Page 7 of What They Say

Bear

Bear leaned against the workbench in the quiet garage, the overhead lights buzzing softly above him. Eddie had gone to bed hours ago, and Chase was finally crashed out in the guest room after a long evening of tinkering on bikes and trading riffs. The kid had been quieter than usual tonight, but he was settling in—laughing more with the brothers, asking real questions about club life instead of just watching from the edges.

Bear’s phone vibrated on the bench. Mason’s name lit up the screen. He wiped his hands on a rag and answered.

“Prez.”

“Bear.” Mason’s voice came through low and steady, the familiar rumble of Chicago in the background. “How’s my boy doing out there?”

Bear settled onto a stool, stretching his legs out. “He’s blending in better than I expected. The brothers like him—he’s quiet, works hard, doesn’t run his mouth. Spent most of today in the garage helping with a really pain-in-the-ass detailed rebuild. Even sat in on a couple of the younger guys’ conversations without trying to prove anything. He’s listening more than talking, but when he does speak up, it’s solid.”

Mason exhaled, a sound that carried both relief and the ever-present weight of fatherhood. “Good. That’s good. He still keeping his distance from the officers, or is he warming up?”

“Warming some. Sat with Slate for a bit yesterday, talking music. Kid’s got talent—real talent. Makes the garage feel alive when he pulls out that guitar.” Bear paused, rubbing a hand over his beard. “But he’s still carrying a lot, Mason. Bad dreams most nights. Wakes up breathing hard, sometimes yelling out. Won’t talk about it much, but I’ve caught pieces when he’s half asleep.”

The line went quiet for a beat. Bear could picture Mason in his Chicago office, jaw tight, eyes hard.

“Carrie,” Mason said flatly.

“Yeah.” Bear kept his voice low. “He didn’t see the body—thank fuck for that—but he’s overheard enough from the brothers over the years. Knows she was taken. Knows what they did to her during that captivity. The mutilation. The hand...” He trailed off, the words heavy between them. “Kid’s pieced together more than he should have. Dreams are bad when it hits him. Like he’s right there with her.”

Mason cursed softly. “I should’ve shielded him better from all that shit. Carrie put him through hell while she was alive. Then the way she went out...hell, no kid should have to carry that weight.”

“He’s tough,” Bear said. “Tougher than Carrie ever gave him credit for. But yeah, it’s in there. He wakes up looking like he’s seen ghosts. Eddie’s been leaving the hall light on for him, making sure he knows he’s not alone. He’s starting to trust the place. Building more trust with us. Just gonna take time—like everything good in life.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Mason said, the command softened by something almost grateful. “And tell him...hell, tell him I’m proud of how he’s handling Fort Wayne. Music and all. He doesn’t have to choose between the club and the band right now. He just needs to be where he feels solid.”

Bear nodded even though Mason couldn’t see it. “Will do. He’s got a good head on his shoulders. Makes me think of how you would’ve been at that age, only he’s minus the smart mouth.”

Mason huffed a quiet laugh. “God help us all if he picks up that part. Thanks, brother. Call if anything changes.”

“Always.”

Bear ended the call and sat for a long moment in the quiet garage, staring at the half-finished bike on the lift. Chase was finding his place here—slowly, carefully. The nightmares would fade with time, with family, with something solid to hold on to. The club would make sure of it.

He pushed to his feet, flipped off the lights, and headed towards the house. The kid wasn’t alone anymore. Not while Bear had anything to say about it.

***

Chase

Their gig at Marie’s had started like any other.

The back room smelled like stale beer and sawdust, the kind of place where your shoes stick to the floor and the lights buzz just enough to make your eyes ache. Chase plugged his guitar into the practice amp, the familiar weight of it grounding him like always. Benny was already tuning up, that restless energy crackling off him like static. Too bright. Too much.

“You good, man?” Chase asked, keeping his voice light.

Benny flashed that grin—the one that usually meant trouble—but tonight it looked painted on. “Never better. Let’s burn this place down.”

They launched into the first set, and for a while, it felt right. The crowd was loud, the riffs tight. Chase lost himself in the music, the one place he didn’t feel like Mason’s shadow. But halfway through the third song, Benny’s playing started to slip. A missed note here. A sloppy chord there. Chase watched hard and caught it immediately—Benny’s hands had that faint tremor again, the one he’d seen in the garage two nights ago.

Say something.

The thought hit him like a punch, but he shoved it down. Snitching would blow that up. And what if I’m wrong? What if it was just stress from the label bullshit, or the constant grind of the road?

Benny launched into his solo, fingers flying across the fretboard. For a second, it looked perfect—then his hand jerked, the pick slipping. The note came out sour. The crowd didn’t seem to notice, but Chase did. His stomach twisted into a hard knot.

Tell your dad. Slate needs to know.