Page 70 of Monk

“He’s a good soldier,” I interrupted, my voice hard. “But he’s not a leader.” The room went quiet as Kansas leaned back in his chair, his eyes on me, waiting. I took a breath, forcing myself to stay calm. “Trigger follows orders,” I explained. “He does what he’s told. He doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate. And that’s valuable. But the sergeant at arms isn’t just about following orders. It’s about making decisions. Hard decisions. Decisions that could get brothers killed if you fuck them up.”

Whisper’s frown deepened. “You don’t think he can handle it?”

“I know he can’t,” I said bluntly. “I’ve seen him freeze when faced with authority. I’ve seen him look to someone else to make the call when he should be making it himself. He’s a good brother. But he’s not sergeant at arms material.”

Blackjack nodded slowly. “So, who do you have in mind?”

I met his gaze. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll figure it out. And when I do, I’ll bring it to church.”

Kansas studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Monk’s call. He’s the VP. He knows what the club needs.”

Whisper didn’t look happy, but he didn’t argue. Blackjack just shrugged, and Widow—Widow looked like he didn’t give a fuck either way. Kansas stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “That’s it,” he said. “Get to work. And don’t forget—barbeque on Saturday.”

The brothers stood and filed out of the room, leaving me alone with my coffee and my thoughts as I sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty chair across from me.

Lina had left. Gone home to our daughter, and I was still here. Still trying to figure out how the hell I was supposed to be a father when I didn’t even know how to be a man worth loving, but I would figure it out. I had failed at a lot of things in my life. Failed Lina. Failed myself. Failed in ways that left scars nobody else could see. But this—I couldn’t fail at this. Not with Tatum. Not with Lina. The thought of standing on the outside of their lives forever, knowing I had one last chance to step up and had wasted it, made something cold settle in my gut.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Monk

I pushed through the heavy church door and stepped into the dimly lit hallway, my boots heavy against the worn floorboards that creaked beneath my weight. The clubhouse was quieter now as most of the brothers had dispersed after the meeting, heading to their rooms upstairs or back to the bar in the main room to nurse their morning hangovers with hair-of-the-dog remedies and greasy breakfast sandwiches.

I needed air. Needed space to think. Needed to get the hell out of here before my head exploded from everything spinning around in it. But before I could make it three steps toward the exit, before I could even reach for the door handle, Kansas’ voice stopped me cold. “Monk.”

I turned slowly, reluctantly. Kansas stood in the doorway of his office, his broad frame filling the space, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. The overhead light cast shadows across his weathered face, making it impossible to gauge what he was thinking.

“Yeah?” I replied, my voice rougher than I intended, scraping out of my throat like gravel.

He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him with deliberate care, the soft click of the latch echoing in the silence that hung between us. For a moment, he just looked at me, studying me the way he always did when he was trying to figure out what was really going on beneath the surface. “What’sgoing on with Lina?” he asked finally, his tone direct but not unkind.

I stiffened immediately, my entire body going rigid. My jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might crack, and I looked away, staring at the faded wallpaper on the opposite wall like it held the answers I didn’t have. “I don’t know,” I said finally, the words tasting like ash in my mouth, bitter and wrong.

Kansas raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “You don’t know?”

“I mean,” I stopped, dragging a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands in frustration, “I know what’s going on. I just don’t know how to...”

I trailed off, the frustration building in my chest like a pressure cooker about to blow, steam building with nowhere to go. How the hell was I supposed to explain this to my prez? That I spent the last seven years quietly mourning a woman I never thought I would see again? That I had a daughter I never met? That I fucked everything up so badly, so completely, I didn’t know if I could fix it? That every decision I had made had been the wrong one?

Kansas waited, his gaze steady, patient, unwavering. He stood there like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t going anywhere until I figured this out.

He didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Didn’t bark orders or tell me to get my shit together. He just stood there in that hallway, giving me the space to figure out what the hell I wanted to say, what the hell I even could say.

I opened my mouth, the words finally forming on my tongue, when the front door of the clubhouse suddenly swung open with a gust of cold morning air, and we both turned in unison as Vivienne Whitepaw Travers walked in.

Vivi looked like she hadn’t slept in days—maybe even weeks. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, strands fallingloose around her pale, drawn face. The disheveled style was so unlike her usual put-together appearance that it made my chest ache. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, shadowed with deep purple circles that spoke of exhaustion and grief in equal measure. She wore faded jeans and a simple black sweater that hung loosely on her frame, as if she’d lost weight in the days since Pence’s death. Her hands clutched a worn canvas tote bag like it was the only thing keeping her upright, her knuckles white with the effort of holding herself together.

But despite everything, she held her head high. Chin up. Shoulders back. There was still strength in the line of her spine, still fire in her tired eyes. Even in the middle of her grief, even after everything that had happened, Vivi Travers was a force to be reckoned with. She always had been.

Kansas straightened immediately when he saw her, his expression softening in a way I rarely saw. “Vivi,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle, almost tender.

She nodded at him, then at me, her gaze sharp despite the exhaustion. “Kansas. Monk.”

I nodded back, my chest tightening with an emotion I couldn’t quite name. Sympathy? Respect? Guilt?

She smirked slightly when she saw my new patch, and I was surprised to see even a hint of warmth in her expression. “Congrats on the VP,” she said.

“Vivi,” I said softly, unsure what to say, unsure if I even deserved her congratulations when she added, “Don’t. You deserve it.”