Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Bama

Fluttering my eyes open, and I'm met with the familiar sight of the cracked ceiling in my room.

The morning sun filters through the blinds, casting slanted stripes across the bed.

Jordyn lies next to me, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, still lost in whatever dreams she's having.

Her dark hair spills over the pillow like a chocolate river, and for a moment, I just watch her sleep.

She looks peaceful, almost as if the chaos of our world doesn't touch her when she's here. But I know better.

We all carry scars, visible and invisible. Hers might not be as obvious, but they're there, carved deep by the life we all live.

I ease myself out of bed, careful not to wake her.

She stirs slightly, mumbling something unintelligible, but doesn't wake up.

I grab my jeans from the floor, pulling them on quietly.

My shirt comes next, followed by my boots. Each movement is deliberate, almost ritualistic.

The snake tattoo on my chest catches the light as I reach for my cut.

It's been with me through thick and thin, a reminder of why I do what I do.

Why I fight. Why I protect. And right now, it feels like it's burning, a premonition of the storm that's brewing.

Jordyn shifts again, rolling onto her side, her face half-buried in the pillow.

I can't help the small smile that tugs at my lips.

She's tough as nails, but there's a softness to her, a vulnerability she rarely lets anyone see.

I've been lucky enough to catch glimpses of it.

I lean down, brushing a soft kiss against her temple.

She sighs in her sleep, and I pull back, making my way to the door.

There's always business the club needs to handle, and I can't afford to be distracted, no matter how much I'd rather stay here with her.

As I step into the hallway, the weight of responsibility settles onto my shoulders.

The club needs me, and I won't let them down. I already let my mother down growing up.

I feel as if her death is on my shoulders. She was an addict, sure, but if I had pushed her more to get clean she might still be here.

Underneath her addiction, she was a good lady. Incredibly flawed, but good.

I shoot Jordyn a quick text:

Morning, Babe. Gonna handle some club business first. I'll see you later.

The stairs creak under my weight as I head down, each step echoing in the silence of the early morning.

The scent of coffee wafts up from the kitchen, mingling with the faint smell of motor oil that seems to seep into every corner of the clubhouse.

It doesn't matter how many times we clean the garage, it's always lingering one way or another.

Zane and Blackjack are already there, mugs in hand, eyes sharp despite the early hour.

Zane's got that look—like he's been up all night wrestling demons.

Blackjack, on the other hand, is his usual stoic self, but there's a tension in his jaw that tells me he's on edge too.

"Morning," I grunt, moving to pour myself a cup.

The bitter liquid scalds my tongue, but it wakes me up enough to focus.

"Morning," Zane replies, his voice gravelly. "Got yourself a busy day?"

"Something like that," I say, leaning against the counter.

I know I need to talk to them about what happened at The Rusty Nail.

Ripper said he'd meet me down here, but where the fuck is he?

Like summoning a demon, he steps in behind me, his presence a quiet storm.

We exchange nods, a silent acknowledgment of what we need to do.

"Coffee?" I offer, lifting the pot.

"Yeah, thanks," Ripper mutters, taking the mug I hand him.

"What's the deal?" Blackjack's deep voice cuts through the tension, directing the question to no one in particular.

He's been doing this long enough to tell we have something we need to discuss with the two of them.

"Just need to go over some things," I say, keeping my tone neutral.

My mind races with thoughts of how they're going to handle this, but for now, we sip our coffee, letting the moment stretch just a little longer.

"Okay, then," Zane finally says, setting his mug down with a decisive clink. "Let's take this to my office."

Blackjack raises an eyebrow but doesn't press for details yet.

He knows better than to ask too many questions until we're behind Zane's closed door.

It's how the club operates—some things are meant for closed doors, while other things are shared with everyone.

We finish our coffee in tense silence, the air conditioner humming in the background.

My mind races, each thought sharper and more frantic than the last.

I glance at Ripper—his jaw is clenched tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He's just as wound up as I am. It's nice to say I'm not alone in my anxiety.

"Let's go," Zane says finally, leading the way.

His boots thud against the wooden floor, each step echoing down the hall.

Blackjack follows, his presence a looming shadow behind us.

We file into Zane's office, the room dimly lit by a single overhead bulb.

The walls are lined with old photos and mementos, relics of what the club used to look like, his family, older club members—there are even photos that include his father, Fist, and Uncle Cracker.

Zane shuts the door behind us, the click of the lock sealing us in.

"Get right to it," Zane says, dropping into his chair behind the desk. "What's this about?"

"Yeah, spill it," Blackjack adds, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His eyes are sharp, dissecting.

I take a deep breath, the tension coiling tighter in my gut. "It's about Jordyn," I start, my voice low but firm. "And Blake Ojai."

The air here feels heavier, like the walls are closing in on us.

We all sit down, the chairs creaking under our weight. Zane's eyes bore into me from across the desk.

I glance at Ripper. He swallows hard, Adam's apple bobbing.

His hands are clenched into fists on his lap. "Blake got into an altercation with Jordyn the other night at The Rusty Nail," he finally says, words coming out tight and strained.

The room goes dead quiet. So quiet you could hear a pin drop.

I can almost see the gears turning in Zane's head, processing what Ripper just said.

The tension ratchets up another notch, like a noose tightening around our necks.

Zane's fists hit the desk with a sharp crack.

His face goes pale, eyes narrowing into slits. "You mean to tell me Blake Ojai beat on my baby cousin and no one had the decency to tell me?" His voice is a low growl, barely controlled fury vibrating through each word.

I can feel the heat radiating off him, like standing too close to a bonfire.

The room seems to shrink even more.

Blackjack shifts slightly against the wall, his jaw tightening.

Ripper looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here.

"Hold up," I jump in, raising my hands. "Nothing physical happened. It was all verbal."

The air thickens with tension, Zane's glare slicing through it.

He leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly, but the fire in his eyes doesn't dim.

"Verbal, huh?" He spits out the words like they taste bad. "And what exactly did this piece of shit say?"

My mind races, trying to find the right response without digging a deeper hole. But there's no evading Zane when he's like this.

My jaw tightens as I recall Blake's crude remarks.

The room feels like it's closing in, the air dense with tension. "He called her a biker slut," I say, each word deliberate and heavy.

Zane's eyes darken, his knuckles whitening as he grips the edge of the desk.

I can see the rage simmering just beneath the surface, ready to explode.

But, I need to give him the whole picture. "And it wasn't just that," I add, my voice steady. "Seems like they had something going on. They went on a couple of dates or whatever."

"Dates?" Zane's eyebrow arches, his expression shifting from anger to confusion mixed with a hint of betrayal.

He's protective of Jordyn—always has been—and hearing this isn't sitting well with him.

"Yeah," I nod, meeting his gaze head-on. "Blake thought he had some claim on her. When she shut him down, he got nasty. That's when I stepped in."

The room falls silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air.

Ripper shifts uncomfortably behind me, and Blackjack's eyes flicker with concern. But it's Zane I'm focused on.

His face is a mask of controlled fury, but I can see the gears turning in his mind, calculating the next move.

"Dates," he mutters, more to himself than anyone else. His fingers drum a slow beat on the desk, a sign he's deep in thought. "And she didn't tell me a damn thing."

"I doubt she knew exactly who he was. Hell, I didn't even know." I offer, though I know it's a weak excuse.

Zane's eyes drift up to meet mine with pure and utter fury. "I wasn't fuckin' talkin' about that. I'm talkin' about a man bein' a real piece of work with her."

Jordyn's independent, so I'm not surprised she didn't run and tell Zane. Hell, I probably wouldn't have known about it unless I was there to witness the damn thing.

Zane snaps, his eyes locking onto mine. "I'm pissed."

"Yeah, well, I didn't stand there and do nothin' when he said that shit," I say, my voice hardening. "I interjected the second he crossed the line. Beat the shit outta Blake when he got too mouthy."

Zane's eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of approval in them.

It's fleeting, but it's there.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest like he's weighing every word.

"Good," Zane grunts finally, nodding slowly. "Guy had it coming."

"You're damn right he did," Blackjack chimes in, clapping a hand on my shoulder. The weight of it is solid, reassuring. "Thanks for sticking up for her, Bama. Means a lot."

"Wasn't a big deal," I shrug, though the adrenaline still courses through me at the memory—Blake's sneer, the crack of my knuckles against his jaw. The satisfaction of watching him crumble. "Just did what needed to be done."

"Still," Blackjack presses, his grip tightening briefly before letting go. "It shows character. Loyalty."

"Yeah, well," I mutter, glancing down at my worn boots. "It's what we do, right?"

"Right," Zane echoes, though his tone suggests he's thinking far beyond just this incident. His gaze lingers on me, calculating, almost as if he's re-evaluating everything he thought he knew. "We protect our own."

"Damn straight," I agree, meeting his eyes again.

The room feels charged, like we're standing on the edge of something bigger than any of us can see.

"Thank you both for lettin' me know," Zane says, breaking the silence. "I want you both to keep your guard up. The fact she was with an Ojai is a complication in itself. It doesn't help we're having issues with his grandfather, The Commander. Things are only gonna get rough from here."

"Understood," I reply, feeling the weight of his words settle around me like a second skin.

"Good," Blackjack adds, his voice low but firm. "And good job stickin' up for her."

Zane clears his throat, furrowing his brows. "Wait a second. Jordyn told her fathers she stayed at a friend's place ‘cause she was tipsy," His eyes narrow, locking onto mine like twin lasers. "So, you're telling me she lied?"

I keep my face impassive, muscles tightening under his scrutiny. I thought everything was good and dandy, but apparently not.

Zane's stare doesn't waver, and I can see the questions swirling behind those sharp eyes.

He arches an eyebrow, waiting for me to break. "Well?" he presses.

"Didn't say anything about that," I reply coolly, keeping my voice steady. The truth hangs heavy between us, but I ain't confirming or denying. Not my place to spill Jordyn's secrets, or tell them what the two of us were doing that night.

Blackjack's low chuckle breaks through the thick air. "Careful, Bama," he warns, amusement lacing his words. "Treading on dangerous ground there."

"I'm always careful," I counter, meeting his gaze with a half-smile.

But inside, my guts twist.

Being with Jordyn feels like balancing on a knife's edge, and one wrong move could cut deep.

"Good," Blackjack nods, his grin fading into something more serious. "Keep it that way."

I glance over at him once more, "I count on it."

Ripper clears his throat, cutting through the tension. "We think the fight between Bama and Blake is only going to cause more issues with the Commander."

"No shit," Zane says, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His eyes scan the room, calculating. "But the threat's already there. The Commander had Bama shot, remember? Ain't like we can make it much worse."

"I'm sure beating the shit out of his grandkid isn't gonna help," I mutter under my breath, feeling the phantom pain from that bullet wound flare up.

"Exactly," Zane continues, eyes narrowing. "So while it's a problem, it isn't the biggest one on our plate right now. Regardless, we'll handle it like we always do."

Blackjack cuts in, voice gravelly as ever. "We need to start nailing down a plan to deal with the Commander, and soon."

"Yeah," I agree, my mind already racing through possible strategies. "Sooner the better."

"Leave that to the big dogs. The two of you are dismissed," Zane states, signaling Ripper and me to get the fuck out of his office.