Chapter 2
CLUTCH - KEEP YOUR HOUSE TIGHT
The party wasn’t planned; it was supposed to be a closed-door meeting that escalated as it has lately. Church was called by Angel. It was supposed to be just the tight inner circle. No outside noise.
Blood Reapers were seen three counties south last week. Not passing through, staying. Two of their prospects were spotted near a gas stop just inside our territory, and they were asking questions they shouldn’t have been asking. Which has everyone on edge because Preacher doesn’t drift. He hunts.
We shut down a northbound run yesterday because of it. That costs money and patience. Men like us don’t like standing down when they’re wired to move.
So the meeting bled into drinks. Drinks bled into music and music bled into the club girls calling friends. Now the clubhouse feels like it’s vibrating from the inside out. Bass rattles the rafters, as smoke hangs under the lights. Denim and leather move in waves across the main floor.
I lean against the bar, nursing something I’m not really drinking, and watch the room. This place feels alive to me. It’s not pretty or soft… fuck it’s not even clean. But to me it is everything, I grew into a man in this place… it's ingrained into me.
Angel stands near the head table, speaking low with Ledger. To look at his posture you would think he is calm. But I know beneath that controlled presence everything that has been going wrong lately.
Razor’s across the room, arm draped around Mara like he owns the air she breathes. He doesn’t and Angel would be the first one to tell him that, but he likes people to think he does.
Mara is our club president’s sister; some would call her the club princess.
She laughs at something Razor says, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I’ve noticed that lately, the tightness around her mouth. The way she scans rooms like she’s mapping exits.
Razor’s fingers dig into her hip just a little too firm. I clock it as Razor being possessive, then scan the room again.
Four’s posted near the back wall, arms folded across his wide chest, watching the crowd without looking like he is. His ol’ lady, Dani, sits beside him on the couch, legs tucked under her, boots kicked off, hand resting comfortably on his thigh.
That’s loyalty. I envy how they are so solid.
Four doesn’t touch any other women. Doesn’t look twice at anyone who isn’t Dani. That’s the difference between a man and a boy in this life.
Razor’s eyes drift, but not to the girls grinding near the speakers.
I watch as his eyes land on the hallway. Why do I feel like he is looking for her?
Bex isn’t here, she’s on shift. One of her night rotations.
I check my phone without meaning to. Nothing.
It’s probably a good thing she is working, she hates nights like this. Says it makes the compound feel feral, like a frat house on steroids.
I don’t see it that way. This place is ours. We built it, protected it… so many have bled for it. This is our home.
She sees the noise and the girls. The aftermath of a hard day celebrated.
I see perimeter checks and rotation shifts. I see the way Angel keeps two prospects sober at all times when tension’s high.
Especially right now. Blood Reapers don’t respect lines, Preacher especially. The fucker preaches purity and practices cruelty.
We’ve crossed paths once before. Didn’t like the way he looked at the girls near the back table, like livestock.
Angel doesn’t tolerate predators inside these gates.
Outside? That’s a different story and that’s what’s got everyone wound tight.
Someone cranks the music louder. A cheer erupts near the bar, as a bottle smashes against concrete and rowdy laughter follows.
Mara shifts under Razor’s arm and he tightens his grip, then whispers something against her ear that has her stiffening.
He’s always been rough around the edges, but lately it’s different. He seems quicker to temper, with a short fuse. Constantly running his mouth about respect like he’s daring someone to question him.
Angel hasn’t corrected him. Yet.
Four steps up beside me.
“You’re quiet,” he says.
“Watching.”
He nods once. Four isn’t one to needle or fuck around. His loyalty runs deep and quiet. He doesn’t waste breath on surface talk.
“You taking north patrol tomorrow?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I answer.
He grunts approval.
Kori makes her way over to us, bottle bleach blonde and barely wearing clothes, and drapes herself over my shoulder.
“You hiding over here, Clutch?” she asks, voice sweet and practiced.
I gently remove her hand without looking at her.
“Keep your hands to yourself, you know I am married.”
She laughs like that’s a joke, but I don’t laugh with her and eventually after Four and I ignore her long enough she drifts away.
Four watches the exchange, but says nothing. Everyone knows that I am a taken brother.
There was a time when I didn't go home alone. When I didn’t sleep in the same bed twice and didn’t care whose name I forgot. Then I walked into an ER at two in the morning with Axel bleeding through his sleeve and saw her.
Chestnut hair pulled back tight, not an ounce of makeup, with the clearest blue eyes I have ever seen. She didn’t flinch when she cut the shirt off Axel to reach the wound. Didn’t blink at the ink on my arms or my cut and didn’t ask stupid questions.
When I leaned too close, she looked me dead in the eye and said, “You can wait outside or you can behave. Those are your options.”
Her clear blue eyes didn't hold any fear and she definitely wasn’t flirting. She stood her ground, set her boundaries and got to work.
I went back the next week with a sprained wrist I didn’t have. But it took her three months to agree to go out for coffee with me.
I stopped seeing other women before she even said yes. Not because she asked, because it didn’t make sense to touch anyone else once I knew what she felt like in my orbit.
Bex is younger than me, by almost 15 years.
But she holds a maturity to her that you don’t normally see in women her age.
She can come off cold, people say that… especially some of the rough around the edges brothers.
They say she’s standoffish, too sharp, too controlled.
They worry that she thinks she is better than us.
But, they don’t see her in our room when she laughs so hard she snorts and covers her mouth like she’s embarrassed. Or the way she curls into my chest when she finally falls asleep after a shift. They don’t see the softness she guards like a treasure.
She had to be strong long before me. That’s why she doesn’t trust easily.
I know that, but it kills me that she still doesn’t trust this place.
Angel approaches around three in the morning.
“Blood Reapers were seen south of the line again,” he says quietly. “And they weren’t just passing.”
My shoulders square when I ask, “Preacher?”
He nods, “His men.”
Fuck. Preacher doesn’t send men unless he’s planning something.
“We tighten patrol,” I say.
“Already in motion.” He studies the room, then adds, “Keep your house tight.”
I know what he means and it’s not just security. He’s talking about optics. Telling brothers to keep your ol’ ladies in check, make sure your house is in order when shit hits the fan.
Which makes me anxious because Bex doesn’t blend in here. She doesn’t smile for show or flirt for sport.
Some of the girls resent that, although the ol’ ladies seem to respect her. And some of the brothers misread it. Razor definitely does. He’s always had his eye on her and I am not sure exactly why.
Sometimes I think it’s because possessive men don’t like women they can’t possess. But other times…
Mara shifts again under his arm, and her eyes flick toward the exit again.
Something tightens in my chest.
I’ll talk to him. Not tonight. But soon.
The party thins after four and girls disappear into spare rooms, while some of the older brothers pass out where they sit.
I head upstairs alone and sit on the edge of the bed listening to the music through the walls.
I picture her driving through those gates at dawn. Tired, guard up and already braced for this place. I don’t want her to tolerate this life. I want her to love it.
I can’t wait to see her pregnant with my kids. Can’t wait to start a family with her.
She says she wants the house first and I already talked to Torch about materials and blueprints. I’ve been pricing lumber, while measuring the far edge of the property near the trees.
I want to build it before she asks again to show her I’m serious. That I want what she wants. We can have it all. But I won’t build it outside the compound.
Family belongs inside these gates, where we can protect it. Where brothers stand watch.
She thinks that’s toxic.
I think that’s loyalty.
When she finally walks through that door hours later, eyes tired, shoulders tight, all I see is my wife. Not the noise downstairs or the tension with Blood Reapers.
Just her.
I don’t smell the whiskey on myself or cringe at the music the way she does, I don’t see the stains in the carpet or the glitter on the floor.
I just see the woman who changed everything without even trying.
So I reach for her and when she stiffens, when she tells me about the girl she treated, about walking through my brothers with their hands all over women, I hear judgment where there’s only exhaustion.
When she says she’s not in the mood, I hear rejection.
And instead of asking what she needs…
I say something about options.
The second it leaves my mouth, I want to take it back. Because I see how she flinches, how she chokes down her reaction. Fuck.
But my pride is apparently faster than regret. So while she is in the shower scrubbing off her day, I grab my boots and my cut. I walk out before I have to see the look in her eyes.
Because I know it won’t be anger, it will be disappointment and that one cuts deeper.