Ten
1297 Words
The Vultures hadn’t called a sit-down in over a month, which was unusual. Club meetings weren’t on a schedule; they happened when something needed to be addressed—and when that something was serious, they didn’t meet in the back office or around the garage tools. They met in the heart of the clubhouse. No music, no girls, no drinks. Just patched men, locked doors, and truth.
Riot sat near the end of the table, arms folded, his cut draped heavy on his shoulders. The air inside was thick, hotter than usual, the overhead fan barely moving. Preach stood near the center, eyes sharp as ever, and the rest of the room was full of familiar faces—men Riot had bled with, drank with, fought beside, and protected.
The mood wasn’t right.
There were too many glances that didn’t settle. Too many silences between the nods.
Preach cleared his throat and looked around the room.
“Alright. Let’s cut the bullshit. I didn’t call y’all in to swap tire stories.”
No one spoke. A few leaned in.
He continued, slower now. “Word got around. Not from me. Not from Riot either. But someone saw what they saw, and I know y’all’ve been whispering like it’s none of our business.”
Silence again. Then someone near the back muttered, “It ain’t just what we saw. It’s who.”
Another voice followed—deep, rough, like gravel in boots. “Tell me I heard wrong, man. Tell me this ain’t real.”
Riot didn’t move.
Preach looked to him, but he didn’t need to say it. Riot stood up, slow, steady, and stepped forward until every man in the room had a clear look at him.
“I’m not hiding anything,” he said. “Yeah. I’m seeing her.”
A wave moved through the room. Not loud. Just a thick, low current of noise, heads shaking, lips twisting.
Someone laughed. “Dawg. The sheriff’s daughter? For real?”
“That’s the most reckless s**t I ever heard.”
“You know her daddy got enough on you to bury the whole crew?”
“Man, you slippin’. Deadass.”
Riot didn’t flinch. “You done?”
The room quieted again. One of the older guys leaned forward, arms braced on the table.
“I got love for you, Riot. Real talk. You my brother. But this ain’t just pillow talk. That girl’s daddy is the man who’s been tryna shut us down for a decade.”
“He’s the law, man,” another snapped. “You sleeping with the feds. That’s how it feels.”
Riot’s voice dropped. “I ain’t sleeping with the feds. I’m in love with a woman who’s got more backbone than half the people who ever stood in this room.”
They watched him now. Faces hard, but eyes less so. Black men knew when a brother meant something. They could smell bullshit—but they could also hear when something was deeper than lust.
One of the younger patched members looked up and muttered, “She the same one from the crash night, right? The one who was there when Cage went down?”
Riot nodded once.
“She handled herself,” the guy said. “Didn’t scream. Didn’t run. Just bled for one of ours.”
A few others murmured in agreement. Preach didn’t say anything yet. He let the room breathe.
Finally, the man with the gravel voice sighed, pulled a toothpick from behind his ear, and pointed it at Riot.
“You can do what you want. You earned your spot ten times over. But don’t bring her into this den. Not unless she’s patched in blood.”
Riot nodded. “I wasn’t going to.”
Preach finally stepped forward again.
“Alright. That’s it then. No more gossip. No more watching our own like strangers. He made his choice, and we respect it. But if it ever comes back on the club, you answer for it, Riot.”
“I already do.”
“Then it’s settled.”
And just like that, the room relaxed. There were still side-eyes. Still questions. But there was no war. Not yet.
Across town, Sheriff Maddox leaned back in his chair, one foot propped on his desk, staring at the printout in his hand. It wasn’t official. Not a warrant. Just a piece of information—pulled from an internal server with no names attached.
It was a report. Quiet. Buried. But it had been tagged to an old case file. A name he hadn’t seen in a long time.
The name of the girl Riot had carried out of that warehouse ten years ago.
Not Sienna.
A different one.
He set the paper down and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Something didn’t make sense. Either Riot was playing a longer game than he imagined—or this whole thing with his daughter was deeper than personal.
There was another knock at his door.
He waved the deputy in. “Get me the old Vulture arrest files from '14 through '16. And pull anything we have on a woman named Tahlia Reaves.”
“You think it’s connected?”
“I think I’m done letting that boy outmaneuver me.”
Later that evening, the house was too quiet when he stepped in. He always hated that. He wanted to hear the sound of life in the house. A TV on. A pan clattering. A radio left playing too loud. But Sienna was sitting at the kitchen counter, arms folded, shoulders tense, face unreadable.
“You’re late,” she said flatly.
“Long day.”
“Yeah. Mine too.”
He took off his holster, set it on the side table, and loosened the top button of his collar. She didn’t move.
“I know about your little club meeting,” she said suddenly.
His jaw twitched. “What?”
“You’ve got someone posted outside the hospital. Don’t insult me by pretending you’re not monitoring me.”
“I’m monitoring him.”
“He’s done nothing to you.”
“He exists. That’s enough.”
Her laugh was hollow. “You hate him because you can’t control him.”
“I hate him because he’s a walking death sentence wrapped in denim and ink.”
She stood up. “He’s more of a man than you ever were.”
The words hit like a slap.
He turned slowly. “What did you say?”
She didn’t back down. “He protects me. He respects me. He listens. I’ve never had to earn his love by being perfect.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I’ve given you everything.”
“You’ve given me expectations. Silence. Fear.”
“You ungrateful little—”
“You raised me to be obedient. He raised me to be alive.”
And that did it.
The slap came hard. Open palm. Sharp enough to echo in the quiet house. Her face whipped sideways, the sting immediate. Her lip split at the corner, a thin line of red blooming fast.
Silence held them.
She blinked slowly, stunned more by the line he had just crossed than the pain itself. Then she lifted her eyes to his, steady, even as blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
“You hit me,” she said quietly.
He said nothing.
Her hand went to her jaw. She wiped the blood with the back of her sleeve and turned toward the stairs.
She didn’t pack.
She didn’t look back.
She grabbed her phone at the front door and typed one sentence.
Come get me.
And then she walked outside, into the dark, into the unknown, into the only arms that had ever felt like safety.
- Writer
