Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Spark

I'm leaning against the doorway of the club's office when I catch Damon's voice rising.

He's pissed, more so than usual.

"Forty percent down, Dixon! Forty fucking percent!" Damon's face is red, veins popping in his neck as he paces the small room. "This can't keep happening."

Dixon sits on the other side of the desk, rubbing his temples like he's trying to stave off a migraine.

Dixon grumbles, his eyes heavy and tired. "Yeah, it's a problem."

"Problem? I wish it was a fucking problem. This is a goddamn disaster." Damon punches the air with frustration. "We need to move forward with whatever we're going to do. We can't keep sitting on our asses."

"Agreed," Dixon finally sighs, dropping his hands to the desk. "Call church. We need to discuss this with the rest of the officers and full patches."

I shift my weight, making sure they don't see me.

This isn't meant for prospects' ears, but hell if I'm not curious.

The tension between them is thick enough to cut with a knife, and whatever is going on with the brothels, it's bound to come back and bite us all.

I slip out quietly, heading down the hall before they notice me.

My mind races with fragments of what I just heard.

Forty percent.

That's not a small dip—that's catastrophic.

And if Damon's losing his shit over it, then it's more than just numbers on a balance sheet.

I step outside into the cooler Halloween air, trying to shake off the unease settling in my gut.

The decorations are up—thanks to the ol' ladies—and for a second, I let myself get lost in the sight of inflatable ghosts and pumpkins swaying in the breeze.

It's better than thinking about the storm brewing inside.

Sakura, Kat, and Camila are nearby, wrestling with another inflatable.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, already knowing what it's about.

"All full patches and officers report to church in 1 hour."

The words on the screen confirm it.

Church is called. So, shit's getting even more serious.

Prospects like me don't get a seat at that table, but we're not left in the dark for long.

They'll fill us in soon enough, but we'll have limited information compared to everyone else.

Until we're sitting at that table, everything is on a need to know basis.

The ladies continue to struggle with the inflatable, so I head over.

I shove my phone back into my pocket. "Need a hand?"

"That'd be amazing," Camila says, barely looking up from her task.

She's focused and determined—like she always is.

I join them, grabbing stakes and helping secure the inflatables into the ground.

It's a good distraction, grounding me in the present instead of letting my mind run wild with what might be going down inside.

Sakura steps back, admiring their work, her face lighting up with a satisfied smile.

"Looks great," I say, giving her a nod.

"Yeah, it does. The kids are going to love it," she replies, her eyes twinkling.

"Yeah," I murmur, glancing around.

Kat and Damon's daughters, Luna and Aurora, are playing nearby, already dressed as tiny witches.

There's something comforting about the normalcy of it all, even if it's just a facade for now.

"Any plans for a costume?" Camila asks, her voice teasing.

"Not really my thing," I shrug.

"Come on, everyone's dressing up!" she insists, her grin infectious.

"Yeah, Spark," Sakura chimes in, "even Zoe's dressing up."

Her words hit me harder than they should, and I struggle to keep my expression neutral.

No one knows about Zoe and me.

We've been careful, keeping our interactions under wraps, especially here.

I lie smoothly, but Sakura chuckles, clearly not buying it. "Don't care what Zoe does."

"I'm sure you don't," she says, sarcasm lacing her tone.

I busy myself with the last of the decorations, feeling her eyes on me.

She's sharp, and she knows more than she lets on.

But she doesn't push further, offering instead a piece of advice.

Sakura comes up beside me while the other ladies go off and do their own thing.

She whispers, making sure no one can hear her except me. "Just be mindful, okay? The way you look at her, it's a dead giveaway."

I give her a tight smile. "Got it."

I appreciate the heads-up, even if it makes me uneasy.

"Ransom, don't pull on that!" Camila's voice rings out as her little boy tugs at one of the freshly staked inflatables.

I chuckle under my breath and move to help her.

"Here, let me," I say, gently redirecting Ransom's hands away from the inflatable vampire.

He grins up at me, all mischief and innocence.

"Thanks, Spark," Camila says, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. "You seem like you're good with kids."

"Not really," I shrug, but there's a warmth in my chest from the compliment. "Just takes a bit of patience, I guess."

"Well, we've got plenty around here," she says, waving a hand toward the clubhouse where more kids are running around.

Luna and Aurora, Damon and Kat's girls are chasing Talon, who's trying to keep his cool even though he's clearly enjoying being the center of their attention.

Orion and Fate, Kade and Ivy's kids, are playing with a toy truck nearby while Dixon's daughter Khloe tries to get Jalen, who's almost a teenager, to join in.

Mouser and Sakura's kids, Saffron and Bo, are running around like loose cannons.

The corners of my mouth lifting slightly. "Yeah, it's like a circus."

Camila laughs, a light sound that breaks through the tension of the day. "Tell me about it. So, what are you dressing up as tonight?"

"Nothing," I reply quickly, without giving it much thought.

Dressing up isn't really my thing.

"That's nonsense," she counters, crossing her arms. "Everyone's dressing up. Even Widow's getting into the spirit for Talon."

I raise an eyebrow, picturing the stoic Sgt. at Arms donning a costume. "Seriously?"

It's almost too ridiculous to imagine.

"Yep! So you better get your act together, Spark. No way you're sitting this one out." She gives me a playful shove.

"Guess I'll have to think of something then," I concede, scratching the back of my neck.

The idea of blending in with the festivities doesn't sit right with me, but maybe it wouldn't hurt.

Maybe it would even make Zoe happy.

"Good," Camila says triumphantly. "I'm sure you'll come up with something great."

"Yeah, sure," I mutter, watching as she heads off to wrangle Ransom again.

I glance around at the decorated veranda, the kids laughing and playing, and feel a strange mix of unease and warmth.

Maybe I should get in the festive spirit.

Kat's voice pulling me from my thoughts. "Thanks for your help, Spark."

She's got a handful of balloons in one hand and a stapler in the other, looking like she's ready to take on the world.

"Yeah, no problem," I respond, trying to keep my tone casual. "Looks like it's coming together."

"Well, it might have to finish up without you. The boys are done with church, and Damon's giving the prospects an update."

"Got it." I nod, handing off the last bundle of cords to Camila. "Catch you later."

"Good luck," she offers with a wink, clearly unaware of the storm brewing inside the clubhouse.

I head toward the entrance, the cool autumn air biting at my exposed skin.

Halloween decorations sway gently in the breeze, adding a layer of eerie calm to the scene.

It's almost peaceful—almost—if not for the anxiety gnawing at my gut.

Pushing open the heavy door, I step into the dimly lit main room.

A few heads turn in my direction as I make my way across the worn wooden floorboards to join the other prospects.

The room smells like leather, stale beer, and tension—a concoction that's become all too familiar.

Damon stands at the front, his eyes scanning the room with a steely gaze.

As soon as he spots me, he starts speaking, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of murmurs.

"All right, now that everyone's here I need you to listen up," he begins, hands planted firmly on the table before him. "The person who owns these brothels is Philomena Bernard—the wife of Lunatic. And if that name doesn't mean shit to you, let me remind you: Lunatic was the identical twin brother to Rage, the former Prez of the Demons of Hell MC."

A murmur ripples through the crowd, but Damon's glare silences it quickly.

My mind races, sifting through fragmented memories and rumors that have circulated around the club for years.

Rage and Lunatic—names spoken in hushed tones, stories veiled in secrecy and bloodshed.

"Yeah, we killed Lunatic many years ago because we thought he was Rage," Damon continues, his voice dropping a notch. "And now, his widow owns those brothels that are screwing us over. This isn't just business anymore. She's made it personal."

I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling in.

The stakes have just gotten higher, and the line between duty and danger has never been clearer.

The question bursts out of me before I can stop it, my voice echoing louder than intended in the tense silence of the room. "Is she trying to get back at us for killing him?"

Damon's eyes snap to mine, a flicker of approval crossing his face. "Yeah, Spark," he says, nodding gravely. "We think she is. Philomena's trying to fuck us over monetarily first."

A murmur ripples through the prospects, but it's Turmoil who raises his hand, the tattoos on his knuckles stark against his skin. "What's the plan then, Prez?"

Dixon steps forward, taking the cue.

His presence commands attention, his gaze as sharp as ever. "First, we ramp up our marketing," he announces, his tone brokering no argument. "Plaster the girls all over Vegas, wherever we can. We need to remind people why our brothels are the best in town."

"Got it," Turmoil mutters, scribbling notes on his phone.

"But that's not enough," Dixon continues, his eyes narrowing. "We're also going to dig into Philomena Bernard. Find out everything there is to know about her. She's a British billionaire who married Lunatic—there's gotta be dirt somewhere, and we're gonna find it."

The tension in the room thickens as we absorb the weight of those words.

My mind races, piecing together the fragments of this new threat.

The stakes have never been higher, and the line between business and personal vendettas has officially blurred.

"All right," Damon concludes, his voice a low growl. "You know what you need to do. Now get to work."

Boots scuffle against the worn hardwood floor as patches and prospects alike disperse to their tasks.

I slip my phone back into my pocket, my mind awhirl with questions that refuse to settle.

How the hell does a guy like Lunatic end up with a billionaire wife?

The image of Lunatic's rough, scarred face contrasts sharply with what I imagine Philomena Bernard must be like—polished, elegant, untouchable.

It doesn't add up.

Outside, the cool Halloween air is a welcome change from the stifling tension inside.

The yard around the clubhouse now looks festive as all hell.

The club's having our annual Halloween party tonight, but I'm really hoping that we can all take a break and relax a bit.

Shit's been getting crazy for a while, and we need to take a load off.