Ryan looks across to where I’m standing, and I shrug. Fucked if I know what he’s talking about, either.

King lifts his head and looks between us. “So, given you’re both outsiders, I’m going to assume you haven’t a fuckin’ clue who Harris is now.”

“Now?” Ryan asks.

“He changed his name, sweetheart.”

She stares wide-eyed at King. “I was told he’s dead.”

King chuckles. “Satan himself couldn’t bring that asshole down. He’s very much alive and kickin’ . . . and in charge. He got a new road name after he fucked over what I’m going to assume is your family.” He looks her top to toe twice and grunts as though agreeing with himself. “Am I right? It was your house he did over?”

She nods.

“Jesus,” King mutters. “Get Dog in here, Bronx.”

I open the door like a right fucking concierge and call over to Dog, whose head is currently buried between the legs of Plastic Tits where she’s propped upon the back of the sofa. “Dog, Pres wants you.”

“Fuck’s sake.” He wipes his face with the palm of his hand, and points to Plastic Tits. “Stay. Good girl.”

His fucking chin still glistens when he walks in the office, and King gestures for him to wipe his face again, looking at Ryan pointedly from the corner of his eyes.

Dog grins down at her, removing what’s left of his midnight snack with the sleeve of his shirt. “Sorry, love.”

“Dog,” King says. “Who is Tuck?” He waves his hand for him to answer, as though he’s conducting an orchestra.

“Jesus. Only the head of the Devil’s Breed. Real sadistic fucker. Has a history of carving up his victims with a bunch of symbols that signify what they did—treason, theft, adultery, child abuse . . . that kind of thing. Been contested twice, and both times the sorry sons-a-bitches ended up with a body part in each state the Devil’s Breed have ties in.”

“And what would be his given name?” King asks. “What did his momma and daddy write down on his birth certificate?”

“Harris Friar.” Dog screws his face up in confusion. “Everyone knows that, don’t they?” Dog looks between Ryan and I.

Ryan’s eyes damn near pop out of her head. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I am that my damn dinner’s goin’ cold out there.” Dog smiles sweetly at her.

“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “I guess it’s probably right.” Her eyes stare at the floor, but her thoughts aren’t in this room with us.

“Complicates things,” I say.

King nods. “Sure does.” He swings his gaze back to Dog. “Need you to run a courier for me.”

“Why me?” Dog cries out. “That’s Vince’s job.”

“I’m pickin’ you.” King scribbles something on a scrap of paper and hands it to him. “Memorize this, then burn it. Report back, no matter when you get in. If I’m not in here, then you’ve got permission to come wake me up.”

Dog reads over the note and lifts an eyebrow. His gaze moves to Ryan. “This true?”

King nods. He throws Dog a light, and the prospect sends the paper up in flames before I can get a glimpse. Ryan watches as Dog juggles the burning scrap between his hands, and then dusts the ashes off his palms. He heads out the office door, shutting it behind him.

King sucks in a deep breath and leans his head on one hand, his elbow propped on the desk. “Harris ran with us when he was a prospect. Apex never patched him in—some bullshit excuse made up because he didn’t think he was ‘hard’ enough. Made the guy remain a prospect for more than six fuckin’ years—unheard of. Understandably, Harris went to the Breed, and well, the rest is history.” King drops his hand to the desk, fidgeting with a pen, spinning it in circles. “I guess if he’s likely to listen to anyone, it’ll be me. We used to pretty good friends until he swapped colors.”

“What did that note say?” Ryan asks quietly.

“That’s for me and Dog to know, and you and Tuck to find out.”

JUNCTION

Ryan

My cell vibrates in my pocket while Bronx leads us across the main room of the clubhouse to where a bar is set up against one of the longest walls. He wanders to the serving side while I pull the phone out and open the message.

“Beer, spirits, juice and even water. What would you like?” He turns to see what I’m doing when I don’t respond. “Gunter?”

I nod, taking a seat on one of the worn leather-topped bar stools. “Yeah. He said they’re heading home.”

“What you goin’ to say?” He knows as well as I do I’d never get back before them.

“The truth—that I needed to get out of the house.” I type out my reply to Gunter while Bronx watches, erasing and rewording sections multiple times before I decide it’s the best it’ll be.

“Think he’ll buy it?”

“Guess we’ll know shortly.”

Bronx rounds the bar to where I sit, taking up a spot on the next stool over. “Wish you were there for Tommy though, don’t you?”

I nod, tears brimming. I squeeze my eyes tight and will them away. “Yeah. I hate the fact he’s all mixed up in the crossfire. I should have stayed home. I should have left this until another day.” How could I be so selfish? I’m still so wrapped up in my own problems that I didn’t think about how this would impact Tommy.

“You’d only be delaying the inevitable.”

“Maybe, but my timing couldn’t have sucked more if I’d tried.”

Bronx shrugs. “If you wait for the perfect time, you’ll often find the opportunity has passed. Sometimes you just need to go with your gut and do what you know is best for you.”

He’s right, but it doesn’t make my guilt lessen much. “I’ve wanted to know for twelve years why Harris tore my life apart like that, you know? Twelve years of wondering. Being so obsessed about it isn’t healthy—I know that, but I also can’t help it. What he did changed everything.” I scrub my fingertips into my closed eyes. “And now this—he’s alive.”

Bronx scoots a little closer, placing his hand over mine in a gesture of solidarity. “You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

“He told me he’d come back for me,” I admit, looking up to find him watching me so damn intently with those gentle eyes. “He said he’d find me when the time was right.”

“Same as what I said before, darlin’—perhaps the opportunity passed? Besides, if he’d rocked up in the first months after it happened, would you have wanted to see him?”

“I guess not.”

“So maybe he just hadn’t found the right time yet?”

“Maybe.” I draw a heavy breath, wondering when life might ever be normal for me. “I still feel bad about leaving Tommy.”

He sighs, rubbing his fingertips over my wrist. “I know it hurts to leave him behind, Ryan, but you ain’t goin’ back.” His expression is stern, his eyes dark and lips set firm, telling me there’s no questioning the decision.

“Gunter won’t let me walk away without a fight, Bronx.”

“I’m no stranger to a fight, darlin’.” He smiles, and my eyes automatically travel to his crooked nose.

“You’ve been doing it for a while, huh?”

“A few years, yeah.” His hand works its way up my arm, rubbing and massaging. It’s comforting in an intimate, yet non-assuming way. “I’ll find a way to get information on Tommy. He’s a good kid—I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“God, I hope he’s okay. I really wish there was a way for me to see him.” I love Tommy like a brother, but Bronx is right saying I can’t go back. Gunter would lock me in the house and keep me under watch. But it’s not just Gunter’s violent tendencies that would put me at risk. Until now, I found it easy to play the part for Gunter, put on a brave face when I was fooling myself that I had the upper hand. But now that my eyes are open, I don’t have that false confidence to carry me through. “I have to agree with you, though—it wouldn’t be safe for me to return.” Because there’s also the question of what Gunter thinks would be a fitting punishment. He’s not afraid to hit a girl. I could guarantee that would be the least of it, too.