Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Monk
The clubhouse compound was alive when I pulled through the gates, the whole place vibrating with the kind of restless energy that only came before something important.
Music drifted from the open windows—something classic rock, AC/DC maybe—blending with the scrape of folding tables against concrete, the bark of laughter from near the garage, and the dull clank of tools somewhere off to my left.
The whole lot smelled like gasoline, cigarette smoke, and the first hint of meat waiting to hit hot grills.
Brothers were scattered all over the property: Trigger and Angel bent over a stripped-down bike near the garage, Fifty and Bongo hauling folding tables out of storage with the kind of half-assed teamwork that usually ended in swearing, Lips arguing with Judd about where to set up the grills while Widow heckled both of them from the shade.
It looked chaotic to an outsider. To me, it looked like home.
The energy was different than usual.
Lighter.
Purposeful.
This wasn’t just another party.
This was family.
The kind of gathering that reminded us why we wore the patch in the first place—not for the violence, not for the fear our name carried, not for the blood we’d spilled to hold our ground, but for this.
For the people inside the gates. For the ones we fed, buried, protected, and bled beside.
For the ones who made this place matter.
I killed the engine and swung off my bike, the weight of the bills in my cut pressing against my ribs like a physical reminder of what I’d just taken on. Paper shouldn’t have weighed that much. But those envelopes felt heavier than steel.
Lina’s farm.
Tatum’s legacy.
My responsibility now.
I walked toward the clubhouse entrance, my boots crunching over gravel and cigarette butts, and shoved through the heavy door without slowing down.
Inside, the gathering room smelled like fresh coffee, old wood, leather, and something sweet—cookies maybe, or brownies cooling somewhere in the kitchen.
The mix of scents hit me with a weird kind of whiplash after the farm.
Domestic. Warm. Too damn normal for the storm I had riding under my skin.
The bar was crowded with ol’ ladies: Kali, Vivi, and Joan clustered together in a knot of conversation, talking over one another with easy familiarity, while Shadow leaned against the counter beside them, arms crossed, head tipped slightly toward Joan as if whatever she was saying was the only thing in the room worth hearing.
He looked... content.
More at ease than I’d seen him in months.
Joan had that effect on him.
Kali was talking with her whole body, hands flying as she made some point that had Vivi laughing—really laughing, head tipped back, eyes bright in a way I hadn’t seen since Pence died. The sound of it made something in my chest ease, just a little.
It was good to see.
Good to know she was finding her way back.
I didn’t want to interrupt.
Didn’t want to yank Shadow away from whatever rare moment of peace he’d found. So I turned instead and headed toward the pool table, looking for something simple to anchor myself to before I dealt with the rest of the mess riding on my shoulders.
Blackjack was there, bent over the felt with one eye narrowed, cue lined up like he was sighting down a rifle barrel as he sank the eight ball with a smooth, practiced stroke, the crack of impact sharp in the room, then straightened with that cocky grin of his like he’d just done something worthy of applause.
“Still got it,” he said to no one in particular.
I walked up beside him and crossed my arms, watching the balls roll to a stop. “You playing solo now?” I asked.
Blackjack glanced at me, grin widening the second he got a good look at my face.
“Widow bailed after I beat his ass three games in a row,” he said. “Claimed I was cheating.”
“Were you?”
“Fuck no,” Blackjack said, laughing. “I’m just that good.”
I snorted. “Sure you are.”
Blackjack bent to rack the balls for another game, movements quick and practiced, then asked without looking at me, “You good? You’ve been gone a while.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good.” I wasn’t. Not even close. But I would be, once I handled this.
Shadow must have clocked me from across the room, because a moment later, he peeled away from the bar and headed over, hands shoved into his pockets, expression shifting from easy to alert as he got closer.
“Monk,” he said, giving me a nod. “What’s up?”
I reached into my cut, pulled out the stack of bills—medical statements, past-due notices, bank letters, all of it—and handed them to Blackjack. “I need these taken care of,” I said. “As soon as possible. No delays. No excuses.”
Blackjack took the stack, and whatever humor had been on his face vanished in an instant. He flipped through the papers fast, eyes scanning dates, amounts, account numbers, creditors. His mouth flattened more with every page. Then he frowned.
“What?” I asked.
Blackjack looked up at me, brow furrowed, and held one of the bank statements between two fingers. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said.
I stiffened.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
Blackjack lifted the statement a little higher. “The Wilcox Farm,” he said. “This is their account, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Monk,” Blackjack said slowly, tone turning careful in a way that put me instantly on edge. “The Wilcox Farm is one of the most prosperous operations in the county. Been around for generations. They’ve got contracts with half the ranches in Oklahoma. Their reputation is rock solid.”
“So?”
“So there’s no reason they should be in this kind of trouble,” Blackjack said, tapping the stack with the back of his knuckles. “Revenue down? Clients lost? A farm like theirs doesn’t just start bleeding out unless something else is going on.”
My jaw tightened hard enough to ache. “What are you saying?”
Blackjack met my gaze and didn’t soften the answer. “I’m saying something’s off,” he said. “This isn’t bad luck. It isn’t poor management. Someone’s fucking with them.”
His words landed like a fist to the gut.
Someone’s fucking with them.
I turned to Shadow.
“I want you to investigate,” I said, voice low and hard. “Immediately. I want to know what’s really happening at that farm. Who’s involved. Why they’re in crisis. Everything.”
Shadow’s expression turned serious in a heartbeat. “I’m on it,” he said. “I’ll start digging tonight.”
“Good,” I said. “And, Shadow—”
He looked at me, waiting.
“Be discreet,” I said. “Lina doesn’t know I’m looking into this, and I want to keep it that way until we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
One corner of Shadow’s mouth twitched. “Discreet is my specialty.”
I gave him a tight nod.
Blackjack was still staring at the bills like they’d personally offended him. “I’ll get these paid,” he said. “But, Monk, if someone’s targeting the Wilcox Farm, wiping out their debts won’t solve the problem. It’ll just buy them time.”
“Then we use that time,” I said, “to figure out who’s behind it. And then we deal with them.”
Blackjack’s grin came back sharp and dangerous. “Now that,” he said, “I can get behind.”
The clubhouse door opened and I turned.
And there she was. Abigail.
My sister.
She came in with that easy confidence she had somehow managed to hold onto through everything, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, jeans and leather jacket making her look older than twenty-seven and tougher than most people gave her credit for.
She spotted me right away and smiled—bright, real, the kind of smile that hit somewhere deep because it reminded me exactly why I’d spent my whole life trying to protect her from men like our father and worlds like mine.
“Monk!” she called, already heading toward me.
I couldn’t help it. I smiled back.
“Abby,” I said, meeting her halfway. “What are you doing here?”
She threw her arms around me in a quick fierce hug, then stepped back and planted her hands on her hips. “I heard about the barbecue this weekend,” she said. “Figured I’d come help with prep. Kali said she could use an extra set of hands.”
I glanced toward the bar, where Kali was watching us with a knowing smile.
Of course she’d invited Abby. Kali had a way of pulling people into the fold and making them feel like they belonged there.
It was one of the things I respected most about her.
“You don’t have to help,” I said, looking back at Abby.
“You’ve got your own life. Your own shit to deal with. ”
Abby rolled her eyes. “Monk, I’m not a kid anymore. I can help at a barbecue. Besides, it’ll be fun. When’s the last time we just... hung out?”
I didn’t answer, because the truth was, I couldn’t remember. I’d spent so much time trying to keep her safe, trying to keep distance between her and the club’s world, that somewhere along the way I had forgotten how to just be her brother.
“Okay,” I said finally. “But you stay close. You don’t wander off. And if anything feels wrong, you come find me. Got it?”
Abby’s expression softened. “Got it,” she said as she squeezed my arm, then headed toward the bar calling out to Kali, leaving me standing there with that old familiar knot of protectiveness tight in my chest.
I watched Abby go for another second, then turned and headed for Kansas’ office.
I knocked twice and pushed the door open without waiting.
He was hunched over a desk buried under paperwork, reading glasses low on his nose, pen moving in short, irritated strokes across a ledger.
He looked up, took one look at my face, and jerked his chin toward the chair across from him.
I shut the door behind me and dropped into the leather seat, the old frame creaking under my weight like it already knew this conversation wasn’t going to be easy.
Kansas set down his pen with deliberate care and leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. He didn’t rush me. Didn’t fill the silence. Just watched with that flat, assessing stare of his that always made a man feel like he was already halfway dissected.