chapter 6
1544 Words
Silas hated Mondays.
Always had.
They started too early, ended too late, and lately, every hour in between felt like a fuse burning toward something he couldn’t quite see.
The club had a code:
Handle business before breakfast, settle debts before dark, never leave a threat to rot overnight.
By 6:00 a.m. on Monday, he was in the garage office behind The Pit Stop, jaw tight, reviewing a list of shipments that didn’t match the inventory.
Brick sat across from him, legs spread, boots on the edge of the desk like nothing could touch him. “Still no word from Weaver?”
“No,” Silas muttered, scanning the numbers again. “But I’m done waiting.”
Weaver ran a small gun line out of the east side — a piece of the pie the Sons gave him months ago in exchange for loyalty and silence. But silence didn’t mean invisible, and now two crates were missing and Weaver wasn’t answering his damn phone.
Silas cracked his knuckles. “We ride tonight.”
---
Monday Night – 9:42 p.m.
The road to Weaver’s compound was just cracked asphalt and dust, lit only by headlights and the pale glow of a nearly-full moon.
The Sons rolled seven deep. Enough to send a message without starting a war.
Silas rode lead.
Black jacket. Blacker thoughts.
And Sage’s voice — low and tired from her morning shift — still echoing in the back of his mind. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t believe her.
But he didn’t press.
Didn’t know how to want something soft in a world that needed him hard.
Weaver wasn’t at the house.
But his brother was.
Mouthy. High. Armed.
One wrong move and Brick nearly broke his arm.
“We find Weaver,” Silas said, low and sharp, “and he answers everything.”
---
Tuesday – 11:18 a.m.
Silas met with Jack, Bishop, and Cutter at the clubhouse.
They gathered in the back room — no windows, one door, no outsiders.
“Sheriff’s poking around again,” Bishop said, arms crossed. “Says there’s rumors of a new set trying to move product across state lines. Not ours.”
Silas lit a cigarette, even though he hated the smell. The burn helped him think. “So they’re looking to use our roads.”
“Or plant heat on us while they do it,” Jack added.
Cutter grunted. “If they’re smart, they’ll go around. If they’re not…”
“They’ll find out what happens when they don’t,” Silas finished.
The room was quiet for a beat.
Then Jack leaned in. “What’s your gut say?”
Silas exhaled smoke. “Something’s coming. Fast. And dirty.”
---
Wednesday – 4:32 p.m.
He was back at the bar before open — not for Sage, he told himself.
For the cameras. For the back office. For the business.
But when he heard her laugh from the back hallway, soft and warm, something in him twisted.
Brick caught the look. Smirked. “She getting under your skin, brother?”
Silas didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Instead, he turned his focus to the back wall, where a new map was pinned — routes marked, connections drawn in red ink.
Three cities.
Two rival crews.
And one thread that traced back to a name no one had spoken in six years.
Jesse Cade.
Dead. Or supposed to be.
But ghosts in their world didn’t stay buried. Not if they had a reason to crawl back.
Silas stared at the map a long time, then looked down at the ring on his finger — the Sons’ crest, carved in silver and blood.
He had a club to protect.
A code to keep.
And a girl behind the bar he was starting to think about too much.
Trouble was coming.
And for once, Silas wasn’t sure who he was more afraid for — the club, or her.
---
Friday – 3:57 p.m.
The Pit Stop was already humming before doors even opened.
Sage adjusted her black tank top in the mirror behind the bar. It wasn’t low-cut—exactly—but it was enough to earn her tips and side-eyes. She swept her long blonde hair into a messy ponytail and took a breath.
"Just another night. You’ve done this a hundred times."
But this one felt different.
Maybe because he would be here.
Silas had been in and out all week, handling club business and moving through the bar like a shadow stitched with steel.
He hadn’t said much.
But when his eyes found hers?
It was heat.
Low, steady, and impossible to ignore.
She pulled on her apron just as Mason, grinning and tripping over his own boots, burst in through the back door.
“You’re early,” she teased.
“I like not getting yelled at,” Mason said, flashing dimples. “Also, you make better coffee than the clubhouse.”
“Flattery will get you watered-down drip and stale biscotti,” she said, pouring him a cup anyway.
---
Friday – 11:48 p.m.
The place was still packed.
Old rock classics buzzed through the speakers, and a few patrons howled along, off-key and drunk enough not to care.
Sage leaned against the bar, wiping sweat from her collarbone with a bar towel when she felt the weight of a stare.
She turned.
Silas, sitting at the far end, a beer in hand, watching her like he was measuring every inch of her soul.
She raised a brow. “You good, Creed?”
“Didn’t say I wasn’t.”
“Then stop looking at me like I’m a loose wire about to spark.”
He stood, slow. His boots heavy against the floor. He leaned over the bar, his voice low and rough. “Maybe I like watching sparks fly.”
Her breath caught.
She hated the way her stomach flipped.
Hated how much she wanted him to say more.
But Silas just left the beer on the counter and walked away, a smirk flickering at the edge of his mouth.
And she didn’t sleep that night.
---
Saturday – 4:05 p.m.
The Pit Stop hit a different gear on Saturdays.
More people.
More noise.
More tension.
Jack was seated at his usual table, carding through a stack of papers while Brick kept one eye on the door. Sage knew better than to linger too close when they were talking club business.
But she couldn’t help glancing toward the garage entrance every ten minutes—like her body knew Silas would walk through it before her brain did.
And when he did?
Damn.
Black tee tight against those broad shoulders, cuts hanging from his frame like armor. He was grease-stained from the garage, knuckles bruised. Hair slicked back but still unruly. Blue eyes locked straight on her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the floor.
“Rough day?” she asked when he stepped up to the bar.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”
He didn’t smile. Not really. But he leaned in close, and in the roar of a packed bar, his voice hit like thunder in her ear.
“You doing anything after close?”
Sage blinked. “You askin’ me out, Ace?”
“I’m askin’ if you’ll sit with me,” he said. “Just… be.”
She hesitated. Then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll sit.”
---
Saturday – 1:14 a.m.
The last of the crowd staggered out. Chairs were flipped onto tables. Mason was mopping, half-asleep and singing badly under his breath.
Sage was stacking glasses behind the bar when she heard the click of the front door unlocking again.
She turned. “We’re closed!”
But it wasn’t a drunk.
It was three men. Not locals.
One had a scar that ran from temple to jaw. Another had prison ink that wrapped around his throat like barbed wire. The third—tall, clean-cut, expensive boots—smiled without warmth.
“We’re not here to drink,” the clean one said.
Sage felt her whole body freeze.
Silas emerged from the back office, still wearing his cut.
“You lost?” he asked, voice like a gun c*****g.
The three men didn’t flinch.
“Tell your president we want a sit down,” Clean Boots said. “Three days. Or we bring smoke.”
“Jack don’t take orders,” Silas growled.
“This ain’t an order. It’s a courtesy.”
Then they left. No fight. No shouting.
Just a message.
Silas locked the door behind them, then turned to Sage.
“You okay?”
She nodded. Barely. Her hands shook under the counter.
Silas stepped behind the bar without asking, gently pried the glass from her fingers.
“You ever hear of a crew called the Vultures?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “But I got the feeling I should’ve.”
Silas nodded grimly. “They’ve been quiet for years. Too quiet.”
Sage stared at the door. “Why now?”
He looked at her like she was already part of it—like the danger wasn’t just knocking, it was already inside.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But something tells me it’s just starting.”
- Writer
