chest.
Cole, one of the security guys, leans forward, his expression serious. “We’ve got eyes on her place,” he says, his voice low. “Two-man rotations, day and night.”
My gaze snaps to him, the urgency of the situation sharpening my focus. “Someone there right now?”
“Yeah.”
Good.
Cole continues, “No one’s gotten close.”
I nod once, a simple acknowledgment. “Keep it that way.”
He dips his head, and the room settles again, but Diesel leans back in his chair with a slow grin, breaking the tension. “Speakin’ of Emma,” he says, his tone teasing, “barbecue’s this weekend.”
Right. The annual club barbecue. Brothers from nearby chapters riding in, music blaring, booze flowing, and chaos guaranteed.
Diesel’s grin widens. “You bringing her?”
A few guys chuckle, their eyes glinting with mischief.
Someone down the table mutters, “Better question is if Prez here is finally claiming her.”
More laughter ripples through the room, but I ignore that part completely. Instead, I take a slow drink from the coffee in front of me, the bitter taste grounding me.
“Haven’t told her about it yet,” I say, keeping my tone casual.
Ghost raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “No?”
I shake my head, my thoughts drifting. “Don’t know if she can handle it.”
A few guys laugh at that, the camaraderie lightening the atmosphere.
“She’s sweet,” someone says, a hint of admiration in their voice.
“Girl like that walks into one of our parties, she might think she stepped into hell,” another brother adds, and more laughter follows.
They aren’t wrong. Emma isn’t from this life. She doesn’t understand the chaos, the noise, the rough edges of men like us.
For a brief moment, I picture her there—standing in the middle of the clubhouse, surrounded by patched men, loud music blasting, and too much whiskey flowing.
My chest tightens in a way I don’t like.
Diesel smirks, sensing my internal struggle. “You worried she’ll run?”
I lean back in my chair, locking eyes with him, my expression hardening. “No.”
That part I’m sure about. Emma might be soft, but she’s not weak.
“I’m worried,” I say slowly, “she won’t understand what she’s walking into.”
The room quiets slightly, the levity evaporating as my words hang in the air.
Then Ghost shrugs, the tension easing back into a manageable weight. “Only one way to find out.”
Maybe. But the thought of those rival bastards knowing she’s tied to me now… that changes everything.
I pick up the gavel and slam it down again, the sound reverberating through the room.
BANG.
“Church is over.”
Chairs scrape as the guys stand and conversations start back up, but my mind’s already somewhere else—back at Emma’s house, back to the way she looked at me this morning, soft and vulnerable, still tangled in my sheets.
And whether or not I’m ready to bring her into a world that might swallow her whole.