She gave his hand another squeeze.
And because she knew when to shut her mouth, she got out of the car and didn’t make him spew out a response.
Which was a good thing because he had nothing to say.
And she had hung around with the rest of the old ladies and their kids while Cade had held church.
It was a lot less chaotic than it had been for a good handful of years. It had a fuck of a lot to do with the fact that there had been no new partnerships between a patched member and an old lady. And those courtships always promised chaos. But after what happened with Bex, it had cut the club.
Deep.
And then the shit with Rosie.
She was the heart and soul of the place. Even Gage fucking saw that. And she’d been involved in some deep shit. Deeper than anyone thought she could be capable of. Everyone apart from Gage, of course. He knew his shit. He’d known it all along.
Because he excelled at seeing the shit people hid.
The dark shit.
And Rosie had dark shit.
She could also handle it.
But shit since then had been quiet.
As quiet as it could be, at least.
Partly because they’d stopped running guns and started going legit.
More or less.
They still took contracts out for some fuckers who needed to be put down.
Which was what Cade had given Gage.
A gift from the fucking Devil, as if the Prince of Darkness himself knew Gage needed to end someone if he was going to keep his shit tight.
“Not so fast,” Cade said, eyeing Lucky and Brock who were nearing the door before he focused on Gage. “You need backup on this?”
He was talking about the ex-Mexican gangbanger Rosie had sent them info on from LA. The bitch was a fucking bounty hunter, among other things. She and the ex-cop moonlighted, doling out vigilante justice.
Crawford.
Straight-laced fucker who’d tried to bring down the club for years. Now he was chasing—and killing—drug dealers and rapists with his wife.
Rosie had called in the club because she was unable to chase after a gangbanger turned pimp—one who specialized in underage girls—on account of being three months pregnant. Apparently Crawford had to detain her for a day because she’d been determined to take on the underworld, even with a baby growing inside of her.
Gage didn’t doubt that she could’ve.
He wasn’t of the same opinion of his brothers, who didn’t seem to like their women foraging into the fray at the best of times, let alone being vulnerable. Gage knew fucking breathing was vulnerable, and he knew those women were stronger than most of the self-proclaimed badasses he’d taken down in his life. He also knew that women had demons too. Especially the ones within the club. And they deserved to fight them, to starve them in the best ways that worked. And those ways were likely to be dangerous. Because life was fucking dangerous.
But these fuckers didn’t seem to like the idea of women fighting battles.
Cade, of all people, had driven up to LA to side with Crawford. That was all sorts of upside down. But the cop had proved himself.
So Gage didn’t kill him.
It would’ve pissed Rosie off.
And Gage respected the fucker.
He cracked his knuckles, smiling at Cade’s question. “When do I ever need backup?” he asked.
Cade shook his head, grinning.
Because Gage was right. He was the main member who dealt with the contracts. Sure, Bull would come along when he needed to feed his own demons. Sometimes Lucky, if it had shit to do with rape—his own demons were hungry still, and sometimes you needed to know when to feed the right demons and starve the wrong ones. But mainly it was Gage. Because he was the most fucked up of them all.
His brothers were strong motherfuckers who could stomach a lot.
But Gage could stomach everything.
And he didn’t have a family to risk in case shit got turned around. There was nothing for him to lose. Which meant he was little more than unstoppable.
“All right, great, smoke time,” Brock repeated, slapping Gage on the shoulder as if the matter were wrapped up.
Gage gripped the knife at his belt, more for comfort than anything else. Because in addition to craving blood, junk, and Lauren’s body underneath him, he fucking wanted a smoke.
He wanted a whole fucking pack of them.
He’d hated them before kicking the junk. But they were the only thing that helped get him clean the first time.
And, eventually, the second.
Because you couldn’t kick an addiction without starting another one. And he’d just fucking promised Lauren he was going to kick the addiction that’d had a big fucking hand in keeping him sober. That and killing people. And blowing shit up.
So he was going to have to take up a new addiction.
And he knew it was going to be her.