Chapter 10
Saturday brought sunshine and the smell of charcoal.
Trish woke to the sound of activity in the compound lot—voices, laughter, the clatter of tables being set up. She dressed quickly and made her way downstairs to find the entire club preparing for what looked like a block party.
"Cookout," Claire explained, appearing at her elbow with a stack of paper plates. "We do it every couple months. Good for morale."
"In the middle of a war?"
"Especially in the middle of a war." Claire pressed the plates into her hands. "Life doesn't stop just because people are trying to kill us. Besides—the boys need to blow off steam, and the old ladies need an excuse to cook too much food."
Trish looked at the lot, filling with brothers and bikes and the first wisps of smoke from the grill. It felt surreal—a party, while Warren Zielinski was out there planning his next move.
But Claire was already walking away, and Trish was left holding plates with no choice but to help.
She found a folding table near the food spread and started arranging things. Plates, napkins, plastic utensils. Basic setup. The kind of work she'd done at a hundred neighborhood events.
Then she noticed the tablecloth—or rather, the lack of one. Just bare plywood on sawhorses, rough and splintered and completely unacceptable.
"You have a tablecloth anywhere?" she asked Molly, who was setting out a massive pot of baked beans.
Molly laughed. "Honey, these are bikers. They're lucky we have tables."
"That's not going to work."
Trish found an iron in the laundry room, a white sheet in the linen closet, and fifteen minutes later had the food table looking like something that wouldn't give people splinters. The old ladies watched her with expressions ranging from amusement to approval.
"She's something else," Natalie said to Claire.
"Stockton's got good taste."
Trish pretended not to hear. But something warm settled in her chest anyway.
The cookout filled the lot by noon.
Brothers sprawled in lawn chairs, beers in hand, trading jokes and insults with the easy familiarity of men who'd bled together.
The old ladies clustered near the food, managing logistics with the efficiency of women who'd done this a hundred times.
Prospects ran errands, fetched drinks, tried to look useful.
And at the grill, Stockton stood beside Alpha, flipping burgers and talking in low voices.
Trish watched them from her spot near the food table. The two men moved together like they'd been doing this forever—which, she supposed, they had. Twenty years of brotherhood. Twenty years of building something together.
Alpha said something that made Stockton shake his head. Then Alpha clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, leaving Stockton alone at the grill with smoke rising around him like a frame.
He looked up and caught her watching.
She didn't look away.
Something passed between them—acknowledgment, invitation. He tilted his head slightly, a gesture that clearly meant come here.
She grabbed two beers from the cooler and crossed the lot.
"Burgers look good," she said, handing him a bottle.
"Secret's in the char." He took a long pull and turned back to the grill. "You settling in?"
"I ironed a tablecloth for the food table. I think that qualifies as settling."
His mouth twitched. "The old ladies will never let you leave now."
"There are worse fates."
They stood together at the grill, the smoke drifting between them, the noise of the party swirling around like background music. It felt comfortable. Natural. Like they'd been doing this forever instead of just a week.
"Tell me about the early days," she said. "You and Alpha. The beginning."
Stockton was quiet for a moment, flipping burgers with practiced attention. When he spoke, his voice was rough with memory.
"We were twenty-two. Stupid, angry, convinced we were invincible." He shook his head slowly. "The neighborhood was bleeding out. Gangs moving in, cartels pushing product, nobody doing a damn thing about it. So we decided to do something."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. Five guys in a garage with bikes and bad attitudes. We didn't have a plan. Didn't have resources. Just knew that someone needed to stand up, and no one else was volunteering."
"What happened?"
"We started hunting." His eyes were distant, seeing something she couldn't. "Found the worst predators and put them down. One by one. Block by block. Made it clear that Back of the Yards had protectors now."
"And it worked?"
"Eventually. After a lot of blood. After we buried friends who shouldn't have died young." He turned to face her. "Building something worth keeping takes sacrifice. Always does."
The words landed with weight. Trish thought about Mae, pouring her life into a laundromat. About Danny, working construction to pay off student loans he'd never live to clear. About herself, spending ten years keeping lights on because someone had to.
"I understand sacrifice," she said quietly.
"I know you do." His voice softened. "That's why I trust you."
A younger brother appeared at the grill—one of the prospects, looking nervous. "Stockton, Alpha wants you at the table. Something about the next move."
"Tell him I'll be there in five."
The prospect hurried away. Stockton turned the last of the burgers onto a waiting platter and handed it to Trish.
"Food's ready. Get yourself a plate before the animals descend."
"Aren't you eating?"
"Church first. Then food." He touched her arm—brief, warm, the casual contact of a man who was used to touching what was his. "Save me a seat?"
She nodded. He walked away, and she watched him go—the weight in his shoulders, the way brothers moved aside to let him pass, the quiet authority that followed him like a shadow.
Then she carried the burgers to the food table and let the party swallow her.
The afternoon stretched long and lazy.
Trish ate burgers and coleslaw and some kind of potato salad that Molly swore was a secret family recipe. She listened to brothers tell stories about runs gone wrong and bar fights won. She watched the old ladies manage chaos with practiced grace.
And she watched for Stockton.
He emerged from the chapel around two, his expression harder than it had been at the grill. Whatever they'd discussed wasn't good news. But when he saw her saving him a spot at the end of the bench, something in his face eased.
He sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched.
"Bad news?" she asked quietly.
"Warren's regrouping. Moving his operation to a new location." His jaw tightened. "We'll find him. But it's going to take time."
"And the laundromat?"
"Still standing. Brothers on rotation." He picked up a burger and took a bite. "You'll be back behind that counter soon. I promised."
"You keep saying that."
"I keep meaning it."
They ate together in comfortable silence, watching the party unfold around them.
Alpha and Claire slow-dancing near the fire pit to music playing from someone's phone.
Fang arm-wrestling a prospect and winning in three seconds flat.
Lakeshore and Tess sitting apart from the crowd, talking quietly about something that made her laugh.
"This is what you built," Trish said. "All those years ago. This is what it became."
"This is what it became." Stockton's voice was heavy with something—pride, maybe, or wonder. "We didn't plan it. Didn't know it would grow into... this. We just wanted to protect one neighborhood. Now we've got family."
"Family."
"Pack." He looked at her. "Same thing."
The sun was setting now, painting the sky orange and pink above the industrial skyline. The party was winding down, brothers drifting toward their bikes or their rooms, the energy shifting from celebration to comfortable exhaustion.
Trish helped Claire clean up the food table, washing dishes in the industrial sink, wrapping leftovers in aluminum foil. Domestic work. Normal work. The kind of thing she'd done a thousand times.
But it felt different here. Surrounded by people who'd accepted her without question. Protected by men who killed to keep their own safe.
By the time everything was put away, she was bone-tired.
The common room was quiet, most of the brothers gone to bed or out on patrol. She sank onto the worn leather couch and let her eyes close, just for a moment.
Just for a moment...
She woke to darkness and the smell of leather.
The compound had gone quiet, the last of the party cleaned up, the lot empty except for a few bikes gleaming under the security lights. She was still on the couch, a folded blanket tucked under her head that she didn't remember putting there.
And across her legs—heavy, warm, familiar—was a leather jacket.
Stockton's jacket.
She recognized the patch, the worn seams, the smell of motor oil and soap that clung to the leather. He'd covered her. While she slept. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She lay there for a long moment, the jacket across her legs, his scent surrounding her.
It should have felt strange. Presumptuous, maybe. A man she'd known for barely two weeks, covering her with his cut like she was already claimed.
But it didn't feel strange.
It felt like safety.
It felt like home.
Trish pulled the jacket higher, letting it settle against her shoulders, and closed her eyes again.
And for the first time in years, she fell asleep knowing someone was watching over her.