The President's Collateral

EMBER Four thousand eight hundred twenty-two dollars. That was the exact amount on the last credit card in my wallet. It paid for a cheap particle-board casket, two dozen carnations that were already turning gray and mushy in the heavy Virginia rain, and exactly nine people standing in the mud at the cemetery. Nine. For a man who had lived fifty-eight years in this town. “Earth to earth,” Pastor Miller said in a flat voice. The rain drummed hard on the cheap umbrellas. “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” “Hurry up, Miller,” I muttered. My knuckles were white on the plastic handle of my umbrella. “My coat is leaking and the check clears in an hour.” Beside me, my twenty-year-old sister Lily sobbed. I put my arm around her shaking shoulders and pulled her close. Her cardigan was soaked. Everything smelled like wet wool, fresh dirt, and regret. Thomas Hayes was dead from what they said was a massive heart attack at fifty-eight. He left behind a house that was being taken by the bank, a long list of broken promises, and two daughters with empty bank accounts. Then the ground started to shake. It began as a low vibration under my ruined leather boots. It rattled my teeth before I even heard the sound. Pastor Miller stopped talking. Lily froze against me. Through the gray rain, twelve headlights cut along the cemetery’s gravel path. Harleys. Low, customized bikes that roared like animals waking up. They rode in tight formation. Steam rose from their exhaust in the cold autumn air. They stopped in a half-circle around the gravesite. The nine mourners scattered before the engines even shut off. Twelve men in heavy black leather got off the bikes. On the back of every vest, in blood-red thread, it said: **SAVAGE SAINTS MC**. The lead rider put down his kickstand and turned off the engine. He did not hurry. He swung a long leg over the bike. His boots sank into the wet grass. Rain ran across his broad shoulders and down the leather vest that had a **PRESIDENT** patch over the left side. He unlatched his matte-black helmet and pulled it off. My breath caught. *Jax.* Jax “Reaper” Callahan. The last time I saw that sharp jaw and those storm-gray eyes was three years ago, standing over my brother Dylan’s fresh grave. Before that, it was seven years ago in the bed of his old pickup truck. He had taken my virginity with rough but careful hands—and left the next morning without a word. He was thirty-four now. Bigger. Leaner. A jagged white scar cut through his left eyebrow. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead by the rain. He walked straight toward the open grave. He ignored the scared pastor, the casket, and the storm. His eyes locked on me. “Nice turnout,” Jax said. His voice was low and rough. “Shame the old man couldn’t stick around for the bill.” “Get out of here, Jax,” I said, stepping in front of Lily. “You have no right to be here.” “I have two hundred and fifty thousand rights to be here, princess.” The air felt cold in my lungs. “What are you talking about?” “Thomas liked to make bad bets,” Jax said, stopping two feet from me. He smelled like rain, motor oil, and expensive tobacco—a smell that still made my stomach drop. “He borrowed from the club’s money. He signed for it.” “My father is in that box,” I hissed, pointing at the wood. “Whatever deal he made with you died with him.” Jax took a half-step closer. He was tall—six-foot-three of solid muscle, broad enough to block the gray sky. He reached into the inner pocket of his vest, pulled out a folded paper sealed in a plastic bag to keep it dry, and held it out between two ink-stained fingers. “Read the clause on line four, Ember.” I did not take it. “I’m not reading your club paper.” Jax’s jaw tightened. In one quick move, his gloved hand wrapped around my wrist. The leather was freezing, but the heat of his grip burned through my wet skin. “Read it,” he said softly. “Or I start taking the clothes off your back to cover the interest.” I grabbed the paper and tore the plastic open with shaking fingers. Through the rain, the notarized ink was clear. My father’s messy signature was at the bottom. My eyes went to line four. *In the event of default or death of the debtor, all outstanding principal, interest, and penalties shall immediately transfer to surviving blood kin.* “This isn’t legal,” I said, looking up at him. My pulse hammered in my throat. “This is loan-sharking. No court would allow it.” “We don’t use courts, sweetheart,” Jax said. He stepped closer until the wet leather of his vest brushed the front of my soaked coat. He tilted his head down. His gray eyes looked darker. “We collect.” “I don’t have two hundred and fifty thousand dollars!” I yelled over the rain. “I have eighty dollars in checking and five maxed-out cards! Take the house! Take his car! There’s nothing left!” “I don’t want his rusted truck, Ember. And I don’t want a falling-down house.” “Then what the hell do you want from me?” Jax reached out. His bare thumb brushed away a mix of rain and a tear I had not noticed. The rough pad of his skin burned against my cheek. “Your father owed the Saints a quarter of a million dollars, princess. Debt passes to blood.” He leaned down. His lips brushed the shell of my ear. His breath was hot against my freezing skin. “That makes **you** the collateral.” The word hit me hard in the chest. When he pulled back, he smiled like he had just won something.