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The noise from the main area is comforting, the same way as finding solace in the expected. I can always rely on this place to be louder than the voices in my head.

I walk past everyone as I make my way out. No one stops me or greets me as I go by. No need when they all know where I’m going and when I’m coming back. But I still feel all eyes on me as I walk across the large room and head out the front door. The club is good at pretending nothing’s going on when shit is exploding.

I put my stuff in my saddlebag before swinging my leg over my bike, then start it up and back out. I treat this like a normal day. Just going out for a ride. Nothing more.

But as I pull out onto the road and take off, the sound of four other bikes at my back makes this anything but normal.

I memorized the route. Know each turn we’ll take, each exit. I also know that one of the boys coming with me has GPS up and is confirming the route, as well as keeping comms with Flint and Gator to make sure the location we’re headed to doesn’t change.

The trip only takes seven hours with two stops and small-town traffic. The kind with single lanes and waiting on tractors to pull off enough to pass. Just enough time to think through some shit, but not enough to come up with any real solutions.

I pull into the location we all agreed on and stop as the other boys do a pass with their bikes. Place might be a run-down gas station, but that doesn’t mean people aren’t here.

When they pull up beside me and kill their engines, I take a breath. One hardship over. And what feels like seven hundred more steps ahead of me.

“They late, or are we early?” King asks as he looks down the vacant highway before us. Nothing but sand and tumbleweeds pass us by.

“They’ll be here,” General says as he crosses his arms and looks down the road we came from.

“We’re early,” Walker provides.

“Good. I’m tired as shit,” Jumper says as he shifts on his bike, propping his feet crisscross over the handlebars and leaning back to rest his body on the frame and seat. He closes his eyes and seems mighty comfortable for lying on hard metal with the damn Oklahoma sun beating down on us in midsummer.

I don’t talk. Got nothing to add. I know we’re early, but not by much. Even if we were late, I’ve got a feeling they’d make us wait somehow. The guys might not have found anyone when they looked around, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any cameras here. No way would they have picked the location if they didn’t have something in place.

They chose the location. We picked the time. We also got to bring five when they only get four. And no one big from the Hounds is here. King and I might be officers, but we’re still new to the game. If a war breaks out—which will happen if any Hound is hurt, not just an officer—at least we know we’ve got some men ready to step back into their roles if needed.

General is considered the “eldest” just because he’s been with the Hounds the longest, for twelve years. Closely followed by Jumper, four years behind him. King and I joined six years ago, and Walker’s been riding one year as a patched member, though he has another year as a prospect under him.

We’re one scrappy group of misfits, that’s for damn sure. General, the club’s doctor. Jumper, an adrenaline junkie who would rather jump from an airplane than ride a bike, which is something he loves. King, the guy considered not only the king among women but with numbers, making his money from some math competitions he did as a kid and invested well enough that he doesn’t even work, just lives off the dividends. Not that he’s been overly friendly with the women lately. None of us call him out on it. We get it.

There’s Walker, who got his name because he looked like that guy from that zombie show that was all the rage a few years back, when they smeared blood on themselves to hide among the dead. But unlike them, Walker just doesn’t seem to care when there’s blood on him, and he’s in no rush to wash it off after he goes into battle.

Then you have me. The guy who can explode at any moment but who’s working on himself. Or so the books say. I don’t see a therapist, but I read a lot. I’ve got issues. Dear old dad issues. You don’t grow up with a dad in and out of jail and not get some kind of fucked-up thing going on with you.

“Eyes up,” Walker mutters, and the five of us watch as the dust over the road takes on a different gust pattern before four motorcycles crest the horizon.

Jumper continues to fake sleep, but I know he ain’t asleep. He moved just enough to pull a Sig Sauer from somewhere and is holding it on the other side of the bike, the one facing away from the road.

My eyes narrow as they pull up in front of us. I note each of them, even if they have helmets on. Even the last person who’s riding behind the biggest fucker of them all.

The one in front pulls off his helmet, and I make eye contact with Psycho, the club president of the Devils Damned. A man who’s true to his name, even if he prefers to go by Psy.

He keeps his eyes on me and whistles once.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, but I refuse to give chase and show my hand. Not till the person walking toward us pulls Psy’s gaze first.

“Hey,” he says at the same time as he pulls on Natalie’s hair. Not a yank but a tug. My fists clench, but I see no pain on her face, so I keep my position and don’t show how much that one action could cost him.

When she turns to look at him, he releases her hair. “I meant what I said.”

It takes a moment, but then she nods, and that’s it. Psy puts his helmet back on, and they drive off, leaving us as a party of six.

“What did he mean by that?” King asks with a jut of his chin in the direction they went.

She shrugs and licks her lips. “Don’t know. He said a lot.”

“Guess.” Walker doesn’t bark at her, but it’s close. The guy is big, with wide shoulders and a constant faraway look in his eye. He isn’t a big talker, and when he does, it’s direct. Like Mad Max. But unlike the former president’s personal guard, Walker never raises his voice. It’s the same monotone, but the heat, the impact of each word, comes from the way he looks at you. Demanding that you answer, even if he never says it.