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Like right now, about an hour before sunset. The sky was alive with color, in bands along the horizon, in rays growing out from the sun. Lavender. Cerulean. Rose. Sunflower yellow. Burnished gold. Indigo. The color overran the few puffs of clouds and even tinted the buff-toned dirt. Rising from that dirt in the distance in every direction were mountains and mesas, looking painted on the sky. And growing from the earth before him was a whole field of strangely puffy-looking plants that looked almost like coral, as if they remembered the eons long before when this arid expanse had been ocean.
Zach was dazzled. When he was younger he’d liked to draw and paint, and in school he’d been pretty good, even winning a blue ribbon in middle school, for a watercolor painting his teacher had entered in the district art fair. Definitely not a big deal, but he still had that cheap-ass ribbon and the certificate that came with it, and his folks had a frame hanging on the wall with the painting itself set in a mat along with a photo of him winning the ribbon. These days, he almost never did anything more than a random doodle here and there, on the rare occasion he might have a pen or pencil in his hand, but sitting here made his fingers itch, made him wish he had a sketchbook or something so he could try to capture the feeling of this place.
But he didn’t, so sat there and felt the sun on his face, took in all that strange beauty rolling out before him, and breathed. Christian and Jay were helping the Silver Dragons move the product from the Bulls’ truck to their own. When that was done, Wash and the rest of his club would ride north and finish the run in Canada. For the Bulls, the risky part was over. They could relax, take a minute for some Nevada recreation, and then enjoy the ride home.
They did their hand-off south of Laughlin, on the Fort Mojave Reservation. Gargo had an old friend in Laughlin, who had a few Mojave friends. He’d hooked the Bulls and the tribe up for a little mutual benefit—cash for the tribe and a Fed-proof place for their hand-off.
Over the years the Bulls had done this run, they’d shored up that tenuous connection, and now they called the Fort Mojave tribe true friends and allies. They hadn’t done much actual work together, but the tribe reliably welcomed them on their land to do the work they had, and often offered them some fellowship with the welcome.
The Bulls all called Ben Haddon, Gargo’s old buddy, friend now, too. He was a crusty old ex-one-percenter, who’d ridden with a small MC that had disbanded years back.
The Bulls were still in the planning stages for a new charter right here in Laughlin, but they were close to pulling the trigger. Ben Haddon’s name had been spoken several times over the Bulls’ table, as one likely recruit to the charter. Gargo had even raised his name as a potential president, but Cooper was angling for that flash himself—and Eight had pushed Gargo’s idea aside, saying they needed an established Bull at the head of the new table.
Zach intended to be part of the recruitment effort. He hadn’t decided yet if he wanted more than that, maybe an officer’s flash of his own. He was young, so that was probably hubris, anyway. Besides, he didn’t know if he meant to transfer his patch to Laughlin when the time came. He only knew he wanted to be here to set the charter up. He needed some distance, at least for a while, from the long shadow of his father before him—and from the heavy weight of his brother on his back. In Tulsa, he hadn’t figured out yet how to be more than Rad’s son and Jay’s brother. How to be seen as himself.
He’d never said any of that out loud, and he never intended to. Not even when his mother pleaded with him to help her understand why he wanted to put so many miles between him and his family, and he struggled to give her a worthy answer.
The real answer was the distance itself, and that would hurt them all too much to say.
Zach loved his family with his whole heart and soul. He had no trauma, no resentments, few complaints. He’d always felt loved. He’d always felt accepted. He’d always felt respected. There was harmony in his family, even when there was conflict.
But it wasn’t easy to be Rad Jessup’s son. His father’s image loomed over his whole life. And Jay ... Jay both resented Zach for being the ‘good one’ and leaned on him to clean up his messes. It wasn’t so easy to be Jake Jessup’s brother, either.
Love didn’t mean ease.
Without the chance of this new charter, Zach would probably never have even thought about leaving Tulsa. He loved his family and his club. Tulsa was the only home he’d ever had. But now the thought that he could make his own way and still be true to the things he loved was seeded in the soil of his mind.
The rattle of the cargo door going down roused him from his reverie. Looking around, he saw that Eight and Dex were walking back to their bikes, Wash was heading back to his, and everybody had an obvious ‘let’s ride’ vibe about them.
Eight looked pissed, his forehead pleated over the black voids of his Oakley wraparounds. Dex looked pissed, too, but he always looked that way, even more so this trip, since he was worried about Kelsey. Eight, however, was usually grinning after this handoff—they partied in Laughlin after, and he loved that.
Nobody was talking about whatever had Eight’s boxers bunched. Assuming that was because the Dragons were still on the scene, Zach waited until the other MC and their truck had pulled back onto the road and rolled away.
Before he could ask his question, Gargoyle, who’d been sitting on his saddle watching the road, asked his own. “What went sideways?”
Still looking like he needed to kill somebody to blow off enough steam, Eight shook his head. “Not here. We need somewhere to talk. And I need a fucking drink.”
“Aquarius?” Jay asked with a hopeful grin. Aquarius was his favorite casino.
Eight turned his angry, black-eyed scowl his way. “No. Someplace quiet.”
“We still thinking about pulling Ben in on the charter plan?” Gargoyle asked.
“What’s that got to do with shit?” Eight snarled.
“His house is a few miles north of the Strip. I assume it’s some kind of trouble with the Dragons, and if we’re pulling Ben in, we can hang at his place to talk it out. Comfortable and safe.”
Eight seemed to think about that, but Dex shook his head. “Doesn’t matter if we pull him into the new charter. He’s not club now.”
“But he knows the life, knows the score,” Gargo explained. “He’s no rat—and we offer him a seat at the new table, he’ll be doubly bound.”
“If he’s interested,” Dex came back. “Even so, he’s still not club now. I don’t know.”
“It’s a secure place to talk in a town without a lot of ‘em,” Gargo pushed.
Eight stood beside his bike, the foot of his bad leg resting on the footrest, and watched those two talk it out.
Then they looked to him, and he stood straight. “I like Ben fine. If he’s interested and the table agrees, I’m glad to recruit him. But Dex is right—he’s not club. Garg, you vouch for him?”
