Chapter 9 #2
"Noted," Xavier replies. "But it's my mistake to make."
Asher's jaw works. He looks like he wants to argue further, wants to lay out all the reasons this is a bad idea, all the ways it could go wrong. But he just nods once—sharp and controlled and pissed off. "Fine. But when this goes sideways, don't say I didn't warn you."
He stands and walks out without another word. The front door opens and closes with deliberate care—not a slam, but close enough to convey his displeasure. Close enough to make his point.
"He's pissed," Zay observes unnecessarily.
"He'll get over it," Xavier says, but he sounds less certain than his words suggest. Sounds like he's trying to convince himself as much as us.
I stand, suddenly needing to move, to do something. "When do we leave?"
"Give me an hour to make some calls," Zay replies, already pulling out his phone. "Let people know you're coming. We don't want to walk into an ambush."
"You think they'd—" I start.
"I think we don't take chances," he interrupts, voice hard. "Not anymore. Not with you."
The protectiveness in his tone makes something twist in my chest. Warmth and guilt tangled together.
"Okay," I agree. "One hour."
Xavier catches my hand as I pass his wheelchair. His grip is strong, stronger than it was even a week ago. "Be careful," he says quietly. "Johnson's looking for any excuse to challenge our authority. Don't give him one."
"I won't."
"And Val?" He tugs me closer, voice dropping lower so only I can hear. "We're okay. Last night—we're okay."
The reassurance makes my eyes burn with unshed tears. Because we're not okay. We can't be okay as long as I'm keeping this secret. But I nod anyway. "We're okay."
I squeeze his hand and head to the back of the house to change.
One hour until we face the club. One hour to prepare for whatever's coming. One hour before everything potentially falls apart.
I close my eyes and try to remember what Xavier felt like last night. Try to hold onto that feeling of being present, of being alive, of forgetting everything except his hands on my body.
But the memory is already fading.
And the fear is creeping back in.
Always the fear.
Always the guilt.
Always the knowledge that I'm one revelation away from losing everything.
An hour later, I'm in the passenger seat of Zay's truck, heading back toward the compound. The drive is quiet. Uncomfortable. Neither of us quite knows what to say or how to navigate this new awkwardness between us.
"You okay?" he asks finally, breaking the silence.
"Fine."
"That's a lie." He doesn't look at me, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "But I'll let it slide for now."
I glance at him. He's gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are white, bloodless. There are dark circles under his eyes—he's not sleeping. Probably hasn't been sleeping well for weeks, maybe months.
"Are you okay?" I ask, turning the question back on him.
"No," he says with brutal honesty that catches me off guard. "Everything's falling apart and I don't know how to stop it. Don't know if I can stop it."
The admission surprises me. Zay's usually so controlled, so confident, so certain of his place in the world. Hearing him sound lost, hearing that crack in his armor, makes something twist painfully in my chest.
"We'll figure it out," I offer, even though I'm not sure I believe it anymore. Even though I'm not sure there's anything left to figure out.
"Will we?" He finally looks at me—just for a second before returning his eyes to the road. But that second is enough. I see the doubt, the fear, the exhaustion. "Because from where I'm sitting, we're one bad decision away from losing everything. The club. The businesses. Each other."
I don't have a response to that. Can't offer empty reassurance when he's right.
We pull up to the compound thirty minutes later. The parking lot is fuller than I expected—bikes and trucks everywhere, packed tight like sardines. More vehicles than I've ever seen here on a weekday afternoon.
"That's not good," Zay mutters, killing the engine.
"Why are there so many people here?" My stomach twists with apprehension.
"No idea. But I don't like it."
We climb out. I'm wearing my Raiders jacket—the one Xavier gave me months ago, worn leather that smells like him—over a black tank top and jeans. Armor. Statement of belonging. I need them to see that I'm still one of them, still part of this, still invested.
The front door opens before we reach it. Jackie stands there, arms crossed, expression unreadable but tension in every line of her body.
"Heard you were coming," she says without preamble. "Didn't believe it until I saw Zay's truck pull up."
"Surprise," I reply, trying for lightness and missing by a mile.
"Everyone's in the clubhouse," Jackie continues, voice flat. "Word got out you were showing up. They all wanted to be here. Wanted to see if the rumors were true."
"What rumors?" Zay asks sharply.
Jackie just looks at him. Doesn't answer. Doesn't need to.
"That's—" I start.
"Potentially a problem," she finishes. "Yeah. Thought you should know before you walk in there and get blindsided."
Zay and I exchange glances. This just got infinitely more complicated.
We follow Jackie inside. The compound feels different than it did a month ago—more tense, more hostile, more predatory. Eyes track us as we walk through the common areas. Conversations stop mid-sentence when we pass. People stare openly, no pretense of subtlety.
The clubhouse doors are closed. I can hear the murmur of voices on the other side—a lot of voices, layered and overlapping.
"Ready?" Zay asks quietly.
"No. But let's do it anyway."
He pushes the doors open.
The room is packed. Every member seems to be here, plus prospects, plus some of the old ladies and hangers-on. Easily fifty or sixty people crammed into a space meant for maybe thirty. The air is thick with smoke and tension and barely suppressed hostility.
The conversations die when we enter. Every eye turns to us. The silence is deafening.
Johnson is standing near the bar, drink in hand. He smiles when he sees me—not friendly. Not welcoming. Predatory. Like a shark spotting blood in the water. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to show her face."
"Johnson," I acknowledge, keeping my voice level and controlled.
"Heard Xavier got out of the hospital," he continues, taking a deliberate sip of his drink. Letting the moment stretch. "That true?"
"Yes."
"Interesting." He sets his glass down with exaggerated care.
"Because I went by to visit him two weeks ago.
Wanted to check on our president, you know?
Pay my respects. But they told me he'd already been discharged.
Signed himself out against medical advice.
" He pauses, lets that sink in. "But nobody here seemed to know where he was.
Nobody could tell me where our president disappeared to. Funny, that."
Shit. I can feel Zay tense beside me, can feel the shift in the room's energy.
"So where is he?" Johnson presses, voice getting louder. "Where's our president? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been hiding him. Like you don't want us to see him. Makes a man wonder why that might be."
The room is silent. Waiting. I can feel the weight of their attention, the suspicion, the doubt that's been festering for weeks.
"Xavier's recovering," I say carefully, choosing each word with precision. "At a private location where he can get proper rest and medical care without constant interruptions."
"Interruptions," Johnson repeats, tasting the word. "That's an interesting way to describe visits from his own club members. From the people who've bled for him, who've followed him, who deserve to know if their president is even capable of leading anymore."
"He needs rest—"
"He needs to show his fucking face!" Johnson's voice rises, cutting through the room like a knife.
"We've been running blind for a month. No leadership.
No direction. No president. Just you and these two—" he gestures vaguely at Zay and presumably Asher, though Asher isn't here, "—telling us what to do, making decisions, spending our money, with zero accountability. "
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the room like a wave.
"Xavier's recovering," Zay says, voice hard and dangerous. "He was in a coma for three weeks. He nearly died. He took a bullet that was meant for someone else. He needs time to heal."
"How much time?" someone calls from the back of the crowd. I can't see who through the press of bodies.
"As much as he needs," Zay replies firmly.
"That's not good enough," George speaks up from where he's been standing quietly in the corner, observing.
His voice is reasonable, calm, measured—which makes him infinitely more dangerous than Johnson's aggression.
"We're hemorrhaging money. Losing territory.
The Vipers are circling like sharks. Our protection rackets are dead.
Our legitimate businesses are failing. And our president is what?
Playing hide and seek? Having a nice vacation while the club burns? "
"He's healing," I insist, but I can hear how weak it sounds.
"Then bring him here," George continues in that same reasonable tone.
"Let us see him. Let us evaluate his condition with our own eyes.
Let us know he's actually capable of leading this club.
Because right now? We don't know anything.
We don't know if he's recovered or if he's permanently disabled.
We don't know if he can walk or if he's in a wheelchair for life.
We don't know if he can fight or if one punch would put him back in the hospital.
We don't know anything except that you're hiding him from us like he's some dirty secret. "