I end up having to stay in the hospital for five days. Sam comes to see me every single day without fail. Toward the end, I’m pretty antsy and anxious to get the hell out of there, even though I’m still not feeling all that great. Sam manages to calm me down and convince me to just let the doctors decide when I’m ready to leave. It doesn’t hurt that she and I figure out a couple of creative ways to make use of the hospital bed — somehow not reopening my bullet wound in the process.

Meanwhile the club is in lockdown for four days. During that time, there’s not a peep from the Spiders. Finally, Rock decides to lift the lockdown and give people the option of going home.

Two weeks pass, with the clubhouse on heightened surveillance, and still no response from them.

But we’d have to be fools to think it’s not coming.

“Still no sign of retaliation from the Spiders,” Rock is saying as he looks around the table. It’s the first time we’ve had church since I got discharged from the hospital. “All the guns and ammo have been delivered to the Devils.”

“So we’re good with them?” I ask.

“Yeah. I think any damage is repaired now that they know we weren’t trying to fuck with them and made good on the deal,” Rock grunts. “Maybe, just maybe, there’s an alliance to be had out of this. Oz is not happy with the Spiders.”

So there might be a silver lining in this war with the Spiders. If we survive it, that is.

“We’ve still got brothers posted as guards outside the clubhouse twenty-four seven,” Rock continues, gesturing toward the outside. “And Angel’s sleeping here until further notice.” Next to him, Angel nods, a steely look on his face.

“Funny Rock’s got Angel staying here at the clubhouse, instead of himself,” Brick mutters to me as we file out of church.

“Yeah.” It is kind of fucked up. On the one hand, if something happened at the clubhouse in the middle of the night and Rock got killed, our club would be decapitated of its president in the middle of a war. On the other, if I was Rock, I wouldn’t ask my VP to do anything I wasn’t willing to do myself. I don’t like it. But it ain’t my place to say that. And hell, maybe Angel insisted on it being him. That decision’s between the prez and his VP.

* * *

After church, I decide to head over to Rebel Ink, the local tattoo shop. It’s where I’ve gotten all my art done for as long as I can remember. The owner, Chance, is a buddy of mine, and he’s a goddamn genius with a needle. He only hires the best, which is why this shop has my loyalty.

I’ve been planning on getting this tat for a while now, and for some reason decided not to put it off any longer.

I park my bike in the small lot that belongs to the shop. There are five cars in the lot as well, two of which belong to people who work here. I’m glad to see the place doesn’t look too busy. Rebel Ink occupies the bottom floor of a house, and above it is an apartment that Ghost’s old lady Jenna rented before they got back together. The landlord and owner of the building, Charlie Hurt, used to live next door. That is, until a bunch of shady shit went down involving Jenna’s dad, Hurt, and the Iron Spiders. Hurt ended up dead, and the ownership of this house and the one next door have been in limbo ever since.

I push open the front door and walk into the shop. The main room is smallish, with a raised front desk and an area off to the side. Low couches surround a coffee table stacked with ringed binders of designs. Two girls who look like they’re barely out of high school are hunched over one of the binders, pointing at different pictures and chattering excitedly. They look up at me as I walk in and go silent, their eyes widening.

I ignore them and turn to Hannah Crescent, who’s sitting at the front desk, her nose in her phone. She looks up and grins as she recognizes me.

“Hawk! Shit, haven’t seen you around here in a while!” Hannah’s fire-engine red hair is piled high on top of her head today in a kind of retro style. A tight navy-blue tank top leaves her arms bare, revealing the swirl of multicolored flower patterns covering the skin of her shoulders down to her forearms.

“Yeah. Been kind of busy,” I tell her. “Had an unexpected vacation in the hospital.”

“Wow. That’s rough.” She clucks her tongue but doesn’t ask for more information. Hannah’s discreet. She minds her own business. I like that about her.

“Chance or Sumner around?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“Yeah, Chance is in back. Dez and Six are here, too, with customers. Sumner’s coming in a little later. You here for some ink?”

I nod. “If he’s got time for me.”

“Ah, Chance always has time for the Lords,” Hannah tells me. “I’ll go back and grab him.”

I watch her figure as she retreats down the hall. Hannah’s got a great ass.

A few seconds later, she returns, with Chance following behind.

“Hawk,” he drawls, and gives me a fist bump. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got an idea for a tattoo,” I say, pulling out a worn piece of paper. “I’m thinking left forearm.”

The design is something I drew a while ago. It’s a black and white rendering of a guitar, with wings unfurling on either side of it. Down toward the bottom, in script, is a single word. A name.

Liam.

I’ve put this off for so long because thinking about my brother’s death is something I’ve tried to avoid as much as possible over the years. But I don’t want to avoid it any more. It’s my fault he’s gone. I shouldn’t have the luxury of pretending it didn’t happen. Liam’s memory is something that should be with me all the time. And this is how I’m gonna make that happen.

“Nice drawing,” Chance murmurs, whistling softly. “Yeah, I can do that. Come on back.”

Chance leads me to his room, all the way at the back of the shop. I’ve spent more hours in here than I can count, over the years. His is the largest room, and sketches and photos of his work line the walls, including some of mine. I sit down in the chair and Chance adjusts the arm rest so my forearm is in a good position for him to work. The familiar smell of disinfectant wafts towards my nostrils.

Chance pushes his dark hair back from his face and takes another look at my drawing. “This will take a couple hours, but it’s doable in one session for sure. What about colors?”

“Just black ink,” I tell him, settling in. I wait as he sets himself up, adjusts the light, puts on his headband magnifier and pulls the tattoo gun next to him. Even though it’s my forearm, Chance shaves the area to make sure there’s no hair on the site. Then I sit back and let him work, the familiar prick of the needle almost soothing. For a while, there’s no sound except the late seventies punk music playing over the speakers and the buzz of the tattoo machine.

Eventually, Chance sets the gun down. “I’m gonna take a little break,” he says, stretching. “How’ve you been?”

“Not too bad.” I tell him about my stint in the hospital, leaving out most of the details. Chance, like Hannah, is discreet, and knows better than to ask many questions about the MC’s business. That’s one of the reasons they’ve gotten so much of our business over the years.

“How about you?” I ask. “How’s business been lately?”

“Good. Pretty busy.” His brow furrows in annoyance. “As long as the goddamn building doesn’t fall down around our heads, we’re in good shape.”

I laugh. “What do you mean?”

“Fuckin’ Charlie Hurt’s estate still isn’t settled,” he tells me, and rolls his eyes. “I guess the old asshole didn’t have a lot of family, so it’s been hard to figure out who inherits everything. Apparently the fucker had more money than anyone thought.” He snorts. “You could have fooled me, as cheap as he was about upkeep on this place. Meanwhile, shit keeps breaking, things aren’t up to code… And now with fuckin’ Holloway as mayor, the city’s on our asses worse than ever before.” Chance shakes his head. “I’m tempted to just pack up the shop and move somewhere else, but I’m gonna stick around at least until they figure out who inherited this mess, so I can get reimbursed for all the money I’ve had to sink into repairs.”

“Shit, I don’t blame you,” I say.

“Yeah. The next owner will be lucky if I don’t punch him in the face,” he says disgustedly. “Anyway, fuck it, enough of that,” he continues, pulling his stool back toward me. “Let’s get you finished up.”

An hour later, the tattoo is done. He sits back and lets me look at the final product. I trust Chance, so instead of having him do a stencil of my drawing, I let him go freehand. The tattoo turns out even better than I expected. It feels right to have finally done it, though I know having it so visible means the bad memories will never be further away than a glance.

You deserve it, Liam. It’s the least I can do.

I thank Chance, let him bandage me up, then go up front to pay and leave him a big tip.

Back outside, I hop on my bike and take out my phone to check the time. There’s someone I want to go see, and I’m betting I know where she is.