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Respect—that shit goes a long way in this world.
And it’s not always about who’s the biggest and the baddest.
Who’s the most ruthless, or who’s killed the most men.
Sometimes it was just about being able to stand up and face the shit that scares you.
“Do you hate being inside the vehicle?” Shay asked as we weaved the windy road into the countryside, her eyes alight with wonder as we passed trees, fields, and ponds.
I snorted. “Not as much as you’d think. Being in a car or a truck makes the drive a little less stressful ’cause people don’t know how to drive around motorcycles. They don’t pay enough attention and pull out in front of you, or they freak out at the engine’s rumble and suddenly lose the ability to drive altogether.”
She chuckled softly. “I think I could be guilty of that.”
“Why do you ask?”
She tugged at her dress, adjusting it a little. “I just wondered what riding this road on a motorcycle would be like. I mean, it’s beautiful through the window, but it must be pretty amazing to be out in the air and feel it around you.”
It was.
It was the freedom of not being confined that a lot of men became addicted to. The air, the breeze, the elements gave you this sense of being in the world, not just watching from the outside.
It was another thing I suddenly couldn’t wait to share with her.
“I went to rehab when I was sixteen,” she said suddenly, and we almost ended up in the creek beside the road when I glanced over to see if she was serious. “Yup. I know. We were ripping people off to get money for pills, and we got caught. Ali made a deal with the court that he would take the fall for it all if they didn’t charge me, and instead, they sent me to rehab to get clean.”
“Bet that was hell,” I said, a shudder moving up my spine as I thought about being locked in a tiny white room. “Fuck that.”
She tapped on the window. “This just made me think about it. How much we take for granted and don’t appreciate the world outside until we’re locked away from it. How we don’t appreciate the people in our lives until they’re dead.”
How we regret not telling that one person how we feel until something horrible happens.
Fuck, maybe I was wrong.
Maybe waiting until the Martelli shit was done to have that conversation with her wasn’t the right thing to do. What if shit hit the fan at the party? What if I never got the chance to tell her—
“This is it.” I quickly pulled off the winding road and onto a cobbled driveway with two large security gates and a small guard’s house between them. The four guards standing outside wore black suits, carried semiautomatic weapons, and searched and scrutinized every car that drove up to the gate.
“I thought we were going to the Martelli’s house,” Shay questioned, shifting uncomfortably in her seat and glancing between the elaborate security and me like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. “What is this?”
“This is Frank Martelli’s house,” I told her as the white Mercedes in front of us finally pulled through the gates, and I inched forward, rolling down my window. “Bishop. Exiled Eight MC President.”
The large gun hung casually across this guy’s chest as he flipped through the pages on his clipboard, finally jabbing at it with his finger. “Yup.” He looked past me, checking with the rest of the assholes surrounding the truck, their little mirrors rolling underneath so they could make sure I didn’t have a trained assassin holding on below.
With a nod from each man to clear us, he finally pointed to the gate as it rolled open. “You can go.”
“Thanks.”
It must have been the longest fucking driveway in the world, trees lining each side, gardens perfectly planted and manicured with a rainbow of flowers.
“It looks like we’re in some kind of country club,” Shay whispered, staring in awe out her window at the serene landscape. “This place must be worth millions.”
“Well, when you have your finger in every fucking pie in the state of Michigan, you can afford to live in a place that resembles a resort.” I kept my eyes on the skinny road. I couldn’t let the rest of it overwhelm me. The men and women who would be there were every one of any kind of local importance.
Politicians. Police. State officials. Business owners.
Frank Martelli wasn’t about to have an event—especially his fucking birthday party—and not make sure the world was there to witness it. I was here for a reason, to solve an issue and make sure no one I cared about got hurt.
We got in.
