Rush sat with his ass on a poof.

They were looking at each other.

And they were smiling.

For that moment . . .

Free.

As they knew, it wouldn’t last.

And it didn’t.

Amends

Beck

Nine thirty-seven, Wednesday evening, one week later . . .

Core’s fist in his, thumbs hooked, holding strong, chest to chest, partially holding him up, he handed Beck a wet towel.

Beck took it and slopped it across his face, the blood from his nose and the tear in his lip staining the white crimson. He should have ice. He could already feel his eye swelling.

He didn’t ask for ice.

Core had been the last. The man hadn’t held back.

And now he was holding Beck up.

“Done, over,” Web said, landing a hand on both Beck’s and Core’s shoulders.

Web looked hard into Beck’s eyes.

Then he nodded.

And with that, Web moved away.

Beck turned his head and got Core also staring in his eyes and not letting go of his hand.

“Good?” Core asked.

Beck drew in a breath, gave his head a shake, lifted the towel back to his bleeding lip and nodded again.

Core swayed him by their hands, held another few beats then let him go.

When he did, Grill was right there, grinning, “You are one serious hardass and one crazy fuck. I love it.” He got close and slapped Beck on the back, causing a wave of pain to roll through his torso. “Glad that’s done, brother.” And he too looked right in Beck’s eyes. “Resurrection, Beck,” Grill finished on a whisper.

Yeah.

Not quite.

But it was coming.

Beck nodded at him too.

“Table, brothers,” Spartan called.

His first few steps were unsteady, considering, to make amends to his club, he’d just endured each member delivering two full minutes of a beatdown on Beck, and he couldn’t swing a fist.

But he got it together and saw the brothers had laid the tables back out after they’d concluded their last round of business.

It wouldn’t be a priority, but it wouldn’t be too down the line, Beck got them a better fucking table.

He headed to his usual seat, but Web called out, “Brother. Vote was cast.”

He looked to Web.

Shit.

They were all crazy fucks.

With the towel held to his mouth, he went to the head of the table.

He couldn’t beat back the groan as he sat.

And sitting there didn’t feel good.

Even after the brothers got theirs back, each one of them, cleaned the slate, put him through that, he took it. But before that happened they voted to give him this if he could stay standing, and he’d stayed standing. It didn’t feel good.

He wondered if it ever would.

They had work to do.

“Get ’em, Rainman,” Spartan said.

They were all sitting. Rainman got up, went to his saddlebag that he’d thrown on the floor by the wall and pulled something out.

A plastic bag weighed down with what was inside.

He came back to the table, and like he was tossing Frisbees, patches went flying.

Beck’s hand shot out when one skidded toward him.

He stopped it, turned it on the table and stared down.

More patches came sailing.

A top rocker. A bottom rocker.

The top said Resurrection. The bottom said Colorado.

And the first patch was a biker with long black hair flowing straight back and a maniacal grin on his face, sitting a bike riding out of a wall of flame.

Another patch came sailing, a lot smaller, and he trapped it under his hand.

He lifted his hand and saw it said Beck.

And another he caught, read, and it said Original.

One last one came sailing his way.

When he lifted his hand, he saw it said President.

Right.

They had work to do.

He pounded his fist by the patch and everyone looked at him.

“We know our next order of business is how we earn this patch,” he announced. He then pounded the biker riding from the flames with the side of his fist. “We don’t stitch this on until the work gets done, brothers. But we have to be all in. Unanimous. Now vote.”

It had been a long meeting.

They’d talked about a lot.

It hadn’t been easy.

But it surprised him that it also hadn’t been hard.

Except the part they beat him to shit.

But he’d stayed standing.

They knew what they were now voting on.

They knew the path Beck was leading them on.

They knew it was long and they knew it was far reaching, and they knew it would be grueling.

And when he demanded the vote, not a one of them hesitated.

“Aye,” Web said.

“Aye,” Rainman said.

“Aye,” Grill said.

“Aye,” Eightball said.

“Aye,” Spartan said.

“Aye,” Muzzle said.

“Aye,” Core said.

Shit, but he’d underestimated these men.

And they’d underestimated themselves.

That ended tonight.

Beck nodded, took the towel from his mouth, slammed the side of his fist on the table again and announced, “Passed.”

Tack

Five twenty-eight, Sunday evening, one week and three days later . . .

“Pass the roast.”

“More potatoes, please.”

“What’s for dessert, Dad?”

Tack looked at his daughter who was seated at his right. “Tyra’s on top of dessert.”

“Pudding parfaits!” Tyra declared victoriously.

He grinned at his plate.

He’d made pot roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, caramelized carrots and fresh rolls.

His woman had opened a tub of readymade pudding and Cool Whip and layered them in some glasses.

And all he could think was he hoped there was some Cool Whip left.

He then looked to his left.

“Pass the rolls, darlin’.”

Rebel grabbed the basket of rolls and handed it to him.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he muttered.

“No problem, Tack,” she muttered back, nabbing her own roll after he got his then reaching for the butter plate.

She offered it to him.

“Go first,” he ordered.

“You grabbed your roll first.”

He looked in her eyes. “Go first, Punk.”

She rolled her eyes at him. She rolled her eyes at Tyra. She grinned at Tabby.

Then she grabbed her knife and sliced into the butter.

Perfect fit.

She was a perfect fit in his family.

His boy done good.

“I like this new Sunday food trannition,” Cutter declared through a mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“Tradition,” Tyra corrected.

“Whatever,” Cutter muttered.

“Bud,” Tack grunted. “Respect.”

Cut glanced at Rebel then stared fixedly at his plate.

Rider was over it.

Cut’s crush had remained.

Tack sighed.

“I like it too!” Ride piped up. “Dad says he’s gonna teach me how to make his stuffing next week.”

“Stuffing next week? Righteous,” Tabby murmured, alternately eating and shoving food in the mouth of Playboy in his highchair next to her.

“I’m not sure you can get more righteous than this pot roast,” Rebel remarked before forking some of it covered in potatoes and gravy into her mouth.

“Babe,” Rush, sitting at Tyra’s left, caught his girl’s eyes down and across the table.

After she swallowed she said, “The stuffing? Really?”

“Serious,” he replied.

“Whoa,” she mumbled.

“Hey, have you managed to cook for Rush yet, Rebel?” Tyra asked.

“I made him toast this morning,” Rebel answered.

“Toast,” Cutter snickered.

“It had melted butter and cinnamon and sugar. It was da bomb,” Rush looked after his girl.

“It was toast,” Rebel replied, staring at her man, looking peeved.

“Yeah. And it was great toast,” Rush retorted.

“Can I have cinnamon and sugar on my toast, Dad?” Rider asked.

“Note how my son asks his father about nourishment,” Tyra stated. “I can safely say my work is done.”