Big Petey had just said something.

So they were all laughing.

Yeah, that was my favorite.

The men and old ladies had dug up a bunch of pictures and I’d had pretty intense chats with all of them, so the movie wasn’t just fly-on-the wall footage, but also Ken Burn’s style stills with narration.

They’d trusted me with a lot. I knew I didn’t have it all, but they trusted me with so much. It meant the world to me.

And I hoped I’d done them proud.

“Babe?”

I came back into the room at Rush’s call to see all the men’s eyes on me.

Fuck.

I focused on Rush sitting at the head of the table.

And the relief washed through me in a wave.

“Babe,” he repeated.

His voice was thick.

My throat started to feel funny.

It was Boz who started to pound his flat hands on the table.

Arlo joined in.

Speck. Roscoe. Jag. Chill.

Snapper. Joker. Dutch.

Then High, Hop, Hound.

Big Petey was the first to get up while he did it, and all the men left their seats, bent over the table, pounding on the top.

Tack.

And finally Rush.

They all beat their hands on the table, the sound thundering through the room.

Rush’s head was tipped back at me and he was smiling.

I hadn’t let him see even a minute of it.

I was glad for that now.

I let out one of those laughs that was also a sob when the first tear fell just as Boz let out a war whoop.

All the men started whooping.

Then they started chanting, “Punk, Punk, Punk.”

I guessed I had their approval.

I’d get more.

That movie took medals at three indie film festivals, the top one at two.

And it got picked up for limited distribution across the US.

The Chaos MC got even more famous.

And I’d done them, and my husband, proud.

Rush

Two years later . . .

“Babe.”

“What?”

“Babe.”

Rebel, just coming home, bent over scooping up Rhodes, plopped their son with his legs wrapped around her belly and looked to her husband at the stove.

“What?”

“Kiss, first. Then you feed him before I feed you,” he ordered.

“Well hello to you too, boo. Have a nice day?” she replied.

“You’re half an hour late. Kiss. Feed. Then I give you food,” he returned.

She looked down at their boy. “Bossy, boss, bossikins, that’s your daddy,” she shared as she bounced him on her belly.

But she did this coming Rush’s way.

Aiming Rhodes to the side, she gave him a kiss, a promise with her eyes he’d get laid later (not unusual), then she moved to the cupboard to get jars of baby food.

She was over it.

Then again, she was home with her boys, her favorite place to be, so that happened if she got in a minor snit, and it happened fast.

A major snit?

That took an orgasm.

“Shooting go okay?” he asked.

“Shaughnessy’s losing it. She’s freaked out about going legit.” She put the jar of baby food down, their son’s diapered tush to the edge of the counter, covered his ears and turned to Rush. “She can’t act without a blowjob imminent, or at least she doesn’t think so. But if I get her out of her head, she’s really good, Rush. She’s even surprising me.” She looked down at Rhodes who was giggling and pulling at her fingers, thinking this was a game. “Though she only gets out of her head when I give her a take fifteen so she can go off and blow Dryden.”

Rush started chuckling.

Rebel took their son and his food to his high chair.

She put the food on the tray, their son on her hip, and dragged the high chair toward Rush so she could stand close and feed Rhodes while he cooked, all in the family.

Every night the same.

Unless he had the food ready when she got home. Then it was all in the family at the table.

“Come ’round, check dailies with you tomorrow morning,” he murmured to the spaghetti sauce.

“Cool,” she murmured to their son in his high chair then made faces at him and smiled when she made him giggle.

Jesus to the fuck.

He loved his woman.

“Things good with the Club?” she asked, spooning food into their kid.

“Yup,” he answered.

And that was all there was to that.

They’d opened up in Pueblo, it had gone good. Roscoe overseeing that operation and starting the charter.

They were opening up in Durango next year, Speck was going across.

Rebel asked nothing more. She knew it was good. He told her if it wasn’t.

But it rarely wasn’t.

His dad left him a Club that was thriving.

A crazy-cool legacy.

And Rush got off on the growth, the good times, the hog roasts and brother strategy meetings, Sunday night dinners with his dad, Tyra, Ride, Cut, Tab, Shy, Playboy, Wren, his wife and his son, taking his time not with his family rebuilding cars with his dad, going over books, and otherwise generally living the good life with his award-winning wife who was a talented filmmaker, an exceptional mother, a loving wife and a fantastic fuck.

No man could ask for more.

And Rush wouldn’t.

He had it all. Knew it. And he was grateful.

The end.

“Cole, baby, bake up an extra garlic bread. I’m starved. I didn’t have lunch,” she said, back to making faces at their boy while pushing food into his mouth.

Rush didn’t hesitate.

He went to the freezer, hacked apart another two pieces of garlic cheese Texas toast, and threw them on the cookie sheet with the four he already had laid out to shove in the oven.

“Daddy’s totally getting himself some tonight,” she crooned at Rhodes, shoving carrots or peaches or some shit in his mouth. “Yes, he is,” she singsonged. “He knows I love his spaghetti. So it’s all about the goodness for Daddy later when you’re all snug in bed.”

Rhodes bucked back into his chair, slammed his fists on his tray and giggled so hard, carrots (or peaches or some shit) dribbled out of his mouth.

Expertly, Rebel scooped it up with his baby spoon and shoved it back in.

“Babe,” he called.

“What?’” she asked their son.

“Babe?”

“What?”

“Rebel, baby.”

He knew that would do it.

It did.

Her head turned to him.

“What, Cole?” she whispered.

“Love the fuck outta you,” he told her.

Her beautiful face got soft.

Then she pretended to be pissed. “You need to stop F-wording it right now in front of Rhodes.”

He started laughing. “Sweetheart, you just told him we were gonna get busy later.”

“He can’t reason. But he is starting to talk, and I don’t want him to add to muh-muh-muh, dah-dah-dah, tah-tah-tah,” that last was for both Tyra and Tabby, “and gah-gah-gah,” that was for Tack, his granddaddy, “with fuh-fuh-fuh,” she finished.

Rush just smiled at her.

He’d wanted it.

He got it.

Every day an adventure.

Even when, sometimes, it was all the same shit.

“This isn’t funny, stud,” she told him.

He looked back at the stove. “Sure it is.”

Rush put the bread in.

Rebel told their son how annoying his father was.

They ate with Rhodes motoring around the legs of the table.

Rebel gave him his bottle.

After Rhodes was down, they sat out on their deck, stared at the pine trees swaying gently in the night mountain wind, talked about nothing, but did it holding hands.

When they were done with that, they checked on their son, went to their bed . . .

And got busy.

Valenzuela

That same night . . .

He wondered if this was what they all felt, as he hung there on his knees on the bed, his arms over his head, lashed high, wide and taut with leather straps at his wrists connected to the high posts.

Even after the man slipped Benito’s cock out of his mouth that he’d been instructed to keep hard so she could watch it slapping against his stomach as he took the fucking from behind, he wondered.