Page 35 of What They Say

“You’re trying to fix everything at once,” Bear said with a half smile. “That’s what you do. But Chase isn’t a problem to solve. He’s your son. And he’s tougher than you think—tougher than Carrie ever gave him credit for.”

Mason pushed off the wall, nodding slowly. The knot in his gut had loosened, replaced by a cautious kind of hope.

“Thanks, brother.”

Bear picked up the rag again. “Anytime. Now go home. Your woman’s probably waiting up, wondering why her man’s out here worrying instead of in bed with her.”

Mason huffed a quiet laugh as he headed for the door, the night air cooler against his skin. Maybe he’d been seeing threats where there were none. Chase was still finding his footing—with the band, with the club, and with Willa in their lives.

All Mason could do was make damn sure the foundation was solid enough for all of them.

***

Chase

Chase sat on the tailgate of his truck in Bear’s driveway, the late-afternoon sun warm on his back. The garage door was open, tools still scattered from the afternoon’s work, but his mind wasn’t on the bike they’d been wrenching on. It kept circling back to the same thing, the night a couple of years ago when he’d finally worked up the nerve to tell Mason he wanted to prospect.

“Come see me when you’re eighteen, boy.”

The words still stung. Chase rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the concrete. He’d expected pride. Respect. Something. Instead, he’d gotten laughter and a door slammed in his face.

The side door creaked. Mason stepped out, two beers in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. He tossed the water to Chase without a word and leaned against the truck beside him, cracking open a beer.

They sat in silence for a minute, the kind that wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. Not since Kath.

“What’s on your mind?” Mason lifted the beer and took a deep swallow. “Can see there’s something there. Something going on.”

“I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m eighteen now.”

“No shit. I got a belly full of that cake Willa made you both times. Were good parties.”

“They were.” He searched around for words, anything that would let him lead the conversation to where he wanted it to go.

“You still pissed about that night?” Mason asked quietly, eyes on the tree line.

Of course he knew exactly where this was going.

Chase shrugged. “Not pissed. Just—I don’t get it. You patched in at sixteen. Everyone knows the story. Fought some guy named Ripper and won your patch the same night. Why tell me to wait?”

Mason took a long pull from the bottle, then set it on the tailgate. He stared at it for a few moments, like he was seeing something else entirely.

“Wasn’t as simple as the story makes it sound,” he said finally. His voice had that low, rough edge it got when he was digging up old shit. “I was sixteen. Fresh off a bus from Kentucky with nothing but holes in my pockets and DeeDee on my arm. Winger vouched for me, but the club didn’t hand out patches like candy. Deacon made it clear, if I either beat a member in a no-holds-barred fight or took a beating and showed I could stand back up, I’d have earned my shot.”

Chase shifted, turning to face him fully. He’d heard pieces before but never the whole thing. Never from Mason like this.

“I fought Ripper,” Mason continued. “Big bastard. Mean. Five years older than me and built like a brick shithouse. Whole club was watching. Deacon dropped his hand, and Ripper came at me like a freight train.” A ghost of a smile touched Mason’s mouth. “I sidestepped, hit him three times in the kidney, danced away. He went down hard. Got back up slower the second time. By the third, I had his wrist, pulled him in close, and drove his face into my knee. Nose crunched like a goddamn eggshell.”

Chase let out a low whistle. “And that was it? You got your patch?”

Mason shook his head. “Not quite. Deacon looked at me standing there unmarked while Ripper was bleeding on the ground and said, ‘All right, boy. You’ve earned your chance. Get a vest. What’ll we call you?’”

Mason met Chase’s eyes then, stormy gray to stormy gray.

“I told him ‘Mason.’ Just...Mason. Because that was the only thing I had left that felt like mine. Not Davy. Not my old man’s name. Not whatever bullshit they wanted to slap on me. Just Mason.”

Chase swallowed hard. The knot in his chest that had been there since he was twelve—since that first diner meeting—loosened a fraction.

“I didn’t tell you the full story before,” Mason said quietly. “Figured you weren’t ready to hear it. But you need to understand something, son. I fought for that patch because I had nothing else. No home. No family that wanted me. I was running from Kentucky, from my father, from everything that tried to break me. The club was survival. It was the first place I ever felt like I could stand on my own two feet and make people respect me.”