Page 61 of The Order of Disorder
Later, I catch him watching us work. Leaning against the staircase with his arms folded, eyes narrow and lips tight. I suppress a shiver and look away, hoping that Billy’s respect for Wyatt is enough to protect me from him.
Every glance between me and Wyatt feels heavier now. Every touch sharper. The hangar is alive with the buzz of race prep, and underneath that, inside of me, is a different kind of electricity. The spark of wanting, the perfect distraction of something all-consuming.
Billy is in the shadows, not the forefront of my life, as he has been for so long. But increasingly I catch glimpses of him watching me, like I’m capturing his attention in a way I haven’t since before he passed me over to Rox and Maze.
I walk to the soda machine near the bar, craving something cold. My shirt clings to my back, skin damp despite the massive industrial fans set up near the bay doors.
The machine rattles and spits out a can with a metallic clunk. I bend to grab it, and when I turn, I nearly scream.
Billy’s standing right there. I didn’t hear him approach.
“It’s nice to see you settling back in,” he says, his voice smooth and easy. A tone I haven’t heard from him in a long time. Billy as I used to know him. “Road Captain’s keeping you smiling.”
“Yeah,” I say, thrown. “He’s…Ryan’s great.”
“I’m happy for you, Max.” He almost means it. But then something sharp flickers behind his eyes. “Didn’t know you liked ’em so old, though. Mr. White’ll be glad to hear that.”
He grins, cold and mean. I frown.
“Billy…”
“Relax,” he laughs, reaching out—and I flinch. That makes him laugh harder. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, knuckles grazing my jaw.
“Jesus, Max. When did you stop trusting me?”
The question hits harder than it should. When did Istop?How far back do I have to go? Before he drugged me, before he sold me, before he got Ryder killed? Before he had me kidnapped?
I haven’t trusted Billy since I was thirteen and literally had no one else.
But none of that makes it to my lips. I’m too stunned to speak.
His thumb slides lower, grazing my collarbone, then lingers on a tender spot I didn’t realize was sore. “Looks like our Road Captain’s been riding you hard and putting you away wet.”
He meets my eyes, that cruel, familiar smile lingering, and then he steps back, whistling, and walks away, leaving me standing there with the cold can sweating in my hand and my pulse thudding in my throat.
On a hot afternoon, news rips through the clubhouse like a lit line of gasoline: Billy killed one of the new prospects, Danny, in cold blood.
Wyatt tells me first, then I see it in everyone’s faces, hear whispers of it wherever people are gathered. The airfield, the blood, the corpse. The rumors are getting conspiratorial, Wyatt says. Club members saying that Danny insulted Silas, calling him a snake and questioning his authority. That in retaliation, Silas had ratted him out to Billy for something minor. Made it seem worse than it was.
But it’s not Silas’s accusation that puts the knot of fear in my chest—I already know he’s a monster. It’s the viciousness of Billy’s action. That he took Danny out to the airfield and shothim execution-style, in front of witnesses. A kid ready to swear loyalty, and he executed him anyway. I’ve always known that Billy’s world is a violent one, but if he’s ever killed someone before, I haven’t known about it. The news makes my blood run cold. If he could do that to a prospect, what is he capable of doing to me? To Wyatt?
By the time the sun begins to dip below the horizon that evening, the front of the hangar has undergone a transformation. Most of the bikes have been moved outside or taken back to garages, leaving only a few awaiting final tune-ups before Saturday's race. The usual clutter of tools and parts has been cleared, replaced by long tables stretching from the front of the hangar to the bar area.
The setting sun casts a warm, amber glow through the entrance, mingling with the smoke billowing from the two large barbecues stationed out front. Prospects hustle to lay out platters of food and pitchers of beer, moving faster than usual. One of them drops a tray and flinches. Nobody laughs. It should be a rowdy, convivial evening, but everyone is tense and on guard.
I grab a plate and make my way to the head table, settling beside Wyatt. His arm drapes casually behind me, a comforting presence. Across from us sit Billy and Silas, turned toward each other in a private conversation.
Once everyone has food in front of them, Billy rises to his feet, instantly commanding attention without needing to raise his voice. All eyes turn to him as he walks to the front of the hangar.
He clears his throat.
“Seven years ago,” he begins, “all of this was just a dream. We were running parts out the back of a pawn shop—me, Silas, Pluto, Cipher, Kai. Preacher…” He looks up at the ceiling. “Rest in peace, brother. Now, look at us. We're on the brink of thebiggest race we’ve had yet. We’ve got the Vagos, the Bandidos, the Iron Order, the Grave Sons, and the fucking Mongols riding in from four different states. We’re fucking big time and that’s because of each and every one of you, and I don’t take that lightly. Together, we built all of this. Allegiance to the screaming skull isn’t about allegiance to me or Silas or Ryan, this isn’t a goddamn hierarchy. It’s allegiance to each other, to all of us. We built this together, and I’m so fucking proud and so fucking humbled. Thank you.”
Applause breaks out around the tables. The grizzled old men in their leather jackets, and the younger ones—the newer generation of speed racers—all clapping like their lives depend on it. Wyatt claps his hands together with sharp force, and I manage to force the corners of my lips up into a demure smile, playing the part, too.
Yay for the fucking O.D.Stirring fucking speech, dear Leader.
Billy’s gaze sweeps the room, and then his tone shifts, becoming more serious.
