Monk (Diamondback MC #2)

Prologue

Seven years ago...

The plastic stick trembled in my hand, its sharp edges digging into my palm as I clutched it tightly. My bare feet pressed against the cool bathroom tiles, grounding me; yet, the silence in the room felt heavy, almost suffocating, broken only by the distant hum of traffic outside my window.

Two pink lines. Clear as day. Unmistakable. I blinked, hoping the colors would blur or fade, but they stayed bright and stubborn, etched onto that tiny strip of plastic.

I perched on the edge of my bathtub, knees drawn up, the porcelain cold against my skin.

I stared at those two lines, trying to convince myself I had read them wrong.

Maybe the shadows in the room were playing tricks.

But the surrounding silence pressed in, making each breath feel louder, each heartbeat more frantic.

Pregnant.

The word echoed through my mind, foreign and too real all at once.

I laid my free hand against my stomach, feeling its warmth and softness, stunned that nothing on the outside had changed.

Memories flickered. John spinning me around the kitchen, laughing about buying a house someday, his voice promising a future I never quite believed.

That hope, fragile and bright, flashed through my mind, chased by fear and longing, tangled together.

John’s baby. The thought made my chest tighten. His laugh echoed in my memory, so certain about our future. So sure we would find our way, even when I doubted.

Our baby.

My breath caught in my throat, sharp and sudden.

I closed my eyes and saw him. Those dark eyes looked at me as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered.

His crooked smile made my knees weak every single time.

The way his hands felt on my skin, rough and calloused, yet reverent.

He whispered my name in the dark, like a prayer, as if I were something sacred he was afraid might disappear if he spoke too loudly.

In those moments, I wondered if I was losing myself in him, or if I was finally finding a part of me I never knew existed.

We had been together for three months. Just three months, but it felt like a lifetime compressed into stolen moments and breathless nights.

Three months of something so intense it scared me.

Sometimes, it kept me awake at night, wondering if what we had was real, or if I was just drunk on the feeling of being wanted so desperately.

It was hard and fast and heavy, like magnets that couldn’t stay apart no matter how much logic said we should.

Like gravity itself pulled us together and fighting it would be like fighting nature.

He was a biker. The Diamondback MC Sergeant at Arms. I knew what that meant, or at least I thought I did.

I had heard the rumors, the whispers around Lawton about the club.

Hushed conversations that stopped when I walked into a room.

Rough men. Dangerous men. Men who lived by their own rules and didn’t much care what polite society thought about it.

Men who settled disputes with fists instead of lawyers, who wore their loyalty like armor and their colors like war paint.

Mama always said everyone deserved a fair chance. She taught me judgment should be saved for actions, not assumptions. That people were more than their worst mistakes, more than the labels the world slapped on them. Labels that clung like burrs, impossible to peel away.

When John looked at me, I didn’t see a criminal or a thug.

I saw a man carrying old wounds, shadows hidden behind those dark eyes, and scars he was still learning to live with.

A man who tried, sometimes desperately, to be good.

He would hold me like I was delicate, as if I might shatter if he wasn’t careful.

He made me laugh with his terrible jokes and eased the tension with his goofy impressions.

He made me feel things I swore I had forgotten how to feel.

I took a chance on him. I remembered the night everything shifted between us.

It was a late summer evening. The two of us were sitting on my front porch, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and distant rain.

His voice broke for just a second before he caught it.

That was the moment I realized he trusted me with his pain. That I wanted to trust him, too.

And now... now there was a baby.

What would he say? Would he be happy or terrified? Did he want this, want us? Three months was barely long enough to learn someone’s secrets, let alone speak them aloud. We were still floating through that bright, dizzy honeymoon phase where everything felt possible and nothing felt certain.

But this was real.

This was as real as it got.

I sat the test gently on the edge of the sink, and the plastic clicked against porcelain.

My hands flew to my face. My palms were cold.

My fingertips trembled as they pressed into my cheeks.

My heartbeat thundered in my ears, each pulse a sharp knock drowning out everything else.

For a split second, I wanted to run to the clubhouse, find John wherever he was—probably hunched over his bike, grease staining his knuckles, that low hum of laughter threading through the air—and just tell him.

I wanted to see his face and watch the realization flicker and settle as I said the words: I’m pregnant. We’re having a baby.

But the practical voice in me—shaped by my father’s steady caution and Mama’s gentle wisdom—held me back.

I needed time. Time to let the news settle on my skin, to breathe through the ache and shock and hope.

Time to ask myself what I wanted, what I was ready for, before I brought him into this new reality we would face together.

My legs wobbled as I pushed myself upright, knuckles white where I gripped the sink.

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the radio that drifted in from the living room.

George Strait crooned about love and heartbreak.

It was all just background noise. As I walked through the house, my mind spun with fears, with hope, with a hundred questions I didn’t have answers to.

Underneath it all was a quiet, stubborn optimism.

Maybe we could do this.

Maybe.

“Breaking news out of Lawton. We’re getting reports of a shooting at the Diamondback Motorcycle Club’s clubhouse on the east side of town.

Multiple casualties reported, though we don’t have an exact number yet.

Police and emergency services are on the scene right now, and the area has been cordoned off.

Witnesses reported hearing numerous gunshots around 9:45 PM this evening.

The clubhouse is near Industrial Road, within the old warehouse district.

We have a crew heading to the scene as we speak.

We’ll bring you more information as it becomes available. Again, this is a developing situation.”

My world stopped. Everything froze. I stood there in my living room, staring at the radio like it had just spoken in tongues. The day outside was eerily quiet as sirens echoed in the distance. A sound that made my heart race faster.

Shooting. Diamondback clubhouse. Multiple casualties.

“No,” I whispered. “No, no, no.”

My hands trembled. My whole body was shaking as I grabbed my phone off the coffee table. I fumbled it, almost dropping it as I pulled up John’s number. Hit call. My phone slipped from my sweaty hands. I tried again. Voicemail. Again. Nothing.

It rang. And rang. And rang.

“Hey, leave a message.”

“John.” My voice cracked. “John, please call me. Please. I just—I heard. Please, just call me back.”

I hung up. Called again. Voicemail. Again. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. John always promised he would come home safe, no matter what. But promises felt fragile now.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

“—reports are saying this may be connected to cartel activity in the region. Law enforcement sources have indicated that the Vasquez Cartel has been expanding its operations along the southern border for the past eighteen months, and this latest incident bears all the hallmarks of their brutal methodology—”

I couldn’t breathe. The room was spinning. My vision blurred at the edges. Cartel. Shooting. Multiple casualties. John was the sergeant at arms of his club. He would have been there. At the clubhouse. That was where he always was when he wasn’t with me.

He’s fine, I told myself desperately. He’s fine. He has to be fine.

But my hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I grabbed my keys.

I shouldn’t go. I knew I shouldn’t go. If there was a shooting, if the police were there, if it was dangerous, I should stay away. I should wait for John to call. I should be smart.

But I couldn’t. I had to see.

I had to know.

I had to find him.

The clubhouse was fifteen minutes from my apartment.

I made it in eight.

I could see the lights before I even turned onto the street.

Red and blue, flashing in the growing dusk, casting harsh, flickering shadows across the buildings, making them seem to pulse with every burst. Police cars.

Ambulances. Fire trucks. They lined the street, blocking off the area, their presence thick and oppressive, and I had to park three blocks away because I couldn’t get any closer.

The street was a maze of emergency vehicles, their doors flung open, radios crackling with urgent chatter that I couldn’t quite make out over the blood rushing in my ears.

I got out of my car and ran. I didn’t bother locking it. I didn’t even bother closing the door properly. I just left it hanging open and took off sprinting down the sidewalk.