Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Monk
The funny thing about happiness is that eventually, when the real world shows up, it will destroy everything.
For the last week, I had been living in a dream.
Waking up next to Lina every morning, her body warm and soft against mine.
Watching Tatum run through the fields, her laughter carrying on the wind.
Sitting at the dinner table with David, listening to him grumble about physical therapy while secretly grinning at his own stubbornness.
It had been perfect.
Too perfect, and I knew, somewhere deep in my gut, it wouldn’t last.
And I was right.
The sun hadn’t risen yet when I slipped out of bed. The room was still dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of dawn creeping through the curtains. Lina was asleep beside me, her hair spread across the pillow, one arm draped over the space where I had been lying.
She looked peaceful, beautiful, and I hated that I had to leave her.
I moved quietly, pulling on my jeans and reaching for my shirt from the chair in the corner. My boots were by the door, my cut draped over the back of the chair. I grabbed my wallet and keys from the nightstand, shoving them into my pockets.
Lina had been busting her ass for the last week as she gathered information, made calls, and dug into Ruby’s accusations with the kind of relentless focus that made her one of the best defense attorneys in the state.
She had barely slept, barely eaten. All to clear my name.
Ruby was still missing. Shadow had been searching for her since she disappeared from her trailer on F Street, but there was no trace. No sightings. No leads. Nothing. It was like she’d vanished into thin air.
Which made everything worse. Because without Ruby, we couldn’t prove the rape charge was bullshit. And without proof, Roberts still had leverage.
I shook my head, pushing the thought away. I couldn’t think about that right now. I had a job to do.
I reached for my cut, the leather heavy and familiar in my hands. The weight of it grounded me, reminding me who I was and what I owed to my brothers. I pulled it on, adjusting the collar, and turned toward the door. That was when I heard her voice.
“Going somewhere?”
I froze, my hand on the doorknob.
Fuck. I turned slowly.
Lina was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled up over her chest, her hair messy and her eyes still heavy with sleep, but she was awake. And she was looking at me with that expression, the one that said she already knew the answer and wasn’t happy about it.
I forced a smile. “Just club business, babe,” I said, keeping my tone casual. “It shouldn’t take too long.”
Her eyes narrowed. “How long?” she asked, her voice quiet but sharp.
I hesitated. “Just a day or two.”
The silence that followed was deafening as Lina stared at me, her jaw tightening, her hands gripping the sheet so hard that her knuckles went white.
“I see,” she said finally, her voice flat.
“Were you even going to tell me you were leaving, or just let me figure it out like last time when I heard something horrible on the radio?”
I exhaled slowly, running a hand through my hair.
“Jesus Christ, Lina,” I huffed, my frustration bleeding through. “It’s just a club run into Texas. Two days, three tops.”
“That’s what you said last time,” she shot back, her voice rising. “And I lost you for seven years.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut.
“You know what?” she continued, her tone bitter. “Never mind. If you die again, don’t expect me to be here when you get home.” She turned away from me, pulling the sheet up higher and giving me her back.
Fuck.
I walked back over to the bed and leaned down, grabbing her face gently but firmly, forcing her to look at me.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner,” I said, my voice low and rough.
“Give me some leeway here, Lina. This relationship stuff is all new to me. When the club calls, I go. I’ve never had anyone waiting at home for me before. ”
Her eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she might soften, but then she narrowed them again. “You had me,” she said quietly. “And you still died.”
I couldn’t help it. I smirked.
“I wasn’t dead last night when I fucked your pussy raw,” I said, my voice dropping into that low, dangerous tone that always made her shiver.
Lina huffed, shoving me away. “Go away, John,” she said, her tone exasperated. “Go do your club thing, whatever it is. Just make sure your ass is back for court on Wednesday, or there will be hell to pay.”
I chuckled, leaning down to kiss her lips quickly before slapping her ass hard enough to make her yelp. “Will do, babe,” I said, grinning. “Don’t know what’s worse—jail or a pissed-off you.”
She sat up quickly, glaring at me.
“Me!” she snarked. “I’m worse!”
I laughed as I closed the bedroom door and left the farmhouse.
The morning air was cool and crisp as the sky began to rise on the horizon. I walked to my bike, swung my leg over the seat, and checked my watch. Right on time. I fired up the engine. The rumble cut through the quiet morning as I headed for the clubhouse.
Whisper and Blackjack were already waiting when I pulled into the compound. Whisper was standing by his bike, cut on, helmet in hand as Blackjack sat impatiently in a truck.
Whisper looked up as I approached, his expression unreadable. “You ready?” he asked.
I nodded. “Let’s ride.”
We didn’t waste time.
No goodbyes. No speeches. No bullshit.
We just fired up our engines and headed out.
The ride to Texas was long, hot, and boring as hell as the Oklahoma countryside stretched out endlessly on either side of the highway—flat, brown, dotted with the occasional farmhouse or gas station.
The sun climbed higher as the morning wore on, beating down on us with relentless intensity.
Sweat dripped down my back, soaking into my shirt beneath my cut.
But I didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down.
We rode in formation—Whisper in the lead, me in the middle, Blackjack bringing up the rear in the truck.
No one spoke. There was nothing to say. This was just business. We kept our eyes on the road, scanning for tails, watching for anything out of the ordinary, but there was nothing.
No unmarked sedans. No suspicious vehicles. No sign of trouble.
Just miles and miles of empty highway.
By the time we crossed into Texas, my ass was numb and my shoulders were tight from gripping the handlebars for hours, but we were close.
Whisper signaled, and we took the exit toward Amarillo.
The meeting location was just outside the city, in a warehouse on the edge of an industrial district. Isolated. Secure. Perfect for this kind of deal.
We pulled into the lot and killed our engines. The silence was immediate and heavy as I climbed off my bike, stretching my legs and rolling my shoulders.
Blackjack hopped out of the truck, groaning under his breath. “Fuck, that was a long drive,” he muttered.
Whisper just grunted, his eyes scanning the area. “Stay sharp,” he warned. “Benedict’s solid, but we don’t know his crew.”
I nodded, my hand instinctively moving to the gun tucked into the back of my jeans.
A moment later, the warehouse door opened, and Benedict stepped out.
He was exactly what Whisper had described.
Big. Intimidating. The kind of man who commanded respect just by walking into a room.
He was easily six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with a thick beard and arms covered in ink.
His cut was worn and faded, the patches telling the story of a man who had been in the life for decades.
And behind him, three of his brothers emerged. All of them were just as imposing.
Benedict’s eyes locked on Whisper first, and a slow grin spread across his face. “Whisper,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. “Good to see you, brother.”
Whisper stepped forward, clasping Benedict’s hand in a firm shake.
“Benedict,” Whisper said. “Appreciate you meeting with us.”
Benedict’s gaze shifted to me, his expression assessing. “This the VP?” he asked.
Whisper nodded. “John ‘Monk’ Smith,” I said, stepping forward and extending my hand.
Benedict took it, his grip strong and steady.
“Heard good things about you,” he said. “Whisper says you run a tight ship.”
“I do what needs to be done,” I said simply.
Benedict nodded, his grin widening.
“I like that,” he said. “No bullshit. Straight to the point.”
He gestured toward the warehouse.
“Come on. Let’s talk business.”
Inside, the warehouse was exactly what I expected, and more.
The space was massive, the kind of industrial building that had seen decades of legitimate business before being repurposed for deals like this.
Concrete floors stretched out in every direction, scuffed and stained from years of heavy machinery and forklifts.
Metal shelving units lined the walls, stacked with crates and pallets wrapped in plastic.
The ceiling was high—maybe thirty feet—with exposed steel beams and flickering fluorescent lights that cast harsh shadows across the floor.
The air smelled like dust, and something metallic I couldn’t quite place.
Every footstep echoed. Every breath felt amplified.
It was the kind of place where sound carried, where you could hear someone approaching from fifty yards away. Perfect for a weapons deal. Or an ambush.
I scanned the room as we walked deeper inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, and that was when I noticed them.
Men. Benedict’s men. They weren’t obvious about it—no one was pointing guns or standing at attention—but they were there.
One leaning against a support beam near the loading dock, arms crossed, eyes tracking our movement.
Another on a catwalk above us, pretending to check inventory but positioned with a clear line of sight to the center of the room.
A third near the back exit, smoking a cigarette, his hand resting casually near his waistband.
Not threatening. But present. Strategically placed.
I felt the tension coil in my shoulders.