Vic leaned his head back against the seat as they pulled away, the warehouse shrinking in the rearview mirror.The fight had burned off some of the restless anger that had been simmering in him for days, but it hadn’t touched the deeper ache.
Bonnie was still there, quiet and sharp in the back of his mind.
He wondered if she’d ever let him back in.
***
Back at the clubhouse, the mood was heavy.
Mason was already waiting when Bear’s truck pulled into the lot, the national president’s massive frame silhouetted in the doorway like a storm cloud.Vic’s knuckles throbbed in time with his pulse as he climbed out, shirt torn at the shoulder, blood drying on his hands.The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight was crashing now, leaving behind a familiar hollow ache.
Bonnie still hadn’t answered a single text.
Days and days of silence.So many days and nights of staring at his phone like a fool, replaying the way she’d looked at him when he said he loved her—the flash of panic, the walls slamming down.
He’d thought the club, at least, was solid.A place where he belonged, where people didn’t disappear when things got real.
Now even that felt like it was slipping.
Bear gave him a quick nod—stay calm—and they walked inside together.
Mason’s stare was ice-cold as Bear laid out what had happened.The room was crowded with patched members, the air thick with cigarette smoke and tension.Vic stood off to the side, jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral even as frustration and exhaustion warred inside him.
“You’re not patched,” Mason said flatly, looking Vic over from head to toe.“You’re not even a prospect.You had no business swinging in club business.”
The words landed like a slap.
Vic met the older man’s gaze steadily, though inside he felt the sting of rejection.These men—Bear, Hurley, Pinto, even Mason—had started to feel like the family he’d never really had.People who showed up.People who had his back.Now they were looking at him like he was an outsider who’d overstepped.
“Bear needed help,” Vic said, voice low but firm.“I wasn’t gonna stand there and watch him get jumped.Not when I could do something about it.”
A few of the older members muttered.“Reckless fool like that, we don’t need it.”“Way out of line.Hell, even our prospects earn their place.”“This guy is some kind of hothead, jumping in like that.”
Disfavor settled heavy in the room, thick as the smoke.
Vic’s chest tightened.He’d thought he was earning trust.Thought stepping up when it counted would mean something.Instead, he felt the same old isolation creeping back in—the same feeling he’d had watching his father chase ghosts while the world moved on without him.Not one of us.
Bear stepped forward, voice steady.“He handled himself.Took one down clean, disarmed the guy with the knife.Didn’t ask questions, didn’t hesitate.Kid’s got good instincts.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed on Vic.“That true?”
Vic nodded once.“Did what needed doing.”
The president stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, the weight of that gaze pressing down like judgment.Then Mason jerked his chin toward the bar.
“Sit.We’ll talk later.”
Vic obeyed, dropping onto a stool and flexing his split knuckles.The pain was almost welcome—something real to focus on besides the radio silence from Bonnie and the side-eyes now coming from men he’d started to care about.
***
The next few days weretense.
Vic kept his head down.He helped around the clubhouse when asked—swept the garage, restocked the bar, ran errands with Hurley and Pinto—but stayed far away from any club meetings and kept his mouth shut.He could feel the standoffishness from some of the members.The way conversations quieted when he walked into a room.The subtle distance.
He wasn’t one of them.He was the outsider who’d stuck his nose into club affairs, no matter how well he’d handled himself.
It stung more than he wanted to admit.
