by Trent Jordan
There was freedom not just in the sense that we didn’t worry about anyone getting killed, but freedom in actually planning for the future. Staying present may have been the best path to happiness, but if it was all anyone could do, if no one had any freedom to look ahead more than a few hours, it could feel suffocating. With this newfound freedom of safety, things started happening really fast.
Patriot and Kaitlyn got engaged about a month after Lane and Angela, which led to many, many jokes. They had not yet gotten married, as Kaitlyn was discussing possibly getting a better job elsewhere, but Patriot made it clear they were an item now. Axle and Rose had moved in together; they never said they were getting married, but they were the most “married” of all of us. Butch and Thea had gotten engaged about a month ago; in typical Butch fashion, no one knew until Thea showed her ring at a club cookout. Phoenix and Jess were still going strong, probably the “furthest back” but still very much committed to each other.
As for Lilly and me?
We were not engaged. We were not living together.
But we had our own little reason for staying close together.
And as I walked down the aisle as the best man, my arm linked with some friend of Angela’s that I did not know, I smiled and nodded to Lilly, sitting near the back of the reception. She blew me a kiss, and I blew her a kiss back.
For a brief moment, as we ended our “formal walk” out of the reception and as we cheered Lane by embracing him and congratulating him, I felt naked, like being without Lilly in this moment somehow made me empty. But that ended seconds later when I felt her arms wrap around me and she planted a kiss on my cheek.
“Lilly,” Lane said, pulling her in for a hug. “Here, we need a photo of all the Carters.”
At first, Lilly stood to the side. But Lane would have none of it.
“Like it or not, you’re in this family now, or at the very least, will be soon enough.”
Lilly giggled, came under my arm, and the four of us posed for photos. The photographer called out for all of the wedding party to get into a photo, but Lane asked for a moment. He put his arm around me, pulled me aside, and smiled.
“So you’re really doing it, huh?” he said.
I knew what he meant. I smiled.
“I know it may seem weird to decide to move to New Mexico after everything that has happened and how we’ve gotten closer,” I said. “But you know the truth. It’s no longer about me. It’s not even about Lilly.”
Lane turned around. We both looked at Lilly, as cheerful and happy as could be.
Actually, we weren’t looking at Lilly.
We were looking at her belly.
“It’s about—”
“The child,” I said. “We both agree. We don’t want our kid to be in an MC. We know that that may be impossible, given who we are. But we need to keep him or her out of the club life as much as possible. We think New Mexico would be a great place. It’s quiet, it’s remote, and it’s away from all of this drama.”
Lane chuckled.
“Not New York?”
“In time,” I said. “Lilly wants to make sure we can handle living in a city first. She’s talking about getting a place in downtown Albuquerque. If we like that, then we can consider going to Manhattan. But if not, then we can move back to the suburbs. She’d be happy with acting in either location.”
Lane smiled. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
“I’m going to miss you, brother,” he said. “For real, this time.”
“And I’m going to miss you too,” I said. “But we’ll only be a day away from each other.”
Lane smiled, and seconds later, we had the wedding party taking all the photos. But even though Lane and I would soon be separated by more than just the need for photos, I knew a couple of things were true.
One, I had finally found a genuine relationship with my brother, one based on love, appreciation, and respect, one that would transcend distance and space.
And two, with Lilly and my future child, I finally had what I’d been searching for since birth but had had inside all along.
The love of a family.
The Black Reapers MC Future
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Also by Trent Jordan
Black Reapers MC
Season 1
Lane (June 2020)
Patriot (June 2020)
Axle (July 2020)
Butch (July 2020)
Phoenix (July 2020)
Cole (July 2020)
Season 2
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Season 1 Epilogue
Las Vegas, Nevada
In a penthouse suite at the top of the Cosmopolitan Hotel & Casino, a man in a white suit sat with his feet propped up on a desk, smoking a cigar. With long, golden hair that reached down to his shoulders and defied his age, a cigar in his hand, and the callouses of a man who used weapons frequently, he went by only one name, a name that was known only to a few, but one that instilled fear amongst anyone who heard it.
King.
Anyone who heard, “King wants a word with you,” had the fear of God instilled in them. Lucius Sartor, as much of a ruthless maniac as he had been, trembled like a six-year-old pissing himself whenever he heard King wanted to speak to him. King had a simple rule—make sure the money flow was steady, and as long as that happened, they would have all the support they could need, and no one would ever hear from him. King preferred to make no more than one phone call a month, and even then, he preferred to not make any.
His life, in many ways, was simple. He set the rules, he set the consequences for not following those rules, and then he let the system play out. It was a ruthless system, one that was executed flawlessly and without interruption.
Until a year ago.
The defeat of the Fallen Saints had eliminated one of his cells, one of his groups that made King his money through the drug trade. He had not experienced such failure since reaching these levels of success, and the defeat…
Merely made him stay in his office an extra hour longer.
King did not believe in overreacting to failure or being dramatic just to make a point about how failure would not be tolerated. King only spent as long as was needed to make sure proper action was taken, and after an hour in the office, he knew what was going to happen.
For the moment, nothing.
The area just north of Los Angeles was too well-guarded by the Black Reapers, and it was of relative pittance in comparison to some of the greater areas. If—and this was a big if—one of their prime locations got threatened, then King would take note. If Springsville became available again for economic value, King would look at it.
But in the grand scheme of things, losing Springsville was nothing more than losing a pawn on a chess board. Perfection was gone, but perfection was not needed.
A knock came at King’s door.
“Yes?”
King did not say the word with malice or fury. Whoever knocked on his door understood full well that if they knocked for any reason that did not have great importance, someone else would take care of them. Again, the benefit of the system was that King did not need to resort to theatrics to make a point.
A young man in a suit and tie entered. He looked nervous, as if his life was on the line. In this room, it always was.
“We just got a report, sir,” he said. “Cole Carter, co-President of the Black Reapers. He’s moving to Albuquerque.”
King took a puff of his cigar.
“You mean to tell me that you came here to tell me someone is moving?” he said.
The man gulped. King tur
ned away, looked back out over the Strip, and waved the man off. The man did not say a word as he left, knowing he was probably dead.
King was inclined to kill the man at first, but as his report lingered, King realized that perhaps he had given him a critical piece of information. Cole moving was like how viruses spread—slowly at first, barely noticeable, and then catastrophically. The death of the Fallen Saints in Springsville was minor, like an annoying rash on one’s upper arm. But if he started something in New Mexico…
King understood the truth now. The end of the Fallen Saints was not an isolated event.
It was the beginning of a much bigger war.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2020 by Trent Jordan
Cover art copyright © 2020 by Talia RedhotInk
Editing by Sarah Bailey-Martin
All rights reserved. Published by TJ Creations.