Too many moving parts. Too many ways for this to go wrong. But I was committed now. The message had been sent. The meet was set. All I could do was show up and hope I walked away. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but all I could see was that abandoned gas station, dark and empty and waiting.
Waiting for me to make the biggest mistake of my life.
Or the smartest move I ever made.
I wouldn’t know which until it was too late to turn back.
Chapter Seven
Alex
The Gods of Mayhem clubhouse looked exactly the same as it had four years ago. Same peeling paint on the exterior walls. Same row of motorcycles lined up like soldiers outside. Same faded club banner hanging over the entrance, the Greek gods depicted in faded glory, their faces worn by time and Texas weather.
I spent my childhood here, running through these halls while Oscar attended church meetings, hiding in corners and listening to things I wasn’t supposed to hear. Back then, it had felt like a fortress. A place where the men who wore the patch were invincible, untouchable. Now it felt like a trap as Oscar escorted me toward church because he didn’t trust me not to run.
He was right not to.
“Remember,” he said, his voice low and serious. “Zeus is asking you as a courtesy. Because you’re my sister. But he’s still the president, Alex. You answer his questions. You show respect. You don’t give him attitude.”
I turned to look at him, taking in the hard set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders. He was worried. Not just about what I might say, but about what Zeus might do if he didn’t like my answers.
“I know how this works,” I said quietly.
“Do you?” His dark eyes searched mine. “Because you’ve been gone a long time. Things have changed. The club’s changed. Zeus isn’t as patient as he used to be.”
And that’s my fault?
But I didn’t say it.
The door opened before we reached it.
Hades stood in the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the light from inside. Brock Davis had always been an intimidating man. Standing at six-four, built like a brick shithouse, with a scar running down the left side of his face from a bar fight years ago. He was Zeus’s right hand, his enforcer when Oscar wasn’t available, and he had a reputation for being ruthless.
“Poseidon,” he said with a nod. Then his eyes shifted to me. “Alex.”
“Hades,” I replied, keeping my voice neutral.
He stepped aside, letting us pass. “Everyone is waiting.”
Of course they are.
Church. The room where the officers met to discuss club business. Where decisions were made and punishments handed down. Where prospects were voted in and members were voted out.
Where interrogations happened.
My stomach twisted, but I kept my expression calm as I entered church. The walls were covered in photos: club runs, parties, memorial shots of fallen brothers. I recognized some of the faces. Others were new; added after I left. The room was exactly as I remembered it. A long wooden table in the center, surrounded by chairs. Club banner on the wall behind the head of the table, where Zeus sat. The air smelled of leather, motor oil, and cigarette smoke. A scent so familiar it made my chest ache with something I didn’t want to name.
Every officer was there.
Zeus at the head of the table, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, his weathered face unreadable. Hades took his seat to Zeus’s right. Atlas—Malachi Stevens, the sergeant at arms, sat to the left, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression hard. Hermes, the road captain, leaned back in his chair, watching me with calculating eyes. Adonis, the secretary, had a notebook open in front of him, pen in hand like he was about to take minutes of a meeting. Caishen, the treasurer, looked bored, but I knew better than to trust that. Easton Hughes never missed a detail. Aries, Marcus Hayes, sat near the end of the table, his scarred knuckles resting on the wood. Hyperion, the tail gunner, was next to him, his expression neutral but his posture tense. Coeus, the club’s tech guy, had his laptop open, the screen reflecting in his glasses. Asclepius, the club doctor, looked like he would rather be anywhere else. And Apollo, the chaplain, watched me with something that might have been sympathy.
And Oscar. My brother. The other enforcer. Standing behind me as he blocked the door.
Twelve men.
Twelve officers of the Gods of Mayhem. All of them looking at me like I was a problem that needed solving.
My ass is grass.
