Chapter 47
Chapter
Forty-Seven
KADE
"Hey, you good?"
Spider's voice cuts through the haze like a knife through fog.
I don't bother looking up from the amber liquid sloshing in the bottle gripped between my hands.
The bottle is warm now, heated by my palm, slick with condensation and fingerprints.
He drops onto the stool beside me with a heavy thud that rattles the bar top.
"'M fine."
The Jack burns going down my throat—a familiar, almost comforting sting that I've been chasing for hours.
I've lost count of how many times I've tipped this particular bottle back somewhere around the time the sun started bleeding out over the horizon, painting the clubhouse walls orange and red before surrendering to darkness.
"You don't look fine, bro." Spider's voice carries that edge of concern I don't want to hear. "How long you been sitting here?"
Sevyn materializes on my other side like a ghost made of muscle and ink, silent as always.
His massive frame blocks out what little light filters through the dim bar, casting me in shadow.
I feel his presence more than see it—that solid, immovable wall of a man who never says a goddamn word but somehow communicates everything.
"Said I'm fine."
The words come out sharper than I intended, rough and jagged around the edges. Don't care. Don't want company. Don't want their concern or their questions or their fucking pity looks that say they know exactly what happened even though I haven't told a single person.
I walked back to my bike after she drove away.
Just stood there in that empty parking lot like some pathetic idiot, boots planted on cracked asphalt, waiting.
Waiting for her to come back. To tell me it was all a joke.
A test. Some fucked-up game to see if I'd fight for her.
Anything except what she actually said with that dead voice and those empty eyes.
I want to work things out with Daniel.
It doesn't make sense. None of it makes sense.
She hates that piece of shit—I've seen the fear in her eyes when she talks about him, felt her body shake against mine when nightmares wake her up.
She said she loved me the day before. Whispered it against my skin like a prayer, like a promise.
Her body told one story while her mouth lied straight to my fucking face, and I don't know which version was real and which was the performance.
I came straight here after standing in that parking lot until my legs went numb. Found this bottle on the shelf behind the bar. Been married to it ever since, the only relationship that makes sense right now.
People have drifted past all evening like ghosts I can't quite focus on—prospects keeping their distance, brothers who know better than to push, club girls looking for entertainment who took one look at my face and decided easier prey existed elsewhere.
All got the same treatment. Cold shoulder and silence heavy enough to choke on until they got the hint and fucked off to whatever corner of the clubhouse would tolerate them.
"If you say so." Spider stands slowly, his stool scraping against concrete with a metallic shriek that makes my head throb. Skepticism drips from every word, thick and obvious. "You gonna be ready for our trip to Oakland this week? Run's important—can't afford mistakes."
I nod without looking at him, still staring at the bottle like it holds answers instead of just more questions floating in amber. "Said I'm good."
"Okay, okay." His hands come up in surrender, palms out, backing off because even Spider knows when to quit. "Just let me know if you need anything, yeah? Doesn't matter what time."
His footsteps fade toward the main room where music thumps and laughter echoes—sounds from a world I'm not part of tonight.
Sevyn stays planted beside me a moment longer, solid as a mountain, his presence somehow both comforting and suffocating.
His hand lands on my shoulder—heavy, solid, understanding everything I'm not saying because words have never been his language anyway.
The squeeze communicates what his voice won't: I'm here when you're ready. Not going anywhere.
Then he's gone too, melting back into the shadows he came from.
Just me and Jack now. The way I prefer it.
The whiskey empties somewhere around midnight.
Or maybe two. Could be three for all I know—time stopped meaning shit hours ago, minutes bleeding together into one long stretch of trying not to think about hazel eyes with gold flecks and soft hands and the way she said my name like it meant something.
I can barely keep my eyes open anymore, the room tilting sideways every time I try to focus on anything specific.
The bar spins lazy circles around me, or maybe I'm the one spinning. Hard to tell. Don't really care.
Only then do I stumble down the hall to my room, one hand braced against the wall to keep from falling on my face. My feet don't quite cooperate with what my brain's telling them to do. Left, right, left—simple fucking concept that suddenly requires all my concentration.
The bed rises up to meet me. Or I fall into it face-first. Hard to tell which, and the distinction doesn't seem important. My face hits the pillow that smells like cigar smoke, and that's the last thing I register before everything goes dark and blessedly, mercifully silent.
I kill the engine and wait for Sofia to dismount.
The wrongness crawls under my skin like insects—no one rides behind me except Fallon.
No one's supposed to press against my back like that, thighs bracketing mine, arms wrapped around my waist like she has any fucking right to that space.
But we would've had to take a car if she didn't ride with us, and I'm not wasting that kind of time on this bullshit run.
Sometimes practical wins over principle, even when it feels like swallowing glass.
Spider, Sevyn, and Nick idle beside me. Sofia finally gets her feet under her, dismounting with less grace than she probably wants, immediately smoothing her hair like she gives a shit how she looks in front of these Oakland brothers.
Maybe she does. Not my problem. Not my concern what cartel princesses worry about.
Memphis strolls toward us from the Oakland clubhouse entrance, and I recognize him immediately despite the years since I last saw him at some run when I was fifteen.
Guy's built like he used to be a force to reckon with—6'2" with shoulders still broad under the comfort weight that's settled around his middle like he's earned the right to stop giving a fuck about his physique.
Steel gray hair hangs to his shoulders, tied back with a leather cord, and his full beard matches it perfectly, well-maintained despite the casual vibe.
Gray eyes study us with tired sharpness, like a wolf who's seen too many winters but hasn't forgotten how to hunt, hasn't forgotten what blood tastes like.
Faded ink crawls up his forearms—old-school work from decades past, the kind you can't get anymore—and a scar cuts across his knuckles in a straight line that screams bare-knuckle days.
Proof he earned his place the hard way, not through politics or smooth talking.
"Damn, Kade, you keep getting older." His voice carries that slow Southern drawl California never erased, deep and measured like whiskey poured slow. "Last time I saw you, you were what? Fifteen? Sixteen?"
I bump his offered fist, the greeting automatic. "And you're not getting younger, old man."
He laughs, the sound genuine and rough around the edges. "Yeah, just older and I don't recommend it to you, son. Getting old ain't for the weak." His gaze sweeps over our group with practiced assessment, cataloguing weapons, body language, threat levels without seeming to try. "Spider. Beefcake."
Sevyn just shakes his head at the nickname, expression unchanged, while Spider grins wide and returns the fist bump with easy familiarity.
"And who are these two?" Memphis asks, eyeing Nick and Sofia with open curiosity mixed with the natural wariness of a man who's survived this long by not trusting strangers.
I introduce them both—Nick as a prospect, Sofia as cartel liaison. Keeping it brief, professional. Memphis nods at each, reading them the way only someone who's survived thirty-five years in this life can read people—seeing past the surface bullshit to whatever truth hides underneath.
"Let's head inside." He gestures toward the clubhouse with one scarred hand. "Talk first, drink after. Business before pleasure, like civilized folk."
We follow him through the main room—typical MC setup that could be any chapter in the country.
Bar along one wall, shelves lined with liquor bottles that've seen heavy use.
Pool tables occupy the center, felt worn smooth from decades of games.
Worn leather furniture scattered around, cigarette burns in the arms, the whole place smelling like motor oil, cigarette smoke, and old beer.
A few brothers nod as we pass, eyes tracking our group with casual interest. The back room's familiar territory—every chapter has one just like it, the place where real business happens away from prying eyes and loose lips.
We empty ourselves of guns, knives, phones.
The ritual as natural as breathing after years in this life.
My Glock goes in the lockbox Memphis holds, phone beside it, the separation feeling wrong but necessary.
Spider's knife collection takes longer—the man carries enough blades to stock a small armory.
Even Sofia knows enough to hand over the small pistol strapped to her ankle without being asked, lifting her pant leg with practiced ease.
Memphis watches with approval, respect in those pale eyes for people who understand protocol, before leading us through the reinforced door.
Inside, Razor sits waiting at the table.