The bar hums low, bass-heavy and thick with smoke. Sweetbutts drift between tables, skin glinting under the neon lights. Laughter rolls across the room, a sharp and careless, the kind you hear right before a fight breaks out.
I nurse my beer slow. I'm long past the days of chasing what walks by. Doesn't mean I don't look. Just means I know better. Half the women in this place have been through half my club, maybe more.
I've seen what passes for love in this world. And I've buried what's left of it. Pussy might be pussy to some men, but not me. I learned that lesson a long time ago. I had my time.
Now it's time for my boys to enjoy theirs. Well, most of them. Rook sits on my left, quiet as always, jaw tight. The kid never smiles much. Never did. The twins' stunt thirteen years ago carved that right out of him. He watches the room like he's waiting for it to bleed.
Across the bar, Blaze and Ash, my middle boys, hold court near the pool table. Fire and calm, just like their road names. My chaos and control.
They are the perfect storm. Four years in the Marines didn't burn the darkness out of them. Just taught them how to hide it better. They're the new enforcers now. It was my call, but the club voted it. The vote passed easy. Everyone in the club knows they can handle heat.
Ace is upstairs. Sixteen and restless, probably playing games with Joker, the foster kid I picked up a few years back. Both of them under prospect watch. These two kids too young for this world. Too close to it anyway, but that's my fault. I don't have any other choice.
The party's just getting loud when the thought hits.
Quiet.
Mean.
Unwelcome.
Same whispers running through town again. Pills showing up in school lockers. Girls disappearing from the next county over. That smell of rot creeping back into clean streets. The kind of rot I spent years burning out of this town. I know where it comes from. It always traces back to the old man.
No matter how hard I try to build something better for Rook when he takes the gavel… the past keeps crawling back. Losing their mom didn't help either. God knows I didn't handle it well. Most fathers move their kids somewhere safe after something like that. I moved mine into a biker clubhouse. Not many people would approve.
But we may not wear the one-percent patch anymore…
Doesn't mean we don't get our hands dirty. Some of the men who deserved it were never found. I watch the boys laughing, music thumping under their boots. Everyone thinks we're safe again. That I cleaned house and closed the gates for good. But the twist in my gut says otherwise.
I catch Rook's eye across the bar. He knows. He doesn't ask, just gives a slow nod. He's heard the same talk.
The Dead Line MCC was supposed to be different. My father turned it into a carnival of poison and flesh. When I took the gavel, I dragged the club out of that fire by its teeth. I had to bury a few old loyalties to do it.
But it worked. At least for a while. Now the air feels too thick again. I drain the last of my beer and set the bottle down.
"Keep an eye on the new blood," I tell Rook quietly.
He nods once.
Then the twins explode into laughter, Blaze slapping Ash's shoulder, and the whole room turns toward them. The tension cracks like a bottle against concrete.
The boys are home. My family's together. For one night, I let that be enough.
The party roars louder. Someone kills the lights except for the neon glow above the bar. Music shakes the walls.
The twins are in the center of it all—Blaze running his mouth while Ash laughs one of those rare laughs that come from deep in the chest.
Rook lifts a glass near the jukebox.
"To my brothers," he calls out.
"The prodigal twins are home."
Cheers explode across the room.
Wild.
Raw.
Even I feel the ghost of a smile pull at my mouth. For a second, the noise feels good. It feels right. Then a prospect's voice cuts through it.
"Bear!"
It's not loud. But it's urgent. The kind of tone that quiets a room without trying. He pushes through the crowd, phone clutched in his hand, eyes too wide.
"Call for you," he says. "Says it's important. Detective Marlowe."
My stomach goes cold. We've done work for Marlowe before. Most of us are Bounty hunters. Tracking down trash no one else wanted to touch.
But a call here? During this? That's not business. I take the phone and step into the hallway where the music fades behind me.
"Marlowe," I grunt.
"Bear." His voice is tight. "We've got a situation. You might want to sit down."
I don't sit. I never have. Nothing suprise me anymore. One of my guys are either hurt or in trouble for him to call this late.
"Talk."
A pause stretches across the line.
"Month ago we pulled a kid out of a raid on a dope house," he says. "Bad shape. Beaten. Half-dead. She's been in a coma at Cloverdale General."
My jaw tightens.
"She woke up this morning."
"Why're you calling me?"
Another pause. I could feel the quiet radiate. Because the next words matter.
"Because she's yours."
They don't land right at first. Just hang there in the air. Mine. That isn't right. My wife is dead.
"What the hell you mean mine?"
"Blood test," Marlowe says. "The girl's blood type is rare. We ran it through the registry when she needed a donor. Got a hit."
My fingers tighten around the phone.
"Yours."
Silence floods the hallway.
"She's twelve," he continues quietly. "Name's Sunny. Your name's listed on an old hospital record from her birth. Mother used an alias."
Sunny.
Jesus Christ.
I lean against the wall.
" 12." I say. Then it hits me. Monica. The only woman I dated after my wife died.
What's her condition?"
"Stable," he says. "Weak, but alive."
Alive.
"She's asking questions."
My throat tightens.
"We need to know if you'll take custody," Marlowe adds. "It's your call, Bear. But I'll be honest… it's bad."
My blood starts boiling. If Marlowe says it's bad, then someone hurt my girl. And someone's going to pay.
"You want to meet her?" he asks.
The laughter from the bar filters down the hall. Blaze laughing loud and careless. It slices straight through my chest.
"She's in Cloverdale?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"She got anyone?"
"No."
I close my eyes for a second.
"I'll be there tomorrow."
"Bring protection," Marlowe says. "I've got people on the floor, but this hospital's got money and influence breathing down its neck."
The line goes dead. The phone feels like a slab of ice in my hand. Out there in the hospital, is a daughter I didn't know existed. I push off the wall. My jaw tight. I steady my heart. The way it has to be when you're about to start fixing things.
"Rook!" I bark over the music.
He looks up from the bar.
"Church. Fifteen minutes."
Short.
Sharp.
Code for something serious just broke.
"Now?" he asks.
"Now."
He nods. He asks no questions. That's why he runs point. I grab my jacket from the chair. The laughter behind me sounds different now. Like the last normal noise I'll hear for a long time.
Because tomorrow…
I meet my daughter.