up the road they’d followed from the highway, overwhelmed by the silence surrounding this house in the middle of no-fuckin-where. Son of a bitch.
When Horse had taken a call that the ole lady of a national officer in a friendly club had run into mechanical problems in eastern Arkansas, with no brothers of that officer within easy range, he’d tagged Bane to be Sharon’s rescuer for her trip home. Horse was the enforcer for the Freed Riders MC, the club Bane had patched into a couple of years back. That officer with the ole lady in trouble had been Gunny, with the Rebel Wayfarers MC. Presented the problem, without question, Bane had hitched a ride with a brother and gotten on the road, treating the ask as an honor. Keeping the ole lady of an RWMC lifer like Gunny safe, then being trusted by his own president as escort for the duration of her trip, was a privilege.
He knew the honor was only because the RWMC wasn’t aware of his history, which felt like all kinds of a lie.
When Bane had first landed in east Texas and found the Freed Riders, he’d latched tight to the idea of patching into the club. That had been years after he’d left his hometown of Philadelphia in the dust. With the back of his vest bare of any patches, he’d approached an officer named Horse and laid out all the reasons and benefits that had seemed most likely to get him through the door. Unfortunately, that attempt had run up against a big ole nope. Horse had listened to him, but still shaken his head and said the efforts Bane was willing to put in wouldn’t ever be enough, could never be enough, because of his former affiliations.
To say the disappointment had been crushing would be an understatement. From where he’d stood—and everything he’d witnessed between the members—the brotherhood within the FRMC represented everything he’d ever needed. Third time’s a charm, and all that.
Still, Bane hadn’t blamed them. FRMC would have been the third patch to ride between his shoulders. Even divorced by geography as diverse as Michigan to Wyoming, and then Texas, that was a fuckton of history to be dragging in his wake.
Of course, then there was the real reason.
William Douglas Crow, known to his FRMC brothers as Bane, had been born into an interesting life.
The youngest grandson of an old-blood mob member, he’d broken from tradition and set aside the blind loyalty bred into him. Bane had shunned the kind of violence in which his family seemed to revel, staying well clear of the pack of sycophant jackals. The final straw that had sent him running was the clear and present threat of being forced into his brother’s motorcycle club. Called the Monster Devils, they’d been known for their lack of self preservation, unafraid of upsetting the status quo with war after war. Bane had longed for a sense of belonging, but knew he’d never find it in that bloodthirsty bunch.
That isn’t how it’s supposed to be.
He shook his head. Bane had deftly managed to stay well clear of both family organizations, not wanting to be associated with a way of life he no longer recognized. But blood was blood, the bonds strong—so he’d known if put in the same position but on the other side of the table, he’d have said the same thing Horse had done. Protect the club.
Stubbornness seemed to run in his family, though, because Bane hadn’t given up. As he’d told Horse the next night—showing up with a black eye and bruised jaw as evidence Horse’s prospect had done per request and delivered a thoroughly discouraging message—except Bane wasn’t listening. He’d decided he wouldn’t stop working to show the FRMC the kind of member and brother he could be.
It had taken ten days. Ten beatings where he refused to lift a hand to defend himself. Ten mornings when he’d prayed he wouldn’t piss blood. And ten times Horse had patiently listened to the whole of his spiel and then slowly shaken his head.
Eleven had been his magic number, it seemed.
This trip would be a brief foray out of his club’s Texas territory but could be a huge step forwards in the depth of trust Horse and other FRMC officers had for him. As well as increasing his standing with the RWMC men—something he’d been working hard to gain since meeting several of them a handful of years ago.
Following a multi-club party, Blackie, the FRMC president,