Page 38 of Ruger's Rage

But I've been wrong before. Trusted the wrong people. Got men killed for my mistakes.

I can't afford to be wrong about her.

My phone buzzes with a message from Ellie:

The bar's closed for Sunday dinner. Will bring potato salad. Tell the boys to behave around Tildie.

Another buzz:

IF she agrees to come. Still working on that.

Sunday dinner at the clubhouse is tradition—our version of normal.

Brothers, old ladies—if there are any—good food, too much liquor, family shit.

I've never brought a woman before, never wanted to.

There's another text, this one from Tildie:

Ellie's insisting I come to some dinner thing tonight. That your doing?

Me:

Club tradition. No pressure.

A long pause, then:

Will you be disappointed if I don't come?

My fingers hover over the screen.

Honest answer? Yes, but pushing would only drive her away.

Me:

Your choice. Always will be.

Three dots appear, disappear, and appear again.

Tildie:

I'll think about it.

It's not a yes, but it's not a no either.

Progress, if you ask me.

The distant rumble of motorcycles signals Reed's arrival.

I tuck my phone away, President mode fully engaged as I head outside to greet one of our biggest allies—the President of the Skulls Renegade MC.

Reed dismounts first—weathered face, salt-and-pepper beard, eyes that have seen too much shit over too many years.

Behind him, Seamus looks like he could wrestle a bear and win, while Butch's watchful gaze scans our compound looking for anything out of place.

"Reed," I greet him, clasping his arm. "Long ride from Tennessee?"

"Worth it to see your ugly mug." He grins, but the humor doesn't reach his eyes. "Got a lot to discuss, kid."

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