Chapter Three - Under Pressure, Over Shadows
1343 Words
Jax sat in his office, the blinds half-drawn against the morning sun slashing across his desk. The room was quiet, sterile—just how he liked it these days. It kept the world out. But the world had a way of clawing its way back in, especially when you wore the crown of a kingdom carved from chaos.
His phone buzzed once. Mason.
He didn’t hesitate. “Get in here.”
A few minutes later, Mason stepped through the door, his presence easy like it always was, but edged now with something sharper—concern, maybe. Tension had lived between them since the moment Ghost died. Not because of mistrust, but because Mason was watching Jax unravel in slow, measured silence.
Jax leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “I’ll hear your suggestions.”
Mason blinked. “For what?”
“My second,” Jax said flatly. “Ghost left boots behind. I’ve avoided filling them long enough. Can’t keep pretending I’m running this alone.”
Mason looked surprised, but only for a beat. Then he sat across from him, posture thoughtful.
“You sure?”
“No,” Jax said. “But I can’t afford to stall anymore. Not with Denny’s crew sniffing around and half our eyes spread too thin.”
Mason nodded, but didn’t move.
Jax raised an eyebrow. “Say it.”
“You’ve been out of touch,” Mason said carefully. “You don’t know half of who’s stepped up lately. You didn’t even come to Patch Night.”
“I know,” Jax said, jaw tight. “That’s why I’m asking you. I trust you to tell me who’s ready. And I trust myself to gut them if they f**k it up.”
Mason gave a dry chuckle. “I’ll put together a shortlist. You’ll need to see them in action.”
Jax nodded once, eyes flickering to the shelf behind Mason where a leather-bound journal sat. Ghost’s.
“Start with the ones who remind you of him,” Jax said, voice low. “But not too much.”
Mason stood. “You want someone loyal, smart, and just enough of a savage.”
Jax cracked the ghost of a smile. “Exactly.”
As Mason turned to leave, Jax’s gaze drifted toward the untouched cup of coffee on his desk. Cold now. Like everything else in this place.
There were too many ghosts in the compound.
Too many memories with nowhere to go.
But maybe, just maybe, it was time to start living in the now again—even if it meant letting someone else carry a fraction of the weight he’d refused to share.
Jax sat at the edge of the long table in the war room later that afternoon, the club’s map and crew rotation sheets spread in front of him. Mason returned with a thin manila folder, dropping it in front of him with the kind of precision that said this one matters.
“That’s the shortlist,” Mason said, taking a seat. “All capable. All loyal. But one stood out.”
Jax didn’t open the folder yet. Just watched Mason.
“You hesitated.”
Mason nodded slowly. “Because I knew once you looked at his name, you’d see him too.”
Jax flipped the folder open.
There were three names. Two of them he skimmed without much interest, but the third—Kellan Boyd—made his gaze slow and sharpen.
Mason tapped the paper with a callused finger. “He’s smart. Keeps his head down, handles logistics like a machine. But it’s the way he moves. The quiet calm under pressure. The way he speaks when he finally does. It’s… eerie.”
“He trying to mimic Elias?” Jax’s tone was sharp, almost cold.
“No,” Mason said immediately. “That’s the thing. He’s not trying at all. It’s just who he is.”
Jax leaned back, arms crossed, eyes lingering on the single photo paperclipped to the file. Kellan stood beside one of the compound’s side gates, talking to another crew member. His stance was casual, but centered. Like he didn’t need to posture to hold his place. Ghost had been the same—never needed the spotlight, but the room always knew he was in it.
“How old?”
“Twenty-eight. No criminal record. Comes from a military background—four years as a logistics officer. His brother brought him in, but the guy left a year ago. Kellan stayed. Said he found his place.”
Jax closed the folder.
“He’ll be at the range tonight,” Mason added. “Thought you’d want to see him work under pressure.”
Jax stood without a word, folder still in hand. Mason watched him, waited.
But all Jax said was, “If he’s even half the man Elias was—he won’t want the spotlight either.”
And that was exactly the kind of man Jax needed.
The compound’s private range was quiet when Jax arrived, the setting sun throwing long shadows across the packed dirt. A few members were already practicing—shells clinking to the ground, low murmurs between shots—but Jax ignored them. His eyes zeroed in on one man near the far end of the range.
Kellan Boyd stood with his back straight, shoulders squared, calm as ever. He adjusted his stance, checked the slide of his sidearm, then fired off a clean, tight grouping center mass. No posturing. No wasted motion.
Jax kept his distance for a long minute, watching.
Ghost had done it the same way. Steady. Focused. Quiet like a storm that hadn’t broken yet.
Mason stood beside him. “He comes here nearly every evening. Never misses. Never brags. Just does the work.”
Jax didn’t respond.
Kellan turned slightly, catching them in his periphery. He gave a short nod of acknowledgment but didn’t break form. He reloaded, reset, and kept shooting.
“Make it happen,” Jax said finally, low and gruff.
Mason blinked. “You sure?”
“No. But he’s the right call.” Jax exhaled sharply. “He’s not Elias—but that calm in him, that stillness? It’s something we need. Something I can’t teach.”
Mason grinned, just a flicker. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Not yet.”
Mason frowned. “Why not?”
“Because if he’s really cut from Ghost’s cloth,” Jax said, voice like gravel, “he’ll already know what’s coming.”
He left the range without another word, ears ringing from the echo of Kellan’s next shot—clean, precise, unshaken.
And for the first time in months, Jax felt something shift. Not peace. Not hope. But maybe, just maybe... readiness.
Jax had barely made it back to his office, the scent of gunpowder still lingering in his clothes, when his phone buzzed.
Diesel.
He picked up immediately.
“Talk.”
“Need you at the Barrel,” Diesel said, voice taut. “It’s Dani. s**t got out of hand. She’s in the middle of a fight—some woman ran her mouth, then it got physical.”
Jax was already moving. “You can’t break it up?”
“Already tried. It’s not just Dani. Couple club girls are swinging too. She won’t stand down till she sees you.”
Jax growled under his breath, grabbing his cut and keys. “I’m five minutes out.”
He hung up.
His boots echoed heavy down the hallway as he strode toward his bike. It wasn’t the first time Dani had thrown punches, but for it to get this far—with Diesel calling him in—it meant she wasn’t just swinging. She was unraveling.
And in public?
That wasn’t just a personal issue. That was a club issue.
The bike roared beneath him as he tore down the road toward the Barrel, the night air biting against his skin. He couldn’t help the thought slipping in as he rode:
Why the hell was everything always falling apart at the Barrel?
- Writer
