A rhythmic pulse filled Rich Carter's head. He rolled off the soft surface, and solid ground met his hands and knees. A groan ripped from his throat at the jarring.

He relaxed all his muscles, plopping down to the non-moving surface below him. Coolness pressed against his temple and he inhaled, prepared for the shakes building up inside of him.

He needed a damn drink.

Opening his eyes, he clamped his teeth together, hoping it was enough to stop the tremors. He pushed up on his hands and knees, found a couch, and pulled himself to his feet. His boots skidded against the polished wooden floor. Running his hands up and down his face, he looked around the room.

Fuck.

He hadn't made it back to the Komoon clubhouse last night.

The unfamiliar room appeared clean and orderly. A flat-screen television hung on the wall. A bowl full of pine cones sat on the fireplace hearth next to three candles. Three pictures of a bridge from different angles lined the wall opposite the window. He peered closer, stumbled, and grabbed for the bookcase to keep his balance. He knew that bridge.

He'd rode that bridge.

As a kid, he used to dream about jumping off the St. John's bridge into the Willamette River on hot summer days. The five of them—Wayne, Thad, Glen, Chuck, and he spent their youth underneath that bridge, doing dares, bullshitting, and even vandalized a few columns spray painting their initials.

Shaking his head, he looked away and stared at the contents on the bookshelf, wondering what the hell was in the last bottle he'd downed. A bridge was a bridge. There were probably fifty of them that looked the same on the West Coast.

Needing to know where he'd crashed for the night, he picked up a picture frame and held the photo in front of him. His vision blurred and he moved his hand back and forth until he could focus.

"Damn," he muttered, seeing double.

The long, blonde hair on the woman caught his attention. He closed one eye, and still, he was seeing two identical women in the same photo. Had he fucked the lady in the picture last night? Was this her house?

Who and what he'd done no longer mattered. He needed a drink, and to get back on his motorcycle.

He set the picture back on the shelf, and the frame tipped over. The sound echoed in his head, and he left it lying down to go in search of a bottle. Around the corner from the living room, he limped into the kitchen. The whole place looked like one of those model homes where nobody lived. No dirty dishes, no broken furniture, nothing that told him how the night had ended.

Opening the fridge, he studied the contents and found a six-pack of beer on the bottom shelf. He grunted. The last time he'd seen Rainier beer, he'd been too young to legally drink.

He took the whole six pack and put the beer on the counter, removed one, and popped the top. He tipped back the drink. The moment the wetness hit his dry tongue he started to feel better.

He drank one and opened another before he spotted a man in the room. Not in the mood to share, he carried the other four cans in one hand and sucked down the beer in his other hand. He had to get out of here. As soon as he finished his liquid breakfast or maybe it was lunch, he'd ride back to the clubhouse.

The man followed him into the living room. Rich sat down on the couch and burped, crunching the empty can in his fist.

"That's enough." The man took the other four beers off the couch beside Rich and set them on the fireplace mantle before facing him. "Start talking."

"Is there anything stronger than beer in this place?" He lifted his chin and let his head fall back on the couch.

The empty can fell to the floor.

"I think you've had enough."

Rich closed his eyes. "Not near enough."

He needed enough to hold off the shakes that came with a dry run. He needed something before they became bad enough he couldn't ride.

"You need to sober up," said the man.

He chuckled, and the vibration in his chest made him nauseous. "The day I decide not to drink, I'll be dead."

"Is that what you're trying to do? Kill yourself?"

Rich opened his eyes, pushed to his feet, and approached the man. Nobody told him how to live or took his drink away. The other riders would come looking for him soon if he failed to return. In the meantime, he planned to finish the rest of the beer he found before he rode back to the clubhouse and went to bed.

He reached out to grab the cans off the fireplace, and the man put his hand on his shoulder. Rage overrode his plan. Rich curled his fingers into a fist and swung. He brought up his other hand and squeezed the man's throat, slamming him against the wall.

Leaning in close, matching the man head to toe, Rich said, "Touch me again, and I'll kill you."

"Almost did." The man's neck muscles strained as he struggled for breath. "Once." His eyes narrowed. "Pushed me." He strained under the hold to tilt his head to get more air. "Front of." He groaned, but barely any sound made it past his lips, only the vibration on his palm. "Mrs. Coleman's car."

Pushed him in front of Mrs. Coleman's car? The only person he'd —

Rich let go, rocking back on the heels of his boots, and stared at the man in front of him. Only four other people would know the old bitty who lived on the street where he grew up. He studied the man's long, dark hair, peppered with gray strands and equally long beard of the same color. The man stared at him out of watery eyes as he tried to fill his lungs.

He had to be dreaming or drugged out of his mind. The wrinkles around the man's eyes weren't supposed to be there. He dragged his gaze down. The shoulders were broader than he remembered. But, he recognized the tat on the arm, the leather vest, the challenge in the man's stance.

Unable to believe who he was seeing, he backed up a step and rubbed his hand over his beard, wondering if he looked as damn old and how he could get out of here and disappear.

Wayne.

A boy he'd grown up with and had spent every day with until he was almost twenty-one years old and left his hometown. A man who at one time would've sacrificed his life for Rich, and he for him, stood between him and the door. Wayne, one of the original Notus Motorcycle Club members.

The president.

Five members.

Five brothers.

A pledge of loyalty.

Wayne, Thad, Glen, Chuck, and he had an unconditional bond grown over time until his girlfriend, Thalia, was abducted and murdered. When he'd received the news from the police that they'd found her body, he'd lost it. At twenty years old, he failed to understand.

He'd failed her. He'd failed himself.

He never planned to come back, and nobody was supposed to find him. Where in the hell had Wayne come from?

The weight of the world landed on his shoulders. "Where's my Harley?" said Rich.

"It's been twenty-five years since I saw your ugly face and that's the first thing you're going to ask me?"

Ignoring him, Rich picked up a can, popped the top, and guzzled half the beer daring Wayne to stop him. He needed to get out of here, wherever here was, and put miles between them.

"Come on, man. After all these years, you have to talk, brother." Wayne reached into his Notus vest pocket, held up the key, and tossed it to Rich.

The key to his Harley dropped between his boots. He stared at Wayne, never thinking he'd see him again in his lifetime. "Where am I?"

"St. John's." Wayne rubbed his neck and turned his head to the side before looking back at Rich. "You're at my woman's sister's house."

Jesus Christ. He tipped back his head and drank the rest of the beer, tossing the empty can to the other side of the room. Why couldn't he remember traveling from Klamath, California to Oregon?

Wayne strolled over, picked up the can, and left the room. Rich scooped his key off the floor and walked to the door. Stumbling outside, he groaned in pain, squeezing his eyes shut against the glare of the sun.

"Your motorcycle is at my place," said Wayne behind him. "You can have the Harley back when you sober up. In the meantime, a member of Notus will be here to watch over you. When we can't be here, we've got other people lined up to keep you clean."

Rich reached behind his back at his belt.

"The police removed your knife when you were thrown in jail. I signed off on it and have it at home. You're unarmed. There's also nothing in the house you can use to hurt me," said Wayne.

Rich turned around. "Did you take my damn cell phone, too?"

"You didn't have one on you when the cops found you passed out drunk on the sidewalk." Wayne walked farther into the house. "You can leave when you're sober, and I can look in your eyes and see the man you used to be. See the man who swore on the Notus patch to be my brother."

Rich limped back into the house and painfully lowered himself to the couch. His leg killed and for a split second, he wondered if he'd hit the asphalt arriving in a town he was never going to return to.

Nothing made sense. He never rode when he partied—which meant he never went far. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had his legs wrapped around his motorcycle.

"There's a lot of people who want to see you." Wayne sat on the arm of the chair across from him.

"There ain't nobody I want to see," he said.

Wayne studied him. He stared back. He'd worked too hard to cut the ties with his old life to let himself think about the others.

"You came back," said Wayne, raising his eyebrow.

"The hell I did." Rich huffed and patted his chest, expecting to touch the leather of his vest. His palm rubbed his T-shirt, and he looked down. His Komoon Motorcycle Club vest was gone.

Fuck.

There was only one way his vest would've come off his body. Someone would've had to remove it.

His leg ached. His chest constricted as the pain he'd felt since he rolled off the couch clued him in on what happened. He leaned over, rubbed his hand over his sore calf. Komoon had put a target on his back and stripped him of everything.

He looked up at Wayne. "I need a drink."

He'd lived what felt like a hundred lives, and he suspected each one of those lives was going to collide in St. John's and destroy the very men he'd tried to protect for the last twenty-five years.