Chapter 4 - First Draft

Leaning against his bike in the middle of the road, Kavagh watched the dark clouds swallow the moon. The rain was another variable, one more thing to account for in an already volatile night. Dread pooled like acid in his throat; he knew what this fight could cost his brothers, but one glance at their solemn faces forced him to clamp down on his own fear.

He couldn’t fail them tonight.

It was inevitable: the Eastsiders were coming, ready or not. They were expected to approach in formation along the main road leading into Mudwater Bay—or so his contact claimed. Interception would have been impossible if a man from the next town hadn’t spotted them, interpreting the bloodthirsty howls of the lawless mob as nothing but bad news. The warning came at a price, but it was one Kavagh would gladly pay for accurate intel.

The distant rumble of motorcycles made everyone tense up. Confirmation enough for Kavagh to yell over his shoulder, “Positions!”

Then, his gaze hardening on the dark stretch of road ahead, he added, “Nobody moves until I say so.”

He would have to be civil first. Politics matter as much as gunpowder, his uncle used to say. The benefits of claiming a defensive strike were enough not to be ignored.

A familiar set of boots crunched the gravel behind him. Fritz brushed his shoulder a moment later. Kavagh kept his eyes focused on the road, on the lights getting bigger by the second. He knew what he would find in his cousin’s face anyway. Grim determination, ruthless fury, or cold calculation. Likely all three.

“You sure you want to talk to the brutes, cuz?” she asked.

He sighed. “No other choice. The game has to be played.” At her skeptical silence, he added for good measure, “I trust none of you would let me get shot while I play.” And he let himself show the slash of a smile, relax his posture even more. He didn’t let himself dwell on how much effort it took to appear calm.

Beside him, Fritz pursed her lips and exhaled a long, steady breath. . Understandable. She could be the one visibly worried for both. Without another word, she moved back to her post, perching on her bike a few paces behind him.

The headlights were almost upon them. Kavagh exhaled a long, steady breath, then plastered a cocky grin on his face as the lead rider slowed to a stop a few feet away. The rest of the bikes fanned out in a three-row formation. Fuck. Outnumbered two to one. Great odds.

“Kavagh!” the man at the front yelled. He was built like a retired boxer who’d spent too many years drinking away his prime.

Kavagh dialed up the charm. “Ah, Rocky. Long time no see.” He pushed off his bike and sauntered a few steps forward. Rocky dismounted, meeting him in the middle.

“We have a score to settle, boy.”

“Do we now? Last I remember, you were the one stepping into our territory. And here you are again. Uninvited, unprovoked.”

“Don’t fuck with me! You know what you did. We lost half our product in your little stunt with the boats.”

Ah. The boats the Venoms had accidentally led the cops toward to cover their own tracks. Right.

Kavagh didn’t blink. “Man, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Rocky took a step forward, fury contorting his features. “I swear, if you keep bullshitting me, I’ll mow you and your vipers down—”

Behind Rocky, a gun hammer clicked back—sharp and metallic. A heartbeat later, the sound rippled across the line as dozens of weapons were readied.

Then everything went to shit.

***

The atmosphere in The Fang was heavy with uncertainty and dread. Lynn sat in a corner, tucked away from doors and windows but close to the kitchen’s backdoor that led to the alley.

Someone started approaching her don’t-fuck-with-me bubble, built on a scowl and firmly crossed arms. The man clearly didn’t catch the memo, because he dragged a chair over and said, “Doom and gloom. A perfect cocktail for a Friday night, right?”

Lynn grunted, her scowl deepening.

“Okay, another broody asshole.” Her lips twitched at that. “Name’s Brock. And I’ll give you some advice, little matchstick.”

Lynn tensed. Who did this guy think he was? Calling her names without even knowing her—

“Only thing sitting in a corner worrying is gonna’ bring you is more shitty thoughts. So maybe spend less time brooding, more doing something nice.” Brock waved a hand towards the bar, where more people were sitting. “Like drinking our famous beer, or talking to the poor bastards feeling the exact same way as you.”

Then he stood up and walked away.

Lynn cursed, low and vicious. The guy was right on the mark. She couldn’t stop the images flooding her head—all the terrible things that might be happening to Nev. Was he in danger? Injured? Fucking dead?

Looking around, the patrons of The Fang had a familiarity that finally made sense. There were children, older women, and men in their senior years. This was a refuge, a sanctuary for the loved ones of the Black Venom MC.

Who knew a gang—sorry, club—could be so organized, so careful?

Lynn told herself she moved to a stool at the bar because it was even closer to the kitchen door than her corner. Brock was behind the tap, serving beers free of charge to anyone who asked. When he saw her, scowl still firmly plastered on, he smiled so broadly it made Lynn feel a little ashamed for being such an ass.

“See? Already looking a little better. What can I get you?” Brock said.

“Beer is fine,” Lynn mumbled.

Brock beamed at her again. “Coming right up!”

The kitchen door was still close, still available. Lynn relaxed ever so slightly, the sharp edge of her nerves receding a little. She saw her fears mirrored on the faces of all the people in there. But still, they tried to inject as much normalcy as they could.

A woman laughed at a toddler’s pouty face. A man patted another in the back, who leaned into his touch like a lifeline. Two women were throwing flirtatious looks to a guy with a teenager’s face but the stature of a basketball player.

Then there was Brock, chatting, mocking, serving drinks. Making sure the heat was on. Knowing who needed something sweet; who needed a laugh; who needed acknowledgment of their worries.

“This isn’t what I expected,” Lynn muttered, not meaning to let that thought slip past her lips.

Brock, of course, heard her. “Most people see the leather, the bikes and the tough guys, thinking it’s just a bunch of bad people doing bad things.” He gestured around him. “They don’t see the guys who pay the electrical bills of half the town, then patrol the streets to make sure everyone is safe. The ones who hold the line so little guys like him,” he nodded to the toddler now bursting into a fit of giggles, “don’t have to grow up seeing the worst of the world.”

“They take care of their own,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Brock said, his voice losing its cheerfulness for the first time. “They do. And right now, they’re out there making sure we stay their own. That’s why we sit, and we wait, and we trust.”