Page 110 of Cold Hard Truth

It’s not a good sign when presidents and VPs start gathering. This only happened once before that I remember when the clubhouse took down Satan’s Reapers.

Blaze walks off to go to gather the prospects, but Steel stops next to me before following him.

“You seriously fucked Kane’s daughter?” Steel asks, wiping his bloody knuckles with a worn rag. “And you managed to live? I think I might actually like you after all, Sage.”

Apparently, Steel can be friendly. You just have to have some fucking balls to get on his good side.

“I’ll meet you inside.” Steel laughs, glancing back at me. “Save me a fucking drink.”

35

Sage

My head is throbbing,and it’s the best I can ask for right now because it means I’m alive. Blood trickles down my eyebrow, and it’s proof Lyla might actually be right about fate when in any other reality there’s no reason Kane would have let me walk out of those horse stalls in one piece.

Another drop of blood drips from the gash in my head, and I press my hand over it.

Kane got me good. My eye socket is pulsing, and the center of my forehead feels like it’s splitting in half. He didn’t even hesitate before he landed the hit, almost knocking me on my ass.

And I don’t blame him.

Walking into the clubhouse, I don’t try to hide my busted-up face. It’s a badge for his daughter. After all, if Kane knew all the shit I’ve done to her, the pain he would have inflicted would have been much worse.

The clubhouse is jam-packed with people like it is every night, and it’s late enough that people have crossed the line from being tipsy to wasted. Prospects who haven’t yet learned how to handle their booze are passed out on various pieces of furniture, and the entire place reeks of alcohol and vomit.

This place is going to shit.

Not that Kane seems to mind or notice. He’s sitting directly in the middle of it on his throne at the bar. He sips his drink, watching a few of the guys playing pool and throwing darts.

I miss the nights when that was all this was. A few guys hanging out. Sometimes their wives or girlfriends would be on the couch talking. It was quieter and not all about the perks of being in a motorcycle club. It was a family.

Something about the look on Kane’s face makes me wonder if he misses it too.

It’s his club, he could do something about it. He hasn’t, and it’s one of the many reasons I don’t feel guilty that I left.

Making my way through the clubhouse, I glance around, following Kane’s gaze as he scans the room. I’m sure we’re both thinking it—is Bullet the only one?

How many of these guys are turning against their club?

Are they Steel’s men or Kane’s?

Every year that passes, I recognize fewer faces around the room. Some guys are still around from my time here, but others have moved on to other chapters. And the new prospects don’t have the same grit they used to.

Worse—they aren’t as loyal.

They see a MC as an opportunity to party. To get away with shit that isn’t socially accepted in most circles. So many of the new prospects only care about patch bunnies and coke, not about the men they’re going to live and die to protect if it comes down to it.

Stopping at the bar, I slide onto the barstool next to Kane.

“Get you a drink, babe?” Paula slings a towel over her shoulder and presses her hands on the bar, pushing her tits up at me.

But it’s not flirty, it’s just Paula.

She’s been around the club for a couple of decades, and she used to be one of Kane’s main girls. But as time went on, she became more of a mother figure to the women who still linger around this drunken mess than someone who actually participates in it. And even if she could probably live a better life away from the compound, at least she stays so they’ve got someone looking out for them.

“He’ll have one of these.” Kane taps his glass before downing it. “And I’ll have another.”

Paula pours two shots of Jameson and slides them in our direction before walking away. She stops at a group of guys further down the bar, and when they almost puke ordering more vodka, she pours them water instead.

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