Page 34 of Bozo

I stand there for a moment, staring at Eamon's lifeless body. The reality of what just happened starts to sink in. A man is dead because of me. Because he threatened me.

But there's no time to dwell on it. I need to get out of here before anyone else shows up. I turn toward my car, slide in, and start up the engine, my mind racing. Everything has changed in the span of a few minutes. The Fury Vipers just killed a man to protect me. They called me one of theirs. I hadn’t known if I wanted to join, but I do now. They already think of me as one of their own. It’s something I’ve always looked for: a family, a brotherhood, a sense of belonging, and with the Fury Vipers, I feel that’s exactly what I’ll have.

As I drive, I can't help but think about how this night has turned out. I went from winning a poker game to witnessing a murder in the span of a few hours. And now I'm heading to a biker clubhouse in the middle of the night.

I pull up to the clubhouse, seeing Pyro and Preacher's bikes already parked outside. Taking a deep breath, I step out of my car and walk toward the entrance. Before I can even knock, the door swings open.

Pyro stands there, his knuckles now cleaned of blood but still raw and red. "Come on in, kid," he says, his voice gruff but not unkind.

I step inside, immediately hit by the smell of leather, cigarette smoke, and beer. The main room is dimly lit, with a bar along one wall and various leather couches and chairs scattered around. A few other members are there, all eyeing me curiously.

Pyro leads me to a back room, closing the door behind us. Preacher is already there, along with another man I don't recognize.

"Connor, this is Raptor, our VP," Pyro introduces. The man nods at me, his face serious.

"Alright, kid," Pyro says, sitting down and gesturing for me to do the same. "We need to talk about what happened tonight."

I nod, sitting down across from him. "Thank you," I say. “I appreciate what you did.”

Pyro's face hardens. "He deserved it. Nobody threatens one of ours and gets away with it."

There it is again. One of ours.

“So, what do you say, kid?” Raptor asks with a grin. “You ready to become a prospect?”

I don’t even need to think. I’ve made up my mind.

“Yes,” I say with a grin. “I am.”

I know it’s the right decision for me. I’ve been searching for something my entire life, and tonight I finally found it. This is what I want.

ELEVEN

GRÁINNE

My phone rings and my hands tremble, as they do every time that specific ringtone sounds. It’s Jerry Houlihan. I owe the man everything. That’s no lie. He took me under his wing and gave me a home. He helped me when I needed help the most, and he’s been a great support system since the night I met him. But it comes at a cost, and that cost means stitching up his men or being unable to save his men who are close to death.

“Hey,” I answer softly as I reach for my backpack. I’m supposed to be studying. I have exams in just under a month. If I pass them, I have one year left in University before I can start working in a hospital.

“Grá,” Jer greets, his tone tight and hoarse. This is unlike the usual way he speaks to me. “I know you’re busy, loveen, but I need you to come to my house. Can you do that?”

My brows knit together at the way he’s speaking. “Is everything okay?”

"Everything's fine," he says, but I can hear the strain in his voice. "Just need you to come over. It's important."

I glance at my textbooks and notes spread across the table. The responsible part of me wants to refuse, to stay and study. But I know I can't. I owe Jerry too much.

"Okay," I sigh, packing the books up and zipping up my backpack. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

The drive to Jerry's house feels longer than usual. My mind is racing as I imagine all the possible reasons he could need me. Is he in trouble? Hurt? Or one of his men? Do I need to stitch another one of them up?

It’s hard seeing his men hurt. Over the past four years, I’ve come to know the majority of them, so stitching them up when they’re hurt is never fun.

I pull into his driveway, noting the unfamiliar black SUV parked next to Jerry's silver one. As I approach the front door, I hear muffled voices from inside. Male voices, angry and urgent.

My hand hesitates on the doorknob. Something isn't right. But before I can decide whether to enter or flee, the door swings open. Jerry stands there, his jaw clenched, and his face etched with anger.

"Grá," he says thickly. "Come in, quickly."

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