Fallon (Henchmen MC Next Generation 3)

"Yeah."

"Someone trying to take over the trade in the area," Grandpa concluded.

"Exactly," I agreed.

"So, research mode," Dutch declared.

"Yeah. I mean, I'm sure they are on that angle too. Especially with all those survivalist freaks on their team. But chances are, they aren't going to share that information with us. So I want as many hands on deck as possible to hit the streets, and start asking around. Ideally, I want to know who it is, and move in on them before the Henchmen figure it out."

I didn't want to say it, but we needed that. We needed to prove ourselves. Not only to the Henchmen and the other established organizations in town, but to anyone who might think that because we were new, we were weak.

"I'll start waking people up," Pops said, nodding.

"And where the fuck is my vice president?" I asked, throwing up a hand.

"He said he will be back soon," Dutch supplied. "Your father got his claws into him for a bit after he dropped off what we owed him."

"Alright," I said, rolling my neck, feeling the warmth of the alcohol chasing away the desire and embarrassment and the niggling emotion hanging around that felt a hell of a lot like shame.

Shame.

I'd never felt shame in my entire life.

It was one definite perk to being raised around bikers and the clubwhores. Everyone fucked and felt nothing about it. Which I'd adopted in my formative years. I'd never romanticized sex.

"Making love" was a phrase that didn't exist in my world.

I sure knew how to fuck, and I enjoyed it, and I never felt anything about it after.

I didn't understand shame.

I almost didn't recognize it when it started to course through me.

But there was no denying the swirling discomfort in my stomach, the weird sick sensation that rose up my throat when I thought about it.

I felt ashamed of being attracted to Fallon, of acting on it, of wanting more of it.

Feelings weren't my forte in general. So I was going to do what I did best. Drink about it until I could ignore it, then ignore it until it went away.

It was fine.

It would be fine.

So long as I didn't cross paths with him again.

But, well, fate had other ideas.

Chapter Six

Fallon

"What's the matter? You don't love us anymore?" Dezi asked, looking over my shoulder at the screen while I browsed local home and townhouse listings.

"We all have to grow up sometime," I said, shrugging, even though I wasn't all that sure why the fuck I was looking at places all of a sudden when I had a place at the clubhouse that didn't cost me anything, that didn't require any actual maintenance.

Sure, an argument could be made for the fact that with my father stepping down, and letting me step up, it made sense for me to act more like a fully functioning adult. Which meant having a place of my own. And, yeah, I had the money, thanks to low living expenses, so most of my cut from the club and the side hustles was just sitting around, waiting for me to do something with it.

It made sense to invest in a place of my own.

But what didn't make sense was why I had the sudden desire for my own home.

I hadn't given homeownership anything more than a passing thought in the past. I liked being in the clubhouse and around all the craziness and action.

Something had gotten into me, though, to suddenly go on the hunt.

And as much as I would never admit it, I had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the relentless comments from a certain woman that called my adulthood and capability into question at every fucking turn.

Sure, I wanted to be able to say that the jabs didn't bother me, but I was clearly bothered if I suddenly felt the need to shack myself with a house and all the maintenance that went with that. On top of stepping up into the leadership role of the club.

"As the club grows, we're all going to need our own places," I told Dezi. "There aren't enough rooms for all of us. And no one is going to want to bunk up. I'm just thinking ahead."

"But if you're not here, who is going to tell me I'm being an idiot all the time?" Dezi said with a smile.

"I got that covered," Brooks said as he passed by, arms loaded down with cleaning supplies he dropped at Dezi's feet. "Get to work, prospect," he demanded, waving at the pile.

Dezi looked to me.

See, I didn't give a shit about the hazing of the prospects, making them do and redo shit fifty times just to give them a hard time, to break off and weed out the weak ones. But this was one of those moments where I needed to think like a president, and not just like myself.