Page 50 of The Order of Disorder
“C’mon,” he says, jerking his chin toward two leather couches facing each other. “Let’s have a drink.”
Silas is already waiting, sunk deep into one of the couches, a dead-eyed grin carved into his face, watching us.
Murderer.
Wyatt catches my hand and brings me with him, his grip tight. He knows I don’t want to be near Silas, but he won’t leave me behind. Billy drops onto the couch beside Silas with a satisfied exhale and sprawls out.
Silas is silent and watchful, one elbow up on the arm rest, cigarette burning slow between his fingers, black beady eyes locked on me.
My stomach twists. It’s instinct now. Muscle memory, rage in my bones. Every time I see him, I taste blood. I see Ryder fall to the gravel.
I avert my eyes in disgust. Wyatt lowers himself onto the couch opposite and I sit next to him, pressing my thigh against his for comfort.
Billy pops the cap off the tequila and pours into four mismatched glasses sitting on an ottoman between us, and passes them around.
“Hell of a ceremony,” he says, lifting his glass. “Those boys earned it.”
Wyatt lifts his own, hesitates a beat, then takes the shot, jaw tight. “They did.”
I follow his lead and down my glass too. Billy refills us.
Then he leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping.
“We gotta keep an eye near the back exit,” he says to Wyatt. “Might wanna post Cipher or one of the boys there. Last thing I need is someone stumbling into the armory.”
Wyatt nods. “On it.”
“And the lot?” Billy’s eyes flick toward the back of the hangar like he can see through the walls. “We keeping the gates tight? You checking tags?”
“Yep. All clear,” Wyatt says. “Brandon and Knox are on perimeter. I’ll have them sweep again in twenty.”
Billy grins. All teeth. “That’s why I keep you close. Ryan fucking ten-steps-ahead Porter. Okay, keep an eye on them too. I don’t want a repeat of that bullshit with Danny.”
Danny’s one of the newer prospects. Apparently he left the back gate unmanned during a security shift, and was caught fooling around with someone he wasn’t supposed to. Word’s been circling all week.
Billy downs his drink and drops the glass back on the ottoman.
“Club’s got a name now,” he continues. “Respect. Reach. We don’t just fuck around and ride anymore. And Disordered is getting bigger every year. Next week we’ll have hundreds of riders rolling in. We can’t miss a thing.”
Disordered. Billy’s annual race takes place next week. I’ve seen him build it year after year, turning the old airstrip into a stage, a battlefield. Disordered means everything to him. Clubs flood in from across the state, engines screaming down the tarmac, bets flying, half-naked girls everywhere. It’s Billy’s day to play emperor, the O.D.’s time to flex.
We lift our glasses again and drink. Billy pours another round, splashing tequila onto the ottoman. It soaks into the cracked vinyl.
“So yeah,” he goes on. “Standards matter. We keep things tight. Look sharp. Keep morale high. And when someone with real pull starts sniffing around…”
We all take shots again. Tequila hits the back of my throat like fire. Billy doesn’t miss a beat, already pouring another round.
“We roll out the red carpet. Make sure everything’s running right. Everybody happy. Everybody…cooperative.”
He looks directly at me. “Right, Max?”
My skin goes cold.
I feel the ghost of menthol in my nose. Hear thetaptaptapof the senator’s silver ring against glass.
I press my hand to Wyatt’s thigh, grounding myself.
Billy raises his glass. “To loyalty.”
