Chapter Ten
Mason
Mason wandered into the dimly lit garage, the scent of oil and metal thick in the air.
Most of the brothers had already turned in for the night, but for him, sleep felt miles away.
He watched Bear methodically polishing the tank of a half-finished custom bike, the big man’s movements slow and deliberate, giving Mason the space he needed to talk without feeling rushed.
“I’m fucking this up,” Mason said finally, voice rough.
“Willa’s been in our lives more than two years now, and Chase still feels like a guest in what should be his own home.
He’s polite. Too polite. Calls her ‘ma’am’ sometimes when he’s distracted, like she’s one of the old ladies instead of my woman.
I see the way he watches us—he gets all kinds of quiet, careful.
Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. ”
Bear didn’t look up right away. He ran the cloth over a curve of chrome, then finally straightened, fixing Mason with that steady, no-bullshit stare he was known for.
“You think the kid doesn’t like her.”
Mason let out a harsh breath. “Wouldn’t blame him. Willa’s nothing like what he’s used to. She laughs too loud, leaves her skateboards all over the damn porch, argues with me about everything from dinner to club business. After Carrie—” He stopped, jaw tightening at the name.
Bear nodded once, understanding. “Carrie Sosa.”
“Yeah.” Mason’s voice dropped. “You’ve heard the stories.
How my kid grew up in pure chaos. Lies stacked on lies.
People using him as leverage, forgetting him when it was convenient, or dragging him through whatever mess she cooked up next.
Then he finally gets to me, and I bring another woman into his life.
I keep wondering if he sees Willa as just one more person who’s gonna leave when things get hard. ”
Bear set the rag down and leaned against the workbench, crossing his massive arms. “You’re wrong, brother. Dead wrong.”
Mason raised an eyebrow.
“Chase likes Willa,” Bear said flatly. “More than that—he respects the hell out of her. Kid looks up to her. I’ve seen it.
The way he listens when she’s talking tech with Myron.
The way he relaxes when she gives you shit for burning the burgers again.
How she’s a gentle and patient mother to Garrett.
She’s been through fire and come out stronger on the other side.
Smart. Tough. Doesn’t take shit from anybody—not even the national president.
That’s rare. Chase sees that strength. It means something to him after everything Carrie put him through. ”
Mason rubbed a hand over his face, the tension in his chest shifting but not fully easing. “He barely talks to her unless I’m right there.”
“Because he’s figuring out where he fits now,” Bear replied.
“Boy spent years surviving in Carrie’s world—watching her burn bridges, watching her use people up and toss them aside, plus knowing she died the way she did.
That leaves scars. Deep ones. Then he lands here with you, finally has a father who gives a damn, and suddenly there’s a woman in the house who loves you openly.
Who sticks. Who laughs in the kitchen like she belongs there.
That’s new. That’s scary for him. Don’t force it. ”
Mason was quiet for a long moment, letting the words sink in.
He pictured Chase at the dinner table the other night—how his oldest son had actually smiled when Willa teased him about his terrible taste in music.
How Chase had quietly asked her a question about one of her old hacking stories when he thought Mason wasn’t listening.
“Roll slow,” Bear continued, voice low and steady. “Let him come to her at his own pace. Kid’s got good instincts. He’ll get there. Just make sure the door stays open and you keep your ass in check. For the love of God, don’t try to shove him through it.”
Mason exhaled, some of the weight lifting from his shoulders. “Didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“You’re trying to fix everything at once,” Bear said with a half smile. “That’s what you do. But Chase isn’t a problem to solve. He’s your son. And he’s tougher than you think—tougher than Carrie ever gave him credit for.”
Mason pushed off the wall, nodding slowly. The knot in his gut had loosened, replaced by a cautious kind of hope.
“Thanks, brother.”
Bear picked up the rag again. “Anytime. Now go home. Your woman’s probably waiting up, wondering why her man’s out here worrying instead of in bed with her.”
Mason huffed a quiet laugh as he headed for the door, the night air cooler against his skin. Maybe he’d been seeing threats where there were none. Chase was still finding his footing—with the band, with the club, and with Willa in their lives.
All Mason could do was make damn sure the foundation was solid enough for all of them.
***
Chase
Chase sat on the tailgate of his truck in Bear’s driveway, the late-afternoon sun warm on his back.
The garage door was open, tools still scattered from the afternoon’s work, but his mind wasn’t on the bike they’d been wrenching on.
It kept circling back to the same thing, the night a couple of years ago when he’d finally worked up the nerve to tell Mason he wanted to prospect.
“Come see me when you’re eighteen, boy.”
The words still stung. Chase rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the concrete. He’d expected pride. Respect. Something. Instead, he’d gotten laughter and a door slammed in his face.
The side door creaked. Mason stepped out, two beers in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He tossed the water to Chase without a word and leaned against the truck beside him, cracking open a beer.
They sat in silence for a minute, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. Not since Kath.
“What’s on your mind?” Mason lifted the beer and took a deep swallow. “Can see there’s something there. Something going on.”
“I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m eighteen now.”
“No shit. I got a belly full of that cake Willa made you both times. Were good parties.”
“They were.” He searched around for words, anything that would let him lead the conversation to where he wanted it to go.
“You still pissed about that night?” Mason asked quietly, eyes on the tree line.
Of course he knew exactly where this was going.
Chase shrugged. “Not pissed. Just—I don’t get it. You patched in at sixteen. Everyone knows the story. Fought some guy named Ripper and won your patch the same night. Why tell me to wait?”
Mason took a long pull from the bottle, then set it on the tailgate. He stared at it for a few moments, like he was seeing something else entirely.
“Wasn’t as simple as the story makes it sound,” he said finally.
His voice had that low, rough edge it got when he was digging up old shit.
“I was sixteen. Fresh off a bus from Kentucky with nothing but holes in my pockets and DeeDee on my arm. Winger vouched for me, but the club didn’t hand out patches like candy.
Deacon made it clear, if I either beat a member in a no-holds-barred fight or took a beating and showed I could stand back up, I’d have earned my shot. ”
Chase shifted, turning to face him fully. He’d heard pieces before but never the whole thing. Never from Mason like this.
“I fought Ripper,” Mason continued. “Big bastard. Mean. Five years older than me and built like a brick shithouse. Whole club was watching. Deacon dropped his hand, and Ripper came at me like a freight train.” A ghost of a smile touched Mason’s mouth.
“I sidestepped, hit him three times in the kidney, danced away. He went down hard. Got back up slower the second time. By the third, I had his wrist, pulled him in close, and drove his face into my knee. Nose crunched like a goddamn eggshell.”
Chase let out a low whistle. “And that was it? You got your patch?”
Mason shook his head. “Not quite. Deacon looked at me standing there unmarked while Ripper was bleeding on the ground and said, ‘All right, boy. You’ve earned your chance. Get a vest. What’ll we call you?’”
Mason met Chase’s eyes then, stormy gray to stormy gray.
“I told him ‘Mason.’ Just...Mason. Because that was the only thing I had left that felt like mine. Not Davy. Not my old man’s name. Not whatever bullshit they wanted to slap on me. Just Mason.”
Chase swallowed hard. The knot in his chest that had been there since he was twelve—since that first diner meeting—loosened a fraction.
“I didn’t tell you the full story before,” Mason said quietly.
“Figured you weren’t ready to hear it. But you need to understand something, son.
I fought for that patch because I had nothing else.
No home. No family that wanted me. I was running from Kentucky, from my father, from everything that tried to break me.
The club was survival. It was the first place I ever felt like I could stand on my own two feet and make people respect me. ”
He paused, looking down at his scarred hands.
“You? You’ve got options I never had. You’ve got music.
You’ve got Kath. You’ve got a father who sure as hell wants you around, even when I fuck it up.
Prospecting at sixteen would’ve been you trying to prove something to me.
I didn’t want that for you. I wanted you to choose it because it was your path, not because you thought it was the only one that would make me proud. ”
Chase stared at the ground and cleared his throat. “I thought...I thought you didn’t think I was good enough.”
Mason’s hand landed heavy on the back of Chase’s neck, squeezing once.
“Boy, you’re better than I ever was at your age. That’s what scares me sometimes.” He let go and picked up his beer again. “Now that you’re eighteen, if you still want it, we’ll talk on it again. But Chase, whatever you choose—music, the club, both, neither—I’ll have your back. Always.”
The silence stretched again, but this time it felt different. Lighter.
Chase took a breath. “Thanks...Dad.”
Mason’s shoulders relaxed. Just a fraction. But Chase saw it.
“Yeah,” Mason said gruffly. He turned the beer up and drained the bottle. “Anytime.”
***
Willa
Willa was waiting when she heard the deep rumble of Mason’s bike turn onto their street. She listened closely—no other engines followed. Just him. Perfect.
She checked the nursery security feed, glad to find Garrett still sleeping peacefully, recharging his batteries for more two-year-old fun later in the day.
A wicked little grin spread across her face.
Quick as a flash, she twisted her bra backwards, unhooked it, and tossed it dramatically down the hallway towards the bedrooms. Then she lifted the front of her shirt and blew a cool stream of air across her nipples, watching with satisfaction as they tightened instantly.
“Yeah, girls,” she murmured, “get ready to show our man a good time. He’s had a long day of being all intense and paternal.”
The garage door rattled down. Willa struck what she hoped was a seductive, artistic pose in the kitchen doorway—one arm draped gracefully overhead, the other hand already tugging at the grippy socks she’d been wearing around the house because her feet got cold.
When Mason walked through the door, he stopped short and stared at her. Willa knew what he was seeing in that moment. It was his pregnant, slightly sweaty wife hopping on one foot, shirt half-lifted, swearing under her breath as the sock refused to cooperate.
“Willa, babe. What’s going on?” He crossed the room in two strides, steadying her with one big hand on her hip while the other took over sock removal.
Willa burst out laughing, the pose collapsing completely. “I was going for a sexy surprise! Clearly the universe had other plans.” She pointed towards the hallway. “Toss them over there by my bra. I had a whole plan. Nipples were primed and everything.”
Mason’s low chuckle rumbled out as he tossed the socks. “Nipples were primed?”
“Extremely.” She tried to strike the pose again but was laughing too hard to stay upright. “Oh shit—pregnancy bladder. When I come back, remind me to show you my nipples. They’re very impressive right now.”
She bolted for the bathroom, Mason’s deep laughter following her down the hall. A minute later, she returned, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with that slightly deranged humor she knew he loved so much.
Mason was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with open affection. “You’re a menace, woman.”
“A pregnant menace,” she corrected, stepping into his space and sliding her arms around his waist. “I heard Chase stayed late talking to you. How’s our boy?”
Mason’s hand settled on the swell of her belly, thumb brushing gently. “He’s figuring shit out. Girl’s got him twisted up in the best way. Reminds me of another stubborn soul who wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Willa grinned up at him. “Good. He deserves someone who sees him, not just the president’s kid. And I’m glad he’s around more. This house felt too quiet before he moved down here.” Her expression softened. “You’re a good dad, Mason. Even when you’re being all growly and protective.”
He leaned down and kissed her—slow, deep, and full of the kind of love that had only grown stronger with time. When they broke apart, Willa rested her forehead against his chest.
“Come on, old man,” she murmured, taking his hand. “Bedroom. I still owe you a nipple viewing, and I’ve got plans that involve you, me, and significantly less clothing.”
Mason’s fingers twined with hers as they started down the hall. Willa grinned, gripping her discarded bra and the pair of grippy socks between her toes like a ridiculous victory flag, swinging them with every step.
Mason glanced down and shook his head, laughter rumbling through him again. “God, I love you.”
“Yeah,” Willa said, squeezing his hand tighter. “I know.”