Paul
Jack’s voice echoed in my head long after the meeting ended. Same gravel tone, same tired speeches. Eyes full of regret like he was the only one carrying this damn patch.
I stood in the garage, watching oil drip off an old panhead we’d been working on for weeks. The only sound was the steady plink-plink of grease hitting the bucket. Fitting, really. A slow, quiet leak. That’s what this club’s become.
I used to believe in Jack. Hell, I bled for this club. We all did. But now he acts like he’s above it—like the rules don't apply to him anymore. Sitting on his high horse while everything around us burns. And Silas? Don’t get me started on that boy.
“Clean,” he says. Like we can just walk away from the money, the power, the respect. The drugs, the guns, the hustle—that’s what built th
