With her shooting schedule, and the cleanup after Valenzuela’s exit, they got the takeout thing down.

She knew his preferences in Mexican, pizza, Italian, Thai and definitely Chinese.

He also knew hers.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

She kissed his bearded jaw, pulled from his arms and crawled off the bed.

He watched her ass in her jeans as she moseyed to the door.

His eyes lifted when she stopped and turned to him.

“It’ll be okay,” she whispered.

“How do you know?” he whispered back.

“Because it’s time for you all to be free.”

After she gave him that, she gave him a small smile and went through the door, closing it behind her.

He scrubbed his face with his hands.

And he hoped his girl was right.

He was about to get up and follow her when his phone rang.

He dug it out.

Stared at the number.

And with brows furrowed, considering the state of play, even though he didn’t know who it was, he took the call.

If it was a marketing person, he’d hunt them down and strangle them.

“You got Rush,” he greeted.

“Cole, muchacho, it’s Nana.”

He sat up.

“Mamá Nana,” he murmured.

“I hear you’re next up for Chaos.”

Of course she’d heard that.

“Maybe,” he replied.

“Mm . . .”

He held his patience.

She didn’t make him wait long.

“I’m sorry, Cole, my people have been paying attention, but this one is slippery.”

Goddammit.

“I hear, I’ll share with Chaos,” she offered. “Not a freebie, jefecito. A marker.”

There was never a freebie with Mamá Nana, unless your skin was brown.

He respected taking care of your clan.

“Thanks, Mamá Nana.”

“El gusto es mio,” she murmured and hung up.

Christ, Chew wasn’t even on Mamá Nana’s radar.

“Shit,” he whispered. “I hope we’re not fucked.”

Now he had more reason to go out and get a beer, needing to share this not-so-good news with his father.

So he angled off the bed and did that.

Beck

Seven seventeen, Friday evening, a week and a half later . . .

Beck stared out the sliding glass doors in Janna’s living room, seeing nothing and not just because it was dark.

Her hand lighted on his back.

“Honey, come eat something.”

He didn’t move, just stared out the window.

She pressed her hand in at his back just as she pressed her front down his side.

“Beck, honey, please come eat something.”

His phone in his hand rang.

He looked at it, took the call.

“Yeah?”

“Throttle?”

Fuck, he hated that fucking name.

“Who’s this?”

“Tack Allen.”

He closed his eyes.

“Honey,” Janna called pleadingly.

“Amends made, Throttle, blood for blood, you boys’ asses swung way out there. Now step back,” Tack said.

He opened his eyes.

“Not gonna happen.”

“You lost a brother, Throttle. Wear the black. Stitch the patch. Step back. Heal. Stay healthy.”

Griller.

Throat slit.

Got too close.

Gone.

Fucking gone.

“Club’s already voted, Tack.”

“Do not do this to your brothers,” Tack growled.

“We already did it to ourselves and we did that way before the latest vote.”

“Throttle—”

“We got close.”

“Let us handle this.”

“We’re in, Tack. Now we’re in more than we were in and you know it. Even if I tried to talk them down, I’d fail.”

There was a moment of silence.

Then a sigh.

Yeah.

Tack knew Beck would fail at that.

“Be smart,” Tack bid.

Too late for that.

“Yeah.”

Another moment of silence then, “Sorry, my man, know too well how much this cuts. Especially for you, sitting at the head of the table when it happened.”

Beck shut his eyes again.

He opened them.

“Right. Thanks. Later.”

“Later, and Throttle?”

He caught himself from shouting “Beck!” and grunted, “Yeah?”

“Chaos, Resurrection. Brothers sat down. We’re solid.”

A Club like Chaos, what his club had done, Beck wished that could feel good.

He didn’t feel anything.

Strike that, he didn’t allow himself to feel anything because when he did, it fucking killed.

Tack disconnected.

He barely got his phone lowered when Janna had his face in her hands and now she was pressing up to his front.

“Please, Beck, come eat something.”

He looked in her sad, troubled eyes.

He couldn’t have that.

But he couldn’t get rid of the sad. She felt what he felt. It was the way she worked. He knew it because she gave him that, but he also felt what she felt.

If it was right, he was guessing that was just the way of things.

So he couldn’t get rid of the sad, but he could get rid of the troubled.

On that thought, he bent and touched his lips to hers.

After he did that, he took her hand, led her to the kitchen and he ate something.

It tasted like dirt and made him feel sick to his stomach.

But she looked relieved.

So he kept eating.

Pope

Seven o’clock sharp, two weeks later . . .

Jesus, these fucking Chaos brothers.

Pope sat at the cheap-ass folding tables shoved together at Resurrection’s clubhouse, his vice president at his side, watching the Chaos brothers file in.

There was noise outside the room, women’s voices, kids.

They’d brought their families.

Pope did not blame them.

Resurrection’s families were out there too.

Bad times.

Total shit.

Beck sat at the head of the table, no gavel in front of him, that wasn’t how this brother rolled.

Hardcore stood behind him, not a second, a sentry.

These brothers in this newly formed charter were all about the loyalty and making a statement.

Pope had to admit, he was impressed.

And Beck and Core stared down at the table as the Chaos brothers rounded it, each one burying a knife in the cheap particle board at the corner of the table, walking behind Beck, circling the table and walking out.

Except Rush, who, after he buried his knife with the others, he rounded Beck and took a seat.

Tack buried his knife then set a patch in front of Beck.

Pope looked at it.

It said,

Some will walk through the pearly gates . . .

Some will ride.

Griller

Now every time they sat that table, the knives would be gone.

But the scores stabbed in meant Griller would be at that table until they got rid of it.

Pope suspected even as shitty as that table was, in some capacity, it would always remain.

Christ, Resurrection beat down one of their women, they went balls to the wall, one of them falling in a war that wasn’t their own as contrition, Chaos offers mercy.

Yeah, those Chaos brothers were something else.

Pope didn’t know if he could do that.

Though, some biker brother got his throat slit in penitence, he’d find a way to try.

Tack sat next to Rush as the door shut on the last of Chaos.

So word was true. Tack was grooming his son to take over.

Pope knew Rush. Watched him grow up. Partied with him at rallies and on joint rides.

It was a good choice.

“Pope, you called this meeting,” Tack prompted.

“Got word from Sparkle,” Pope started, felt the blast from Beck and Hardcore as their attention focused on Pope, but he kept looking at Tack. “Says this job isn’t worth it, gonna take his pay and have a very long vacation. Put some ears to the ground, the guy has ghosted.”

“Fuckin’ fuck,” Beck bit out.

He turned to Beck.

“I understand your anger, Beck, but this guy ain’t stupid,” Pope shared carefully. “He had one MC lookin’ out for him, that’s one thing. Three, Sebring’s local boys and a shit ton of cops?” Pope shook his head. “He’s gone.”