This chapter contains descriptions of gambling and graphic violence.

— Chapter 71 —

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"So, how was your overnight stay in the lockup?"

I caught Chief's question to Chains only a foot or two from their booth. It wasn't a busy night—but there hadn't really been busy nights at all since that Councilman's ban came into play. Chief's booth was the only one that seemed to have anything interesting going on.

Caught in a game of poker, I counted four bikers sitting around a mess of cards and cash on the table: Chief, Chains, Shooter and Jaws. By their table stood Angela and her friend Lucille, if I remembered her name right. They hadn't stopped by Joe's in a while. Hell, it felt like I rarely saw Angela at all since our breakup.

Strangely enough... that didn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I'd been so busy in the last few weeks that I hadn't afforded myself the time to think of her. I didn't really care to.

Off to the side and out of earshot, I messed with my collar, too warm in my own clothes. A headache pulsed through my temples. My throat was sore, and my voice remained hoarse whenever I spoke—I had a cold to thank for that. If Elliot was here, he'd be chewing me out for exerting myself so much.

Twice in two months I'd been this unwell. I couldn't decipher why. Growing up, I was the only one in my family never to suffer a cold. Not even once. I never got sick, nothing more than a sniffle on a bad day. Hell, maybe my systems were starting to go out of whack.

Just what I need right now.

"Fucking hell," Chains griped, fiddling with the silver piercing in his eyebrow. "The place smelled like piss and day-old vomit. Spent the night on the floor after the bastard cops threatened to cavity search me—you do not want to know how I got out of that one."

"Jesus," said Jaws. "Did the pot brownie do you any good, at least?"

"Nah. Worst high of my life. I'm just glad I don't remember half of it." Chains slapped a hand against the edge of the table. "Oh, but you know who I saw? Fucking Randy. Can you believe it?"

"You mean the crackhead always sitting outside the bar asking us for ciggies?"

Shooter frowned, peering up from his hand of cards. "I thought his name was Rick."

I watched Chains shrug. "It's something with an R. Whatever." Shaking his head, he continued, "Anyway, I haven't seen his ass in months. Poor guy's missing a few more teeth now, actually. The two of us had a nice chat. Then he fell asleep and drooled on himself for half an hour. But hey, at least he's not dead! That's always a plus, right?"

The bikers laughed at his words as Chief, Shooter, and Jaws unveiled their card hands. A smirk pulled on my uncle's lips.

"Full house."

A series of groans and bitter remarks broke out around the table.

"What?" Shooter complained. "How the fu—"

Chief reached for the pot of cash in the middle of the table, sweeping it all towards him. "Looks like I still got it, huh?" he chuckled, collecting the notes. "Thanks, boys."

"Un-fucking-believable," breathed Shooter, collapsing back in his seat. "Tell you what—you must be bathing in luck, Chief. That was outrageous."

"It's all in the bluff, Shooter." The older biker made sure to joke, "Helps to be surrounded by piss-poor liars."

"Ha-ha," Shooter deadpanned. He reached to collect the cards. "We're going again."

Chains puffed his lips. "Oof. Really think you can afford that, Big Man?"

"I got it."

"You sure? You're down nearly half a bag, dude. Can't play for shit when you're drunk."

"I said I got it, Chains. Lay off."

Chains, eyes widened for emphasis, muttered, "Oo-kay."

While they started shuffling their cards, I adjusted the links to my cuffs and stopped by Lucille and Angela to get a better look at the game. Looking over Chains' shoulder, I said to Angela, "Table's not looking too good. How bad is it?"

She shook her head in disappointment and gestured to Shooter with the beer in her hands. "He's been taking losses all night."

It certainly looked like it. I'd never seen Shooter so quiet—or so focused. He was sweating slightly at the brow, and his lips had been pulled into a thin line that tugged down in dissatisfaction. He wasn't going to bluff his way out of the pit he was in, that was for sure.

"Yikes," I muttered.

Chains, having caught onto my presence, did a double take at the sight of me. "Hey, hold on a damn minute—what's all this?"

The bikers looked up my way, eager to see what the silver-haired biker's fuss was about. It wasn't long before a symphony of wolf whistles broke out around the table.

Alright... maybe I'd gotten a little dressed up.

I was picking Elliot up from a wedding full of high-class socialites, after all. I couldn't let myself show up looking like a biker thug. Slightly oversized, a sleek, deep-black blazer rested over my chain and a dark suit shirt, which had been unbuttoned past my collarbones. Black leather Chelsea boots, ankle-length pants and a silver watch came to match.

"Fucking hell, Edge!" Jaws cackled, amazed. "Why don't you leave some women for the rest of us, yeah?"

"Where do you think you're going looking like this?" said Chains. He wiggled a brow. "Hot date or something?"

Something like that.

"Man, this is a nice suit," Shooter raved, reaching over to examine the fabric of the blazer. "Where'd you get this?"

"Had it lying around. What do you think?"

He tilted his head and nodded in approval. "I'll be honest; doesn't look half bad on you. Very Brad Pitt-esque."

Chains covered his mouth and chuckled.

"Yeah," he teased, "nice ass you got there, boss."

I gave him a look. "Why're you looking at my fucking ass, Chains?"

"Jealousy, mostly."

Chief sighed and rubbed his temples. "Why do you say these things?"

More laughter echoed around the booth, louder this time. A sharp pang shot to the front of my head with all the noise, blurring the edges of my vision for a brief moment. Stupid fucking headache. It's too loud here.

"Alright, alright. Enough." Messing with the watch at my wrist, I glared at nothing in particular and said bitterly, "Christ's sake. I'm just picking Elliot up from the reception."

My uncle scoffed lightly and remarked, "So you got this dressed up? Last I remember, you wouldn't even wear a suit to your senior prom. Trying to impress somebody?"

"Well I couldn't exactly show up to a wedding in my fucking work overalls."

Chains asked me, "Who pissed in your cereal this morning? You sound grumpy. Which is odd, because I'm the one who slept next to a urinal."

I sighed. "You're never gonna let that go, huh?"

"Not a chance," he said, mussing his hair. "You owe me two grand."

Rubbing my eyelids as if it would do something to ease my aching eyestrain, I muttered absently to myself, "I'm starting to think that my mood directly correlates to the surrounding levels of stupidity."

Chief grinned from his end of the booth, picking up the cards he'd been dealt.

"Hah," he said. "You and me both."

Angela took a sip of her beer and tugged gently on the lapel of my blazer. Analyzing me with her deep, chocolate-brown eyes, she bit the side of her lower lip and nodded firmly.

"You look great," she said truthfully, brushing off a speck of lint. "But would it have killed you to do something with your hair? Look at this. It's a mess. Hold still."

She reached up to run her fingers through the dark tresses at the side of my forehead, but I took hold of her wrist and stopped her before she got the chance.

"I'm good. No need to mother me." Letting her go, I sniffed slightly and coughed into my elbow. Stupid fucking cold.

Angela paused, nostrils flaring whilst her brows pressed together. Concern invaded her expression, her neck craning to get a better look at me.

"Wait," she spoke in realization, "hold on a second. Are you running a fever? You look like death." Her thumb brushed softly against the side of my right eye.

I stepped out of her arm's length.

"It's just a little cold," I snapped under my breath. "All the noise is giving me a goddamn headache. Look, I'm not dying, alright?"

"Let me see." She tried to feel my forehead, but Chief stepped out of the booth between us.

"He'll be fine," he told her. His attention turned to me. "Now stand up straight—let me get a good look at you."

My uncle inspected my outfit, then turned up to my hair. He licked his thumb and swept a lock of hair from my eyebrow, dusting off my shoulders once he was satisfied. His piercing gaze locked with mine—the only thing I could see in his irises was a sense of compassionate pride.

"Better," he declared, as gently as he could within the limits of his gruff voice. That compassion of his, though rare to see, bled into his words. "You look just like your father when he was young. I see him in your eyes, you know, even in the way you walk. He'd have been proud of you."

It wasn't often that I felt a warmth like the one spreading through the chest. Flattery usually meant nothing to me—but when it came from people like Elliot or my uncle, the words tended to carry more weight.

He'd have been proud of you.

My mind lingered on the thought. Part of me wished my old man could've been here to tell me that himself. But... I didn't think I'd believe him.

There's nothing to be proud of.

Chains caught my attention, nodding to something behind me. "Hate to interrupt—but isn't that your boy?"

The question had me turning on my heels to face the front doors of the bar. When my focus caught on a familiar head of light-brown hair, my headache just about disappeared—even for a few moments.

Elliot.

My breathing came to a slow stop. Walking in with a tuxedo-clad James behind him, Elliot was busy rubbing his wrist, his lips puffed out to make the face he usually made when he was deep in thought. He hadn't spotted me yet, but it felt like I'd been looking at him for an eternity.

Irresistible wasn't a strong enough descriptor.

He looked like a goddamn miracle.

Shining locks of pale hair were brushed loosely into his typical half-up-half-down style, held together by what looked like an emerald-green ribbon. Silver earrings—the ones I'd gifted him for his birthday—glittered as they fell in chains past the cut of his jawline. Free from baggy clothes, he'd dressed in a suit without a blazer, instead opting for a slim-fitting black vest that cinched the sides of his waist. The puffy sleeves of a beige-white suit shirt ran down his arms, collar held together with a sleek tie and its silver clip.

I learned to love that emerald ribbon as Elliot's eyes, big and hazel and painted by innocence, met my own.

"Elliot," I stammered, his name like honey and sweet on my lips.

Surprised etched itself into his expression as I closed the distance between us.

"You're in a suit," he spoke.

I had to cut myself out of the daze I was in, just to make sure I was capable of forming coherent sentences in his presence.

"Yeah," I said. "I was just about to go and pick you up."

"But you're sick," he told me, putting a hand to my forehead. "Really sick. You really didn't have to go to this much trouble. Did you take your painkillers?"

A breathy chuckle left my lips at his question. The two of us were standing in a bar after all, with bottles of liquor spanning the walls and littering the booths. "I'm surrounded by painkillers, baby."

Any other day, Elliot probably would have laughed. But as James' scowl hardened behind the brown-haired bartender, who was looking at me with urgency in his troubled eyes, it dawned on me that something wasn't entirely right.

"Wait," I said, "why are you here?"

Elliot turned his gaze from me to the rest of the bar, searching for something in the small crowd of drinkers. He pulled something from the pocket of his suit pants, and I stepped out of his way as he approached the booth full of poker-playing Stray Dogs.

He stopped by Chains' feet, hesitant in his movements. The chatter in the booth died down. The biker looked up at him, slightly confused, putting his hand out to receive whatever Elliot had to give him.

Chains frowned at the set of silver in his pale hands.

"My keys," he said.

The two syllables had Elliot taking a step back and shrinking into himself. There was about as much fear on his face as perplexity on mine. The questions wouldn't end. Why did he have Chains' keys? Why was he so scared?

Chains met Elliot's stare. "Where did you get these?"

But before the well-dressed bartender could answer, James interrupted the situation, taking Chains by the collar. Sweeping the cards, drinks and cash out of the way, he hoisted the biker up onto the table like it was nothing. The wood groaned beneath his weight. The other Stray Dogs leaned back out of the way, invigorated by the prospect of a fight.

"Hey, hey, what the hell do you think you're—" Chains struggled in James' iron grip, snarling with bared teeth. "Edge, you better tell this fuck to get his hands off me!"

"Why'd you do it?" Elliot breathed. His voice was small, quiet, nothing like the chaos unfolding around him.

"Do what?" snapped Chains, thrashing against the table. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"You gave them the keys." Elliot choked, "You told them. You told them where the apartment was, and they... they..."

The intensity of the situation finally became apparent.

Drawing the conclusions, I found myself remembering the words Lieutenant Kessler said to me the night I went to find Elliot in the apartment. No signs of forced entry.

Fucking keys.

Of course. Why the fuck didn't I think of that earlier?

No forced entry meant that the intruders had a key to the front door. Chains was the only one with the spare set. And if Elliot was holding the keys now, ready to confront him... then that meant only one thing.

Chains was the traitor we'd been searching for.

My question emerged slowly, calculated.

"Where'd you get the keys, Elliot?"

His chin trembled. He wrapped his arms around himself, refusing to meet my eyes. When I got his reply, which escaped his pillowy lips as no more than a trembling whisper, it became clear why.

"Midas."

My fists clenched by my sides. My nostrils flared. That bastard. He got to Elliot, I realised, the thought of Elliot facing him making me infinitely more pissed off.

James growled and shoved Chains back to stop him from fighting. "For god's sake. Midas put a rat right in front of you."

"Rat? What fucking rat?" The silver-haired biker searched desperately for some kind of understanding from the bikers around him. "I swear to god, man, I had nothing to do with this shit!"

I countered, "You were the only one with a key to the apartment."

"Yeah, and I fucking lost it, shithead! Don't you remember?" Chains elaborated, "Lucille's party, I told you I couldn't find my damn keys. I spent a week trying to get them replaced! It's fucking expensive too, Edge. I don't got the time to deal with that shit!"

My pensive silence didn't instill him with much hope.

Chief, who'd gotten out of the booth with Shooter and Jaws, spoke up from over my shoulder. "Chains, tell the truth."

"Come on!" the biker shouted back. He met my cold glare. "I swear it wasn't me. You know me, man. You've known me since fucking middle school. Why the hell would I do this?"

Whether I believed him or not, he was making good points. My focus flicked briefly to Elliot, hoping that he was wrong. That maybe, just maybe, we'd all jumped to the wrong conclusion.

"He's lying," James decided. "Of course he's lying."

Chains flared his nostrils and gritted out, "What the hell do you know, fuckface?"

"Midas is playing a game with all of you. You're obstacles for him, and having you fools cast doubt on each other is just his form of entertainment." A sharp exhale escaped James between heavy breaths. "If it's a traitor you're after, here he is. The evidence is right there in his hands."

Chief raised a brow, surprisingly calm given the situation. "How do you expect us to believe it isn't you? All due respect, outsider, but aside from your old man running for mayor, none of us have a damn clue who you are."

"And you seem to know a lot fucking more than you're letting on," I added. "You still haven't explained how you know Midas in the first place. Five years is a long time—who knows what you've been getting up to."

Chains mentioned to James, "Hell, if I remember correctly, you were at Lucille's party too!"

"So were half the people in this room!" James shoved Chains again, frustrated with the biker's squirming. "I don't have to explain myself to you. If you want to waste time pointing your fingers at me, go ahead. All of this is a waste of my time."

"Wasn't your brother the one who came around here telling us to clear out?" asked Jaws from off to the side. "That's the reason we disbanded, after all. Tell you what—you being here certainly hasn't done us any good."

"I'm not responsible for the actions of my family!"

"Stop it," Elliot pleaded to us.

"Why would I want to go against a group of bikers I've never met before?" James scoffed, livid. "I had no way of knowing about those keys and from the looks of it, Midas won't have any trouble bringing down this empire you think you have. He'll chew you all up and spit you right back out. I'm here trying to do you people a favor."

Chief picked at his Stray Dogs vest and sighed.

"The way I see it, one of us is lying." He put it simply. "There's a traitor here, and nobody's leaving until someone comes clean."

"Stop."

"It's not fucking me!" yelled Chains to the group, finally managing to pry James' hand from his collar. Straightening to his feet, he huffed, "Besides, I was getting drunk with Shooter all night at Lucille's party before we booked that cab home, there's no way—"

The blast of a gunshot cut him off.

Screams broke out through the bar. Bikers ducked and covered their heads. Angela shrieked as she dived behind the barrier of a booth behind us. Patrons were bolting for the doors, desperate to escape the chaos. My stomach lurched to my throat. My hands went to cover my ears. My mind raced too fast for my pulsing heartbeat to keep up.

"Nobody move or I'll blow his damn head off!"

Trailing my unsteady gaze off the bar floor, I found my attention slowly coming to focus on a red-faced, sweating Shooter standing across the Chief, Chains and me. He'd shot out the only CCTV camera. Elliot was in his grasp—caught between a chokehold and the smoking gun that was now pointing upwards beneath his jaw.

I wasn't sure I was breathing. Any breaths through my lips were light, drawn out, not entirely there. My legs felt like they were being dragged down by weights. Panic spiked through my system. The room was spinning, but just like that, I was aware of everything.