Page 72 of Traitor

A few nods. No resistance.

"And while we're at it," I continue, "let's vote on Reaper as Prez for Driftwood."

I raise my hand.

One by one, all the brothers follow. Unanimous.

Reaper lets out an exaggerated sigh, wiping a fake tear from the corner of his eye. "I love you all, too, you stupid assholes."

Losing two days to that goddamn bug pissed me off more than I could put into words. Two fucking days. Instead of rolling into Silverpine on Saturday, it's Monday evening by the time I pull into town, my patience already threadbare, my mood souring by the second.

I told Tank to find us a place — short-term rent, something low-key, nothing that screamed'hey, we're setting up shop here, come ask questions.'

And yet, when I pull up to the address he gave me, my jaw damn near hits the ground.

A fucking luxury mountain lodge.

Floor-to-ceiling glass windows, massive timber beams, a wraparound deck that probably has the best goddamn view of the mountains. This isn't a rental — this is some billionaire's vacation home.

Tank is already waiting on the front steps, grinning like a smug little shit.

I park, kill the engine, and stomp toward him, already seeing red.

"What the fuck, Tank? What is this? Are we some fucking twenty-year-old socialites vacationing in Aspen now?"

Tank just spreads his arms wide, looking like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Bones, don't be a downer! Some dumbass thought this area was gonna blow up with tourists because of the slopes nearby, but it never happened. This place is a steal! Huge as fuck, and I think we could actually buy it and make it our clubhouse. Look around, man — ten acres of land. Ten! And this cabin alone? Eight thousand square feet. Twelve rooms just for sleeping, all with their own fucking bathrooms."

I narrow my eyes. "So... bedrooms?"

Tank glares. "Shut the fuck up, asshole. Listen, this place has everything — land, easy road access, and we can even build small, single room cabins around the lodge. We could set up our bike and auto shop, a tattoo place, everything we need right here."

I look around, really look this time.

Tank might actually be onto something. The terrain isn't typical for a mountain property — it's flat, cleared land at the base of the range, with direct access to the main road. No steep cliffs, no pain-in-the-ass logistics. Plenty of room to build. Plenty of space to turn this into a real home for the club.

I turn back to him, skeptical but intrigued. "How the hell did you find this place?"

Tank suddenly looks a little guilty. Too guilty.

"Uh... had a little emergency," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck. "Had to run into that coffee shop's bathroom real quick, the Belladonna Brew. And guess what? They got an announcement board in there, right inside the bathroom stall. The cabin was listed for sale — with or without the land. And the price? It's a goddamn steal."

I blink. "You found our potential clubhouse while taking a shit?"

Tank grins proudly. "Sometimes inspiration strikes in weird places, man."

I shake my head, exhaling sharply. Fucking hell.

"Set up a call with the owner or the agency. See what we can negotiate. Good find, Tank."

His grin widens, but it fades just as fast when I level him with my next question. "Now, how's Ely?"

He sobers immediately. "Same routine. Work, home, and she spends a lot of time with that cute little friend of hers from the coffee shop."

I frown. "Friend from the coffee shop?"

Tank nods. "Yeah, the tiny blonde. They seem tight — like best friends or something. Always together when they've got free time."

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