Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monk
I pushed through the heavy church door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, my boots heavy against the worn floorboards that creaked beneath my weight.
The clubhouse was quieter now as most of the brothers had dispersed after the meeting, heading to their rooms upstairs or back to the bar in the main room to nurse their morning hangovers with hair-of-the-dog remedies and greasy breakfast sandwiches.
I needed air. Needed space to think. Needed to get the hell out of here before my head exploded from everything spinning around in it. But before I could make it three steps toward the exit, before I could even reach for the door handle, Kansas’ voice stopped me cold. “Monk.”
I turned slowly, reluctantly. Kansas stood in the doorway of his office, his broad frame filling the space, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. The overhead light cast shadows across his weathered face, making it impossible to gauge what he was thinking.
“Yeah?” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended, scraping out of my throat like gravel.
He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him with deliberate care, the soft click of the latch echoing in the silence that hung between us.
For a moment, he just looked at me, studying me the way he always did when he was trying to figure out what was really going on beneath the surface.
“What’s going on with Lina?” he asked finally, his tone direct but not unkind.
I stiffened immediately, my entire body going rigid.
My jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack, and I looked away, staring at the faded wallpaper on the opposite wall like it held the answers I didn’t have.
“I don’t know,” I said finally, the words tasting like ash in my mouth, bitter and wrong.
Kansas raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “You don’t know?”
“I mean,” I stopped, dragging a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration, “I know what’s going on. I just don’t know how to...”
I trailed off, the frustration building in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow, steam building with nowhere to go.
How the hell was I supposed to explain this to my prez?
That I spent the last seven years quietly mourning a woman I never thought I would see again?
That I had a daughter I never met? That I fucked everything up so badly, so completely, I didn’t know if I could fix it?
That every decision I had made had been the wrong one?
Kansas waited, his gaze steady, patient, unwavering. He stood there like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t going anywhere until I figured this out.
He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t bark orders or tell me to get my shit together. He just stood there in that hallway, giving me the space to figure out what the hell I wanted to say, what the hell I even could say.
I opened my mouth, the words finally forming on my tongue, when the front door of the clubhouse suddenly swung open with a gust of cold morning air, and we both turned in unison as Vivienne Whitepaw Travers walked in.
Vivi looked like she hadn’t slept in days—maybe even weeks.
Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands falling loose around her pale, drawn face.
The disheveled style was so unlike her usual put-together appearance that it made my chest ache.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, shadowed with deep purple circles that spoke of exhaustion and grief in equal measure.
She wore faded jeans and a simple black sweater that hung loosely on her frame, as if she’d lost weight in the days since Pence’s death.
Her hands clutched a worn canvas tote bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright, her knuckles white with the effort of holding herself together.
But despite everything, she held her head high. Chin up. Shoulders back. There was still strength in the line of her spine, still fire in her tired eyes. Even in the middle of her grief, even after everything that had happened, Vivi Travers was a force to be reckoned with. She always had been.
Kansas straightened immediately when he saw her, his expression softening in a way I rarely saw. “Vivi,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, almost tender.
She nodded at him, then at me, her gaze sharp despite the exhaustion. “Kansas. Monk.”
I nodded back, my chest tightening with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. Sympathy? Respect? Guilt?
She smirked slightly when she saw my new patch, and I was surprised to see even a hint of warmth in her expression. “Congrats on the VP,” she said.
“Vivi,” I said softly, unsure what to say, unsure if I even deserved her congratulations when she added, “Don’t. You deserve it.”
“Thank you,” I managed, my throat tight.
Vivi had every right to walk into this clubhouse whenever she wanted.
As Pence’s widow, she was still part of this family—even if her husband was dead.
Even if he’d died because of what he’d done.
Even if the circumstances of his death had torn the club apart.
She was one of us. That didn’t just go away.
Kansas stepped forward, his hands sliding into his pockets in that casual way he had when he was trying to put someone at ease. “What can we do for you?” he asked, his tone measured and careful.
Vivi’s mouth tightened, her jaw clenching as she fought for control.
For a moment, I thought she might break down right there in the hallway, might finally let the grief and anger pour out of her.
But she didn’t. She was too strong for that.
She took a deep breath, steadied herself with visible effort, and met Kansas’ gaze head-on.
“I need to clear out the apartment,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Across the street.”
“Viv, that’s your place,” Kansas spoke up, concern evident in his tone.
“No,” she said firmly, shaking her head. “That building belongs to the club and the ol’ ladies. I’m not an ol’ lady anymore.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying the pain beneath her stoic exterior.
“The fuck you’re not,” I growled before I could stop myself, taking a step forward. “You are one of us. That doesn’t change.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Monk, but I’m not. Not really. Not anymore.” She swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. “I just want to get a few of my things. That’s all.”
I looked at Kansas, whose expression was unreadable. He simply nodded slowly, understanding in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “Take whatever time you need. There’s no rush.”
Vivi’s eyes flicked to me, then back to Kansas, gratitude and sorrow warring on her face. “I just—” She stopped abruptly, her voice cracking, the words catching in her throat. “I just need to get it done. Get it over with. I can’t keep putting it off.”
I stepped forward before I could think better of it, before my brain could catch up with my instincts. “I’ll walk you over,” I offered, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
Vivi blinked, genuine surprise flickering across her exhausted face. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I said, cutting her off as gently as I could manage. “But I’m offering. You shouldn’t have to do this alone.”
She stared at me for a long moment, studying my face as if trying to determine whether I meant it. Finally, she nodded, her shoulders sagging slightly with relief. “Okay,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “Thank you, Monk.”
Kansas’ gaze met mine over Vivi’s head, and I saw the approval there, the respect. The silent acknowledgment that I was doing the right thing, that this was what brothers did. What family did.
The apartment building was directly across the street from the clubhouse compound, close enough that you could see the comings and goings of the brothers from the upper-floor windows.
It was an old three-story structure, the kind that had been built in the seventies and hadn’t been updated since.
Faded brick that had once been a deep red but had turned rust-colored over the decades.
Peeling paint on the window frames, exposing the rotting wood underneath.
A rusted metal staircase leading up to the second floor, its railing wobbly and loose in places.
Kansas ordered the building retrofitted for apartments for the club members shortly after the massacre, turning what had been a crumbling eyesore into something functional.
A safe haven. A place where the club could keep everyone close.
Though none of us really stayed there anymore.
After the massacre, all of us refused to leave the clubhouse.
We slept in the common rooms, crashed on couches, bunked together in the spare rooms. We couldn’t stand the thought of being separated, of being alone, of being vulnerable.
The top floor of the building, the penthouse, belonged to Kansas and Kali, though they rarely used it, unless they needed a night away from the kids.
They lived just outside Lawton, in a massive house Kali spent close to a year renovating.
The second floor was broken up into two smaller penthouses, one for the VP and the other for the sergeant at arms. The ground floor was made up of several smaller apartments for the club brothers who didn’t hold a patch.
Vivi and Pence had lived on the second floor, in a corner unit overlooking the street.
I followed her up the stairs, the metal creaking and groaning under our weight, each step echoing in the quiet afternoon air.