Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64917 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
He slammed his palm against the Plexiglass so hard I flinched. His voice cracked as he yelled, “Keep my fuckin’ head down? Fuck, Dad! I gotta keep my head on a fuckin’ swivel.” He eased back into his seat calming his breathing, but barely. “The men in here are monsters.”
The sound of his voice, broken and raw, was worse than any bullet wound I’d ever taken.
It was his mother’s worst fear come true. Her son, the one she raised with Sunday dinners and clean sheets, the boy she fought to keep untainted by my world, now surrounded by the predators of society. The wolves, the snakes, the ones who thrived on blood. How long could a kid raised on integrity survive among the lowest of the low?
I forced my voice steady. “Shanks is workin’ on protection inside. Waverly’s keepin’ you here in county as long as she can. Keepin’ you off the yard.”
He laughed, bitter and hollow. “Don’t know if I can do this, Dad. Feel like the walls close in more every day.”
My chest caved. I looked my boy in his eyes, the same eyes that used to light up when I tossed him a baseball, the same eyes that had stared up at me from his crib when I swore I’d never let this world touch him. Now those eyes were broken glass, sharp and jagged, threatening to cut both of us open.
“GJ,” I said, my voice a growl of desperation, “don’t you give up. Don’t you fucking give up on me. Don’t you give up on the club.”
He nodded, slow, reluctant. But the pain didn’t leave his face. Couldn’t.
The memory hit me like a freight train. The day he came screaming into the world, slick with blood, barely breathing. Eight pounds, six ounces of fight. I’d held him, whispered to him, promised him I’d keep him safe. Always.
I meant that promise then. I meant it now.
I needed him to hold on. Needed him to believe. Because I wasn’t stopping until I leveled this playing field.
I had a grudge now.
And every motherfucker who had laid a finger on this—who had orchestrated this frame-up, who had shackled my boy in chains—was going to pay.
My son was a saint.
Me? I was a fucking outlaw.
And I would cross every line, break every law, burn every dream to ash if that’s what it took.
GJ would see freedom again.
Everyone else be damned.
The guard banged on the door, breaking the moment. “Time!”
I wanted to tear the steel door off its hinges. Wanted to buy just one more minute to tell my son something that would put the fight back in his bones. But the system wasn’t built for fathers like me. It was built to strip men down, keep them powerless.
Break them.
I stood, my palms flat against the Plexiglass one last time. GJ mirrored me, but his touch trembled.
“Stay alive,” I told him.
His lips moved around the words I knew before he even said them: “Always, Dad.”
Then the guard hauled him away, chains rattling, jumpsuit glaring orange against the gray concrete walls. I watched until he disappeared. Until there was nothing left but the hollow ache inside me. Every second of worry he lived through, someone was going to pay in their blood.
It was a silent vow.
Outside, the air was hot, thick, unusual for the mountains this time of year. Burn leaned against his bike, sunglasses shielding whatever truth he carried in his eyes. His presence was steady, a wall I needed.
“Well?” he asked.
“He’s breakin’,” I admitted, the words like ash in my mouth. “We gotta move faster.”
Burn nodded once. He didn’t waste words. “Then we burn the motherfuckers down.”
The ride back to the clubhouse was nothing but wind and fury. My bike roared beneath me, every twist of the throttle an outlet for the rage I couldn’t unleash in that visitation room. By the time I pulled into the lot, my hands ached from gripping the bars too tight.
The curves in the mountains were not a match to the fury inside of me. I tested their limits and my own on this ride home.
Inside, the brothers were waiting in the common room. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, whiskey, and tension. Shanks leaned against the pool table, arms folded, a storm brewing in his eyes. Waverly sat off to the side of the bar, flipping through court papers like they might suddenly sprout answers.
“Kid’s not doin’ good,” I announced, blowing out a heavy breath. “He’s hangin’ on by a thread.”
“We’re workin’ protection inside,” Shanks said. “Got a couple county boys we can trust. But it won’t hold forever.” Waverly nodded that she was on board with this. Hell, she probably organized the detail on the inside for Shanks.
She was a good woman. A good cop even. But she wasn’t for me long term. Our desires for life simply didn’t align.