Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Lina
The smell hit me first.
Smoke and charcoal and roasting meat rolled through the open truck windows the second I pulled into the Diamondback clubhouse compound, rich and savory enough to make my stomach tighten with sudden hunger.
I eased the truck into a spot near the edge of the lot and killed the engine, then just sat there for half a second with my hands still on the wheel, taking it all in.
The place looked like something out of another life—one I’d once brushed up against without ever truly stepping into.
Loud. Rowdy. Full of movement. Full of people who knew exactly where they belonged.
The barbecue was in full swing. A massive pig turned slowly on a spit over an open fire pit, its skin crackling and golden, fat dripping into the flames below with sharp little hisses.
Several grills were scattered across the yard, manned by brothers in cuts and faded jeans, flipping steaks and burgers and hot dogs with easy, practiced movements.
Long tables had been set up in the shade of the clubhouse, covered with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and loaded down with food—potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, corn on the cob, baskets of rolls still wrapped in dish towels to keep them warm.
At the far end, a dessert table groaned beneath pies, cakes, cookies, and brownies stacked in generous homemade rows.
Children darted through the yard in wild zigzags, their laughter high and sharp and contagious, weaving between clusters of adults like they owned the place.
Brothers stood in loose groups with beers in hand, talking and laughing and shoving each other with the easy physical affection of men who trusted one another with their lives.
Women moved between the tables with paper plates and serving spoons, refilling dishes, wiping down spills, checking on kids, talking over each other in the casual rhythm of people used to doing life together.
It was chaos. Beautiful, warm, living chaos. The kind that should have overwhelmed me. Instead, sitting there with the sun on my skin and smoke in the air, it felt strangely inviting.
I climbed out of the truck and moved around to the passenger side, opening the door for Dad. The late morning heat wrapped around me immediately, and somewhere to my left somebody whooped loud enough to make half the yard laugh.
“Ready?” I asked.
He grinned like a man heading to a county fair instead of a biker clubhouse. “Hell yes.”
I unfolded the wheelchair, locked it into place, and helped him transfer carefully from the seat into it.
Once he was settled, I adjusted the footrests and tucked the truck keys into my back pocket before starting toward the gathering, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels.
We had barely made it ten feet when a familiar voice boomed across the yard.
“David!”
I looked up to see Blackjack striding toward us with a grin broad enough to split his face.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his cut hanging open over a black T-shirt stretched across a solid chest, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail.
He moved with effortless swagger—the kind that said he was comfortable in his own skin and equally comfortable taking over whatever situation he stepped into.
“Blackjack,” Dad said, his whole face lighting up with genuine pleasure. Before I could fully process that, Blackjack reached us and gently—but very firmly—nudged me aside with his hip. “I got him, Lina,” he said, already reaching for the handles, his tone easy but not remotely open to debate.
Before I could protest, he had full control of the wheelchair, those big hands of his settling over the grips like this was the most natural thing in the world.
“David doesn’t want to stand around chatting with the ladies,” Blackjack said, glancing down at my father with a conspiratorial grin. “Ain’t that right?”
Dad barked out a laugh and slapped his palm up for a high-five. Blackjack met it with a crack that turned half the nearby heads, and then the two of them were off—Blackjack steering him toward a knot of brothers near the fire pit while Dad looked entirely too pleased with himself.
I stood there blinking, my hands still hovering in midair where the wheelchair handles had been a second earlier.
What just happened?
“Lina!”
I turned to see Kansas walking toward me with a beer in one hand and an easy smile on his face.
He was tall and lean, his presence commanding even in the middle of all that relaxed chaos.
His cut sat perfectly over a plain white T-shirt, his faded jeans worn in all the right places, and there was something about the calm way he carried himself that made it obvious why men followed him.
He looked every inch the president—steady, watchful, entirely in control.
“Kansas,” I said, smiling back despite myself.
“Glad you made it,” he said, stopping in front of me. “How’s the farm holding up?”
“Surviving,” I said lightly. “Barely, but surviving.”
Kansas chuckled under his breath and took a sip of his beer. “Monk’s working on that,” he said.
My chest tightened at the mention of John’s name.
Monk. I still wasn’t used to hearing other people call him that. To me he was still John—my John, if I was being dangerously honest with myself. “He is,” I said quietly.
Kansas studied me for a beat, and something in his expression softened. “He’s a good man, Lina,” he said. “I know he’s got his demons. Hell, we all do. But he’s a good man.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to say much of anything, and Kansas gestured toward the tables with the neck of his beer bottle. “Your girl’s over there,” he said. “Near the dessert table. Can’t miss her.”
I followed his gaze and felt my breath catch.
There, near the tables, John stood with Tatum perched on his shoulders like she’d been riding there her whole life.
Her little legs dangled on either side of his neck, pink sneakers bumping lightly against his chest, her fingers tangled in his hair for balance.
She had a cookie in each hand—one chocolate chip, one oatmeal raisin—and she was grinning so hard her cheeks had gone pink.
John had one hand resting over one of her calves, casually steadying her while he talked to a young woman standing beside him.
She was petite and pretty, with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and an animated face that seemed built for big emotions.
She wore jeans and a simple tank top and talked with her hands, gestures flying in every direction like she couldn’t possibly keep all her excitement inside her body.
She looked comfortable with him. Familiar.
My stomach twisted before I could stop it.
Who is she? I started walking toward them, my pulse kicking up harder with every step. John saw me almost immediately. His head turned, his eyes locked onto mine, and his mouth curved into a slow, devastating smile that made my knees feel suspiciously less reliable.
The young woman followed his gaze and turned toward me, and the second she saw my face, her whole expression lit up like Christmas.
“Oh my God!” she squealed. Before I could so much as blink, she launched herself at me and wrapped me in a tight, enthusiastic hug.
“You’re Lina,” she said breathlessly. “I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you!
John’s told me so much about you—well, not told me exactly, because apparently grunting counts as communication in your family now—but I could tell, you know?
He’s been different lately. Happier. Lighter.
Like he finally has something to live for again.
And Tatum is adorable. I mean, she looks just like you, obviously, but she’s got John’s eyes, don’t you think?
And the way he looks at her—God, I’ve never seen him like this.
He’s always been so serious and closed off, but now—”
She pulled back but kept her hands on my shoulders, her eyes suddenly shining with tears. “I’m just so happy you’re back,” she said, her voice cracking around the words. “I’m so happy he has you. Both of you.”
I stared at her, mind scrambling to catch up, and then it clicked.
Abigail. John’s sister. The girl he had protected all these years. The one he’d stayed in WITSEC for. The one he had raised when he was barely more than a kid himself.
“Abigail,” I said softly.
She nodded hard, grinning through the lingering shine in her eyes. “Abby,” she said. “Everyone calls me Abby.”
My throat tightened so fast it almost hurt. This was the girl John had sacrificed everything for. The one he had stayed alive for. The one he had loved fiercely enough to build his whole life around protecting her. And she was hugging me like I already belonged to her world.
“It’s so good to meet you,” I said, my voice thick.
Abby beamed at me. “You too. I’ve been waiting forever to meet you.”
Before I could even figure out how to answer that, another voice cut through the noise behind me.
“Lina?”
I turned, and my heart leaped.
Vivi. She stood a few feet away with her hands clasped in front of her and a tentative expression on her face, like she wasn’t entirely sure how this moment was going to go.
She looked different than I remembered—older, thinner, shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before—but her smile was the same.
Warm. Genuine. Soft enough to crack something open in my chest.
“Vivi,” I breathed, and then I was moving before my brain had a chance to catch up. I closed the distance between us and pulled her into a hug, and she hugged me back just as tightly, her whole body trembling a little in my arms.
“I missed you,” she whispered.
“I missed you too,” I said, my voice breaking right down the middle.
We pulled back, both of us laughing through the tears and wiping at our faces like idiots.
“God, look at us,” Vivi said, shaking her head. “Crying at a barbecue.”
“Speak for yourself,” I said, trying for dignity and failing miserably. “I’m not crying.”
“Liar.”
We both laughed, and for one fragile, perfect moment, it felt like no time had passed at all. Like we were still sitting on her porch with cheap wine and nowhere else to be, talking about everything and nothing. “How are you?” I asked softly.
Vivi’s smile faltered just a little. “I’m... managing,” she said. “It’s been hard. But I’m managing.”
I squeezed her hand. “I’m here now. If you need anything.”
“I know,” she said, tears brightening her eyes again. “Thank you.”
A sudden burst of shouting and laughter snapped my attention away so fast my neck actually jerked.
I turned toward the sound and felt my stomach drop.
Near the fire pit, a scuffle had broken out.
Kansas and John each had a little girl locked in their arms, holding tight around squirming, kicking bodies that were clearly seconds away from going feral again.
Kansas barely contained a furious blonde-haired child, whose face was red and furious as she thrashed and shouted.
John had Tatum caged against his chest, his big arms wrapped around her while she twisted like a wildcat in miniature.
His expression was somewhere between amused and deeply exasperated.
“Let me go!”
“She started it!”
I hurried over, heart pounding hard enough to make my ears ring. “What happened?” I demanded.
Kansas let out a tired groan and tightened his hold on the little girl as she tried to lunge again. “What always happens,” he said in a tone of absolute resignation. “Hellraiser can’t control her temper.”
I turned to Tatum, planting my hands on my hips in the universal mother stance. “Tatum Jane,” I said sharply. “What did you do?”
Tatum’s face was flushed crimson, her eyes blazing with outrage. “She’s the one!” she shouted, pointing furiously at the little girl. “She’s the girl who made fun of me at school! She said her daddy was alive and president of a biker club, and then she laughed because my daddy was dead!”
My entire body went rigid. Heat shot through me so fast it was almost dizzying as I turned slowly back toward Kansas and the girl.
Kali, who had been standing nearby, went still and then gasped. “Talia Marie Stone,” she said, her voice low and dangerous enough to slice through the noise around us. “Is that true?”
Talia’s mouth snapped shut. She glared at the ground, jaw locked tight, refusing to answer.
“Talia,” Kali said again, sharper now. “Answer me. Did you say that to Tatum?”
Talia’s silence was answer enough. Kali’s face went pale, then red.
“Mrs. Worthington!” she shouted. A moment later a middle-aged woman appeared, walking toward us with two small boys attached to her hips by a rope, like a pair of feral little hostages.
They were identical twins, filthy from head to toe—mud-splattered, chocolate-smeared, clothes soaked and stained as if they had spent the morning wrestling in a swamp.
And they were grinning like it was the best day of their lives.
“Yes, Mrs. Stone?” Mrs. Worthington asked calmly, as if this was not even close to the strangest thing she had seen all week.
Before Kali could say another word, Talia let out a shriek. “TRIGGER!”
And then, out of absolutely nowhere, a club brother came barreling into the scene like chaos itself had grown legs.
He was tall and wiry, with a grin full of bad ideas and a cut hanging open over a faded T-shirt.
Trigger, apparently. Without breaking stride, he scooped Talia right out of Kansas’ arms and took off running.
Talia erupted into delighted laughter, shrieking as he carried her away like a sack of potatoes.
Around us, the brothers burst into applause, catcalls, and outright cackling as Trigger disappeared around the side of the clubhouse.
Kali stood there for a full second with her mouth hanging open, hands on her hips, staring after them in disbelief. “TRIGGER!” she bellowed after him. “YOU’RE BOTH GROUNDED!”
The laughter only got louder. I stood there staring after them, my brain struggling to keep up with what had just happened. Beside me, John was grinning, his arms still wrapped securely around Tatum. “Welcome to the family, baby,” he said in that low, amused voice of his.
I looked up at him, and despite the chaos, the shouting, the mud-covered twins, and the child fight that had nearly turned into a full-scale brawl, I felt myself smile.
Because this was a family—a messy, loud, chaotic, imperfect family. And standing in the middle of all that noise and heat and laughter, I realized I wanted more of it than I was ready to admit.