When I wake up the next morning, the house around me is quiet. Rolling onto my side, sheets sliding against my naked body, I pat around on the nightstand for my phone. It’s after ten. I haven’t slept in this long in ages.

There are no missed texts or calls, but that’s no surprise. Only a handful of people have my phone number. One of them is at work, another is in class, and the rest of them are probably sleeping off hangovers. I smirk, thinking of my brothers’ somber faces as they headed into Church last night, drinks clutched in their hands. Someday I’ll be a part of that, too.

It feels good to belong to something again.

It feels even better to belong to someone.

Even if Olivia and I haven’t exactly called it, I feel it. Maybe it sounds sappy, but there’s a connection between us that I’ve never felt with anyone before.

I force myself out of bed, bare feet padding across the floor. Lucy should be at work, but I pull on clothes before I leave the guest bedroom—just in case. The weather is calling for snow, so it isn’t a riding lesson day. And I don’t have to be at The Wet Mermaid until later. I make coffee, feeling untethered. For the first time in twenty years, there’s nowhere I have to be.

While I wait for the coffee pot to get going, I consider my options. I can surprise Olivia at school . . . but that would make me seem clingy. It’s better to wait ’til we’re at work. Since Lucy showed me how to download apps, I decide to camp out on the couch catching up on TV and apartment hunting. I know I’m going to break Lucy’s heart the day I move out, but I need my own place—especially if Olivia and I are going to continue seeing each other.

I don’t exactly smile as I carry my coffee into the living room, but it’s close. Just as I go to sit down, my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I tug it out and frown as I read the display. Right. There’s one more person who has my phone number: Govender, my P.O.

"Yeah," I say, slumping into the couch. This whole thing is just a pain in the ass. "Missing me already?"

"I miss you like a hemorrhoid," he says, "especially since you blew me off this morning."

I choke on my coffee. "We had a meeting?" I glance around the living room, as if expecting a calendar to appear and prove him wrong.

Govender sighs. "It’s almost cute how you all try to get away with this shit." His voice grows stern. "My office. Now." He hangs up, the slamming of the receiver of his phone stinging my ear.

So much for my lazy morning.

I down my coffee and grab a heavy sweatshirt. I start to put my cut on over it, then hesitate. Govender may not approve. Then again, the only transportation I have is the Screamin’ Eagle. It’s not like my P.O. won’t be able to put two and two together. Besides, I’ve got nothing to hide. Maybe my girlfriend—I grin at the label—sells coke from behind the bar, but I’m not doing anything wrong. All I’m doing is riding flank and keeping seventeen-year-old punks out of our strip club.

As I stride outside, I glance up at the sky, hoping the snow will hold off. The last thing I need is to get into an accident. I’m gonna have to start scheduling reminders into my phone like some businessman.

I haul ass out to Govender’s office in Bristol. I’m not completely sure how this whole thing works, but I know missing a meeting with my P.O. is bad. The first flakes tumble from the sky just as I pull into the parking lot. It fucking figures.

I find Govender napping in his office.

"Christ," I mutter, knocking loudly on the open door.

He jerks up in his chair, the whites of his eyes a stark contrast to his dark skin as they open. "Well, if it isn’t Clifford 'Red Dog' Demmel." He flashes white teeth at me.

This man is never vulnerable, even in his sleep.

I give him a cool look but say nothing about him using my full name. Nor am I surprised that he knows my nickname. It’s slightly odd that he’s using it, though. Red Dog was meant to be a joke. After I punched out some teeth and broke some ribs, though, they all stopped laughing.

I sit down, and Govender gets to business.

"You’re enjoying your new job?" he asks, a pen poised above a yellow legal pad. He always takes notes during our meetings, as if he’s my therapist.

Brow furrowed, I study him. My hands lay flat on my side of his desk. For a moment, I’m transported to meetings with my lawyer, the cuffs digging into my wrists. I shake the ghosts away. "Yeah," I rasp. "But I’m wondering, why did you set me up with a motorcycle club?" I have no strategy here. I’m just curious.

Govender scribbles something down. "I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, son." He peers at me with lifted eyebrows. "You’re reporting for your scheduled work hours on time?"

I shift in my seat. The crease between my eyebrows remains. "The River Reapers," I say, leaning forward. "The strip club I bounce for is owned by The River Reapers."

He cocks his head at me, looking stern in a grandfatherly way. He’s about that age. "Son," he says, exasperated, "the sooner we get through this meeting, the sooner I can go back to my nap." He taps his notepad with the other end of his pen. "Now, would you say you work about forty hours a week?"

"So you’re just going to pretend like this is no big deal?" I straighten the vest on my shoulders, the heavy leather creaking under my fingertips. "I’m a Prospect. For a potentially one-percent club. And you have no problem with that?"

"Forty hours, then," he says, writing something else down.

I don’t know what his angle is, and it pisses me off. I stand, towering over him. "We done here?"

"Sit down." His tone is bored.

Eyes narrowing, I remain standing.

Govender stands too, his chair moving back a couple of inches on its wheels. He’s not nearly as tall as I am, but he glowers up at me anyway. "Son, I’m going to give you a piece of friendly advice. You’re going to shut your mouth for two minutes and take it." He places his notes and pen on the desk. "None of us can ever really grasp the inner workings of this world. When we find our places in it, we don’t try to dismantle things. Do you understand?"

I don’t know what the fuck that means, but I shrug. "Whatever."

We both return to our seats.

"Now, next week, I’m going to need copies of your pay stubs," he continues, as if everything about this meeting has been business as usual. "And I have here in your file that you’re staying with your cousin, Ms. Lucy Demmel. What are your long-term plans for housing?"

The remainder of the meeting goes quickly, though, and soon I’m out the door, boots tracking through a light dusting of snow. I’m starting to feel out of control again, like everyone around me is just using me in some game.

I’m not a kid. I know how the world works. But during the last twenty years, I’ve been playing a very different game. The rules were simple. The stakes were nearly nonexistent. In some ways, finishing out my sentence would have been better than all of this.

I swing onto the hog. Fuck the snow. I need a ride to clear my head.

I kick and take off, the machine humming between my legs. It probably says a lot that men like me need to ride something powerful in order to feel powerful. Pared down, the River Reapers are just a brotherhood of the broken. All of us are looking for something.

I want to get as far as possible from Bristol, but I don’t head in any particular direction. I ride slow, my headlight on, cold flakes of snow flicking into my eyes. Eventually I’ll take Beer Can’s advice and get some sunglasses or goggles. For now I just squint and lean into it.

Riding in the snow is a fitting punishment.

Wind beats at my cheeks, icy fingers tugging back my skin. I push the bike harder when I get to the freshly plowed and sanded 69. Sand, I know, is a motorcyclist’s archenemy, but I don’t care. Gloved fingers tighten on the handlebars. If I go, at least I’ll go feeling free.

Because lately I feel anything but.

Except when I’m with Olivia.

I follow 69 back down through Wolcott, dodging traffic. Connecticut drivers should know how to drive in the fucking snow, but they don’t. I weave between cars and give the finger to the ones who honk.

Cutting over Manor Avenue, I turn onto Meriden Road. It’s only then that I realize I knew exactly where I was going.

Even with the snow, Pine Grove Cemetery looks the same as it did when I last saw it. A childhood friend of mine is buried here, but so is someone else. I slow to a near crawl as I enter the cemetery, scanning graves. I wasn’t allowed to attend the funeral, so I don’t know where they buried him. Not that I would’ve gone, anyway. Maybe to spit on his grave.

I’m not really sure why I’m here.

I head to Devon McKennan’s grave, bowing my head and staring at the little plate that marks his resting place. I’m not a religious man. I don’t believe in any god or higher power. But I do think that the people we love look out for us from the other side. Unfortunately for me, Devon and I weren’t close enough for that kind of favor. I still felt the hole he left behind when he died, though.

I press two fingers to my lips, then touch them to the small headstone.

The cemetery is desolate in the winter, even more so underneath the falling snow. I leave my motorcycle parked near Devon and wander the rows of resting souls. I know he’s here somewhere.

As time passes, my toes grow cold and then numb in my boots. The hoodie and vest do little to keep me warm with the rapidly falling temperature, but the snow has slowed, which means I’ll get home in one piece. On the other side of the cemetery, I give up. I’m not going to find him. It’s just as well, because I don’t really have a good reason to visit.

"Fuck it," I mutter. Turning, I start back toward Devon. My gaze snags on a fairly newer looking headstone—less dark than some of the others. Even though it’s two decades old, it’s held up nicely. I guess my aunt and uncle splurged. My skin crawls at the thought, my balls drawing up into themselves. Blood pounds through my veins.

Lucy may have forgiven them, but I never will.

The engraving reads SEBASTIAN DEMMEL, BELOVED BROTHER, FATHER, UNCLE. My blood boils. If I thought I could actually knock it down, I’d kick the fucking thing. Instead, I step forward.

I tower over it, staring at the photo set under glass or plastic—whatever the fuck it is. His bald head gleams, those dead eyes looking directly into the camera. Guess they couldn’t find a better picture.

"Hello, Sebastian," I growl in a low voice, even though there’s no one around. Only the dead. "Looks like I’m still standing while you’re on the floor." I smirk. "Or six feet under."

There should be some grand revelation here for me, like maybe I’ll suddenly be able to let go of all this anger inside of me. But none of that died the day I killed him. If anything, it only backdrafted, igniting every inch of me. I burn like an underground coal mine.

"I’m going to take your fucking club," I tell him, nodding. "That’s right. I’m gonna be President. You’ll see, Bastard." His old nickname. I don’t even really want to hold office, but it seems poetic enough. After all, I’m technically the prince—heir to the biker throne.

I’m just grateful that my father’s reign didn’t last long enough to destroy it.

Straightening the cut, I leer down at the grave. "I’d kill you again. Over and over." I turn and walk away.

The last grave that I visit is on an opposite end. Her final wishes insisted that she not be buried near him. Devon’s, my father’s, and my mother’s graves all make a triangle, maybe even the kind that will suck me in and hold me prisoner. I find her easily enough. I always have.

I dust off snow from the small rectangle that marks her. She didn’t really have family, so there wasn’t anyone to splurge. There’s barely enough room for her engraving: RUTH DEMMEL, MOTHER. Now that I’m out and working, I’m going to change that.

"Hey, Mom," I say gently, tracing the letters with a finger.

Where thinking of my father turns my blood to lava, the thought of my mother dissolves me, returning me to the little boy who found her in the tub. Her hands were still warm. The investigation was open and closed immediately after, because the coroner found a high dose of fentanyl and Ambien in her blood. Technically she passed out before she drowned. But my father was too cavalier about the whole thing, and I’ve always wondered.

"Sorry it took me so long to get here." I pause, taking a long, deep breath in through my nose. The guilt is suffocating. I should have come sooner. "You should see Lucy," I say, because I can’t think of what else to tell her. My mom always adored my cousin. If she’d been around, I think she would’ve been the one to kill my father.

"And," I continue, the corners of my mouth twitching into a smile, "you should meet her sister. Well, sort of. She’s adopted." I click my jaw back and forth. "She’s great, Mom," I saw softly. "You’d like her."

And she would. She’d also be able to give me some pointers. My mom may’ve had me young, but she had a lot of class. She took the shit everyone gave her with a blissful grace, letting their comments roll right off her. Which is why I can’t imagine her purposing overdosing on painkillers and sleeping pills, then stepping into a bathtub. She’d never so much as spent a day in bed, never mind slipping into a suicidal depression.

It just doesn’t add up.

Sometimes I miss her terribly, especially now that I’m out. Not only was she my mom, but she was also a mother to Lucy, whose own parents lived in a coke-induced bubble. Still do. I’m honestly surprised that DCF let them adopt a little girl—especially after what they let happen to Lucy.

My blood is simmering again, so it’s time to go.

"See ya later, Mom," I whisper, leaving her a kiss. The stone plate is ice beneath the pads of my fingers. I try not to think of her, trapped in a box in that cold ground.

I jump back on the Screamin’ Eagle and head home to Lucy’s. Today has been all over the fucking place. It was probably a bad idea to go to the cemetery, but sooner or later I would’ve had to.

I’m nearly home when my phone buzzes in my pocket. Pulling over, I press it to my ear.

"Prospect," Beer Can grunts, "we need you here at the club house."

I frown, blinking snowflakes off my eyelashes. "What’s going on?" I was really looking forward to warming up in the living room with a hot cup of coffee.

"Club business." Beer Can sounds exasperated. "You don’t need to know the whats and the whys. I say jump, you hop onto that club property that we were so kind to give you, and you just get your fucking ass here."

Someone’s in a mood. "Yes sir," I intone. I hang up, tucking the phone back into my pocket. For several seconds, I stare up into the gray void of the sky. I need a break before I step back into the fray, but apparently I’m not going to get it. Letting my shoulders drop, I roll my neck back and forth. I probably look strange as fuck, standing on the shoulder of the road, my bike between my legs, staring up at the sky. But I have a feeling that it’s the last moment of peace I’m going to get.