Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Monk
I couldn’t breathe in that room anymore.
The walls felt like they were closing in, the air thick with gunpowder, blood, and the weight of what we’d just done. What Montana had done. What the rest of us had stood there and let happen. I shoved back my chair, the legs scraping hard against the floor, and walked out of church without a word.
No one stopped me. No one said a goddamn thing.
The clubhouse had dissolved into chaos—brothers shouting, glass breaking, rage bouncing off the walls. I didn’t look. Didn’t stop. I just crossed to the bar, snatched up my keys, and headed for the door like the Devil himself was on my heels.
My Harley waited in the lot, chrome flashing beneath the harsh Oklahoma sun.
Heat shimmered off the asphalt in dirty waves, but I barely felt it.
I ran my hand over the tank, feeling the warmth of the metal sink into my palm.
That bike was more than steel and engine.
It was the one thing in my life that never lied to me.
Twist the throttle, and it answered. Lean into a turn, and it held.
It was freedom, or the closest thing to it I’d ever found.
I swung a leg over the seat, settled into the worn leather molded to me by years of hard miles, and jammed in the key.
The engine kicked over with that deep Harley growl that always hit me somewhere low in the chest. The vibration climbed through my bones, up my spine, and for one brief second, the rest of the world dropped away.
It was just me and the machine, same as it had always been.
And then I rode. I twisted the throttle and pulled out of that dusty lot, leaving everything behind me in a cloud of exhaust and possibility.
The highway unspooled in front of me like a black wound carved through dry grass and red dirt, vanishing into a horizon bruised purple with oncoming dusk.
Wind tore at my face, my hair, my cut, slapping my vest against my chest with a violence that matched what was clawing around inside me.
My knuckles ached white against the handlebars.
The engine’s roar swallowed most of it—though the gunshot still ricocheted through my skull, along with Kansas’ broken voice, and the wet, ugly thud of Pence’s body hitting the floor like butchered meat.
But no matter how hard I rode or how many miles I put behind me, I couldn’t outrun what I’d seen.
What I’d allowed. The memory clung like oil—thick, black, impossible to wash off.
But it couldn’t drown out my thoughts.
Pence is dead.
The words echoed in my skull, over and over, like a drumbeat I couldn’t escape.
Montana had executed him. Put a bullet in his brain without hesitation, without mercy. And Kansas—Kansas had just stood there, frozen, unable to stop it.
Unable to save his best friend.
I cranked the throttle harder and felt the resistance give under my hand, the bike surging forward like it wanted distance as badly as I did.
Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. The needle swept higher while the world around me smeared into motion—fields, fences, and weather-beaten farmhouses bleeding together in streaks of green, gray, and white.
The wind roared in my ears and shoved at my chest, but I leaned into it until man and machine felt like the same thing.
Every crack in the asphalt traveled through the bars into my arms, a rough conversation between the road and my bones.
But I couldn’t outrun this.
Couldn’t outrun the consequences.
The Marshals would hear about this. They always did.
A VP executed in his own clubhouse wasn’t the kind of bloodshed that stayed buried.
There’d be an investigation—local cops first, maybe the Feds after that.
They’d dig into the club, pull records, knock on doors, and ask questions nobody wanted asked.
And if they dug deep enough, sooner or later they’d get to me.
John Smith. The sergeant at arms who didn’t exist before 2010. The ghost with no past, no family, no history.
Except I did have a past. And a family.
I had Abigail.
My chest tightened, my hands gripping the handlebars so hard my knuckles went white.
If the Marshals found out I’d violated WITSEC—that I’d stood in that room, watched Pence die, and done nothing—they’d tighten the leash until I choked on it. They’d use this to drag me deeper into their web, make me inform on more than the club, make me sell out every brother under our roof.
I couldn’t let that happen.
I wouldn’t let that happen.
But what choice did I have?
Pence was dead. Montana had pulled the trigger.
And Kansas did nothing.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I ignored it and leaned into a curve, the bike tipping low enough to scare the hell out of most riders.
Asphalt rushed beneath me as I hugged the turn, the tires gripping hard with that familiar, trustworthy tension.
I’d been riding so long it felt older than memory.
The bike answered every shift in my weight, every pressure of my hands, like it knew me better than most people ever would.
The road was a language, and it was one I spoke without thinking.
The phone buzzed again.
And again.
Finally, I slowed, pulling off onto the shoulder of the highway. Dust kicked up around my boots as I killed the engine and yanked the phone from my pocket.
Three missed calls. All from Trigger.
I called him back.
He answered on the first ring. “Monk. Where the fuck are you?”
“Riding,” I said, my voice flat. “Needed to clear my head.”
“Yeah, well, you missed the fireworks.” Trigger’s voice was tight, edged with something that sounded like fear. “Kansas lost his shit after you left.”
I closed my eyes. “How bad?”
“Bad. He kicked Montana and Reaper out of the clubhouse. Told them the Diamondbacks don’t answer to the Federation. Said we make our own fucking rules.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. “He what?”
“You heard me.” Trigger exhaled sharply. “Montana tried to talk him down, said this was bigger than Pence, bigger than the club. Kansas told him to get the fuck out or he’d put a bullet in him too.”
Jesus Christ.
“Where’s Montana now?” I asked, my voice low.
“Gone. He and Reaper left. But, Monk—” Trigger paused, and I could hear the weight in the silence on his end. “This is bad. Real bad. Kansas just severed us from the Federation. We’re on our own now.”
I stared at the empty highway stretching ahead of me, the sun hanging low and mean on the horizon, setting the whole sky on fire in shades of orange and blood-red.
Heat still shimmered up off the asphalt, turning the distance into a wavering lie.
No cars. No people. Just the whisper of wind over dead grass and the first dry chirp of evening crickets.
The kind of silence that made a man hear too much.
We were on our own. No Federation protection. No backup. No safety net. Just us against the world. And the world was going to come for us.
“Monk?” Trigger’s voice pulled me back. “You still there?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’m here.”
“You coming back?”
I should have. I should’ve turned the bike around, ridden back to the clubhouse, and stood with my brothers in the wreckage.
But I couldn’t. Not yet.
“Soon,” I said, and ended the call.
I rode for another hour with no destination in mind, letting the road choose for me.
The sun bled out. Orange gave way to purple, then indigo, and by the time I crossed back into Lawton, the streetlights were flickering awake one by one.
The city opened around me in streets I knew too well, familiar as old scars.
I should have gone home. Checked on Abigail. Made sure she was safe. But my hands turned the handlebars on their own, guiding the bike down streets I hadn’t ridden in years.
And then I saw it—the apartment complex.
Two stories of faded brick, with a rusted fire escape clinging to the side like old bones.
The same building. The same second-floor unit with the crooked window that never sealed right, the one that let in winter cold and summer heat like the place itself wanted you uncomfortable.
The one where I’d lived with her.
I should have kept riding. Should have left her ghost in the past where it belonged.
But I didn’t.
I pulled into the lot across the street, killed the engine, and sat there staring up at that window.
Streetlights threw long shadows over the cracked pavement.
The sky was bruised and beautiful, streaked with the last scraps of daylight.
Somewhere off in the distance, a dog barked. A car door slammed.
And then the past opened its mouth.
She was beneath me, her body arching off the bed, her nails digging into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood.
“John.”
My name on her lips was a prayer and a curse, breathless and desperate as I drove into her harder, my hips slamming against hers, the headboard cracking against the wall with every thrust. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, raw and primal, mixing with her gasps and my ragged breathing.
“Fuck, Lina,” I growled, my voice rough, barely recognizable. “You feel so fucking good.”
Her pussy clenched around my cock, tight and wet and perfect. I could feel every inch of her, the way her body gripped me, the way she took everything I gave her and begged for more.
“Harder,” she gasped, her head thrown back, her dark hair spilling across the pillow. “Please, John. Harder!”
I gave her what she wanted and pulled almost all the way out, just the head of my cock still inside her, and then slammed back in, burying myself to the hilt. She cried out, her back bowing, her thighs trembling around my hips.
“That’s it,” I rasped, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Take it. Take all of me.”
She was so fucking beautiful like this. All flushed and wild, her lips swollen from my kisses, her tits bouncing with every thrust. I leaned down, capturing a nipple in my mouth, sucking hard, and she moaned, her fingers tangling in my hair.
“You’re mine,” I growled against her skin, my teeth grazing the sensitive peak. “Say it.”
“Yours,” she whimpered, her voice breaking. “I’m yours, John.”
“Fucking right you are.”
I pulled out suddenly, ignoring her whimper of protest, and flipped her over onto her stomach. She gasped, her hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets as I grabbed her hips and yanked her up onto her knees.
“John.”
I didn’t give her time to finish. I drove back into her from behind, the new angle letting me go even deeper, and she screamed, her fingers twisting in the sheets.
“Fuck, yes.”
I fucked her hard and fast, my hands gripping her ass, spreading her open so I could watch my cock disappear into her pussy over and over again. The sight was obscene, filthy, perfect.
“Look at you,” I rasped, my voice thick with lust. “Taking my cock so fucking well. Such a good girl for me.”
She moaned, her hips pushing back to meet my thrusts, and I could feel her getting close, her body tightening, her breathing turning ragged.
“Yes, John, please.”
I thrust into her one last time, burying myself as deep as I could go, and came hard, my release flooding her, marking her, claiming her in the most primal way possible. “Mine,” I growled, as my arms wrapped around her and held her against me while we both trembled. “All fucking mine.”
She collapsed forward, and I went with her, rolling us onto our sides, my cock still buried inside her, my arms locked around her waist.
We lay there, breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat, the room smelling like sex and us.
“I love you,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost fragile.
I pressed my lips to her shoulder, tasting salt and skin.
“I love you too,” I said, the words rough but true. “More than anything.”
She turned her head, her eyes finding mine, and I saw it. The trust, the vulnerability, the absolute certainty that I would never hurt her.
And I believed it, too.
I believed we had time. That we had a future.
That nothing could tear us apart.
I was wrong.
My phone rang and ripped me out of the memory.
I blinked as the present came crashing back around me. The apartment was dark now. The window sat empty—no light, no movement, no life. Just another ghost.
I pulled out my phone, my hand unsteady enough to piss me off.
James Roberts.
No surprise there.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the answer button. If I picked up, he’d ask questions, want updates, demand intel I either didn’t have or couldn’t give. And I’d have to lie.
Again. Same as always.
The phone kept ringing.
I thought about Pence lying on the floor.
About Kansas cutting us loose from the Federation.
About Montana’s cold eyes and the gun still smoking in his hand.
About Lina, somewhere out there, living a life that no longer had any place for me.
About Abigail—the only family I had left, the only reason I kept dragging air into my lungs.
And with a clarity sharp enough to cut, I knew I couldn’t keep doing this.
I couldn’t keep living in two worlds, split between the club and WITSEC, between my brothers and my sister, between the man I was and the one I kept forcing myself to play.
Something had to break. And when it did, it was going to tear straight through everything.
The phone stopped ringing.
I sat there in the dark, staring at that empty window, and felt the weight of it all settle over me like wet concrete.
Pence’s death had kicked open a door. On the other side was nothing but blood, fire, and the ruin of everything I’d tried to keep standing.
I started the bike. The engine roared to life and tore through the silence. Then I rode away from the ghost of the life I’d lost and headed straight for the one that was about to come apart in my hands.