Page 120 of Ridin’ Dirty

I glanced down at my arm, sure I’d see a bruise later, but replied, “I’m fine.”

“You pullin’ another double?”

“Yeah.”

“When you clock out, you come to the clubhouse. If I’m not here, you wait for me, you hear?”

For the first time in nearly an hour, I felt it as the knot in my stomach loosened, that anxious feeling eased by nothing more than the tone of his voice.

It was stupid…

Actually—it was love. It was so totally the way I loved him that made it possible for him to make me feel better even just over the phone.

“Yeah, Ri. I hear you.”

He disconnected the call, not bothering to grab his kutte or shed his coveralls as he made his way toward the open garage bay. With so much shit going on, the garage was working with a skeleton crew. Three years, he wanted nothing more than to spend his days earning a buck under the hood of a car. Now, it didn’t feel like freedom so much as it felt like a punishment.

That afternoon, Nomad was on Max watch. In a few hours, it would be Pistol and Fury driving around town, patrolling the streets. After what Lyla shared, he was sure they’d have their hands full—the Kings trying to distract them enough to force a crack in the protection they had around Max.

He was halfway to the clubhouse when he heard the rumble of Rusty’s approaching hog. Jogging to meet the man as he parked and dismounted his Harley, the two of them only shared a knowing glance before hurrying inside. They found Cobra, Spurs, and Nighthawk standing in the middle of the lounge, huddled together around the president’s phone—a call live and on speaker.

“Get Rooster on the line. His patrol shift ends now. I want him on the block. He’s your new tail. Tell Max to pack a bag. All three of you here, at the clubhouse, in thirty minutes,” instructed Nighthawk.

“Heard.”

It was all Nomad said before the call was ended.

“What now?” asked Spurs, every eye aimed at Nighthawk.

Their president didn’t respond right away, his focus still directed down at his phone, like he was frozen in time—or, perhaps, indecision. All the men waited patiently for his response, understanding this kind of trouble hit different.

Nighthawk finally took a deep breath, reaching up to run his fingers through his shoulder-length hair, gripping it at his nape as he blew out a sigh. “They want a fight, we’re gonna give ‘em one,” he declared.

“Viv’s got a sister in North Dakota,” he continued, unlocking his phone as he typed out a message. “I’ll send Max there until all this is sorted. Spurs, Cobra—map the route. You’ll be her escorts.”

“I’d like to be on her detail,” Pistol boldly volunteered.

Nighthawk paused what he was doing long enough to peer at Pistol from beneath his lashes. “Don’t waste my time.”

Fed up after the way he’d been shoved into the shadows the last couple of days, Pistol took a step toward the man and asked, “How long we gonna do this? Huh? I stuck my neck out for that girl. I did three years for that girl. I put a fuckin’ man in the ground for that girl. Maybe I should have told you why, but I fuckin’ didn’t. Can’t change the past—but after everything I’ve risked for her, if you think I’m plannin’ on stayin’ on the sidelines⁠—”

“You’ll do what you’re told,” interjected Nighthawk as he, too, shortened the distance between them a step.

“Fuck you!” erupted Pistol, now standing toe to toe with the president. No one tried to silence him as he continued, “I kept your hands clean, and this is the thanks I get?”

“Boy, you know these hands aren’t clean.”

“They are to her!” he bellowed.

Nighthawk didn’t fire back a rapid response, his jaw clenched closed tight, his brow marred by a deep scowl, and his eyes boring into Pistol’s. Both men were breathing heavy, the sound of their exhalations heard in the silence coating the room. Pistol watched as the father in front of him peered through the smoke screen that was his blind anger to see the truth.

Lowering his voice, Pistol added, “She might not be my blood, but she is my kin. I did what I thought I had to.”

“Might be three years delayed,” Cobra began, “but it’s like you said, Prez—they’re askin’ for a fight. Last thing we need is to be fightin’ amongst ourselves.”

Nighthawk jerked his chin in a show of agreement, lowering the armor of his pride as he looked at Pistol. “You’re still not goin’. Need you here. You’ve got too much context.”

Pistol nodded his concession and took a step back, the muscles at his shoulders loosening.