She righted herself with a sad laugh and then leaned back into me.
We sat there until the world went quiet again—just the two of us. Still whole, still holding the line, still fighting.
Even if the people we loved didn’t quite know how to fight for us in return.
Not yet.
CHAPTER 30
HARLAN - FRIENDLY DEBATE
Ava’s words wouldn’t stop replaying in my head.
"Tell me you’re not part of the problem."
I’d been telling myself for nearly a year that I was trying. That I was fighting the good fight from inside the walls. But trying didn’t mean anything when the walls kept closing in and the rot kept spreading. A year of chasing ghosts through paperwork, a year of watching Voss rot everything she touched, a year of silence where I should have been anything but.
And now she wasn’t answering my calls.
Not that I blamed her.
It had taken me a day to call, and I could only imagine how that had fueled her fire. A day too long. After almost twelve months of telling her to trust me, I’d hesitated when it mattered.
But the station had been on edge ever since she left. The tension between me and Voss hung in the air like static before a storm. Officers were choosing sides without realizing they were doing it. I could feel it. See it in the way they stood, the way they paused mid-sentence around me. The way they looked over their shoulders like they were waiting for something to crack.
I’d started my own documentation quietly. Nothing official yet, notes, discrepancies in reports. Repeat names, overlap between Erin’s intakes and Ava's or Remi’s clients. I was building a file, slowly, deliberately. Because if I was going to clean this place up, I needed to be sure. I needed to move smart.
But every second I spent on internal rot meant one more second that the outside world had to wait.
And the outside world wasn’t waiting quietly.
That morning, I got the call I’d been dreading.
Another MC flare-up. This time it wasn’t some backroad confrontation or bar scuffle; it was public. Midday. Another gas station. But this time, civilians were involved.
Cole Dawson and Logan Maddox.
Hammer and Spike.
Of course.
I pulled into the scene just behind one of our black-and-whites. It wasn’t a full-on brawl yet, but it was close. Blood had already been drawn. Their crews were spread out in small clusters, tension thick in the air like diesel and sweat. One man had a cut on his jaw; another had a bruise already blooming around an eye. No weapons drawn… yet.
Cole stood near the pumps, arms crossed, jaw tight. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Controlled, but heavy.
Logan, on the other hand, leaned against his bike like he was posing for a goddamn poster. Grinning, shirt half-untucked, blood drying at his lip. He looked like he wanted someone to throw the next punch so that he had an excuse to keep fighting.
I stepped between them.Again.
“This what we’re doing now?” I said. “Trying to see who can rack up the most property damage before lunch?”
Cole looked at Logan. Logan looked back, unbothered.
“Just a conversation,” Cole said, voice low.
Logan smirked. “Friendly debate.”
“Bullshit,” I snapped. “This is the third incident in two months. You’re both pushing it.”
