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“The fuck I do!” Hacksaw snapped as I jumped to my feet and began pulling my trousers down.

That had been my punishment for kissing Rachel. To have a tattoo on my ass, “hair buddies must not grab ass.”

All things considered, I’d got off lightly.

“Your loss,” I replied. “My ass is a spectacular thing to behold.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Does Chris have a better ass than me?”

“I—What?”

“I’ve always wondered if he had a nice ass. And since you’ve seen it…”

“What on earth is wrong with you?” he snapped at me.

“So many things, brother. But don’t be shy. I’ve no problem saying you have a spectacular ass. But out of the two brothers, I think Trent has the nicer ass over Chris.”

“This conversation is done now.”

“I should think not.”

“I should think so!” And then he turned away from me, busying himself with the fiddly wires.

“You still pissed at me?” I asked after a while, because the question had been there too long now.

He paused then, only for a second, but it was enough for me to know he understood exactly what I meant.

“For kissing Rachel?” he asked without turning around. “Or for nearly dying before I’d decided whether to knock your teeth out for it?”

“You pick.”

Hacksaw straightened slowly and turned to face me, the second camera hanging from one hand. His expression was unreadable in the dark for a moment, and then he let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between a sigh and the ghost of a laugh.

“You were a fucking idiot,” he said at last. “And if you ever put me in the position of watching club footage and seeing yourtongue down Rachel’s throat again, I’ll bury you myself and save everyone the trouble.”

“Fair.”

“But no,” he added, the word clipped and simple, like he had no intention of dressing it up. “I’m not pissed at you. I was, maybe. For about five minutes. Then you got shot, punctured your lung, and scared the shit out of all of us. After losing Shark… it all seemed a bit pointless. No point holding a grudge after that.”

That was the thing about men like us. Sometimes forgiveness didn’t come in apologies or speeches. Sometimes it came in the form of insults, practical truths, and a grim admission that nearly losing someone put the rest into perspective.

“I didn’t know if we were… you know,” I said, hating how stupid I sounded the second the words left my mouth.

“Still brothers?” he supplied, saving me from myself with all the tenderness of a man kicking a body into a ditch. “Vienna, I watched you bleed out in fucking Church. Whatever weirdness was left after the hair-buddies disaster sort of got swallowed up by the whole not wanting you dead thing.”

“Romantic.”

“You bring out my softer side.”

I shook my head, but there was warmth beneath it now, and the job in front of us suddenly felt lighter for reasons that had nothing to do with cameras or routes. It mattered, this. More than I liked to admit. The club was built on blood and violence and loyalty, and every now and again you needed reminding that even when we fucked things up—and Christ knew I had—the foundation could still hold.

Hacksaw tossed me the second camera and nodded toward a narrower line of brush to our right. “That one goes there. Lower than you think. If they’re moving small quantities first to testthe route, we’ll want enough angle to catch plates or faces if they come through on bikes.”

I caught the camera and headed where he pointed, pushing through the undergrowth until I found a decent trunk with clear sight toward the trail. The ground was uneven here, the sort of terrain that slowed men just enough to make them visible if they weren’t careful.

Good.