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Sin

Three Weeks Until New Year’s

Background noise filters through the air like a constant hum, the kind of static you might hear from a television that’s just shit itself. My mind blocks it all out while thoughts run circles in my head. My trusty poker chip, the one with the red and white stripes and a faded casino logo in the center, moves smoothly between my fingers. Each ridge glides over my skin, a rhythm I barely notice anymore. I flick it from knuckle to knuckle, the plastic cool and familiar—it’s close to a nervous habit. The weight shifts as I pass it, the click a small, steady beat in the club Chapel. The movement is almost calming—something to keep my hands busy while my mind drifts.

The chip’s surface, once glossy, is worn just enough to feel comfortable, the edges rounded from use, and there’s something satisfying about its controlled motion—that delicate balance of keeping it moving without dropping it. It grounds me, keeps me in the moment, while my thoughts circle around everything else. The world seems simpler in that back-and-forth glide, like if I can keep the chip steady, maybe everything else will fall into place.

If only it were that simple.

The tension in the room sits heavy, mirroring a storm ready to break. The air is charged, filled with anticipation, and an edge of doubt. My brothers are loyal—there’s no question about that—but they’re not blind. They see the risks as clearly as I do, and it’s my job to steer us through this mess. One wrong move, one misstep, and everything we’ve worked for goes up in smoke. The pressure of it claws at my insides, but I force myself to keep calm.

To not let it show.

“You sure you want to do this, Pres?” Ghost, the club secretary and tech genius, captures my attention, pulling me back into the conversation. His voice is steady, but the uncertainty in his eyes— that hint of worry he tries to mask—is clearly evident on his face.

Flicking my poker chip into the palm of my hand, I grip it tight, drawing in a deep breath, then nod. “It’s already done,” I reply simply, the rest of my brothers around the Church table shifting with unease.

Ghost cranes his neck to the side, his brows drawing together as he continues to push. “I know you want to show us in a better light, but Pres, we’re not entirely above board. What if—”

“We need a better rep,” I cut him off, my voice firmer this time. The frustration simmers beneath my skin, but I keep it in check. “The Feds have been breathing down our fucking necks, and I need them to back the hell off. If we can get public opinion changed on who we are as a club, it might make all the difference in the world and get the intense burn of the motherfucking heat off us.”

Ghost’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing slightly as he weighs my words. My brothers around the table exchange glances, unease etched on their faces.

They know exactly what I’m talking about—the fact we had a shootout in the middle of the fucking Vegas Strip with the Hidden Hand Alliance involving civilians was not the best look for us.

It was chaos.

Pure and simple, and we’re still paying the price for it.

Ghost rolls his shoulders, chewing down on the toothpick that always seems to be in his goddamn mouth. “All right, I did the appropriate checks… everything looks good from what I can see, but she’s fresh meat, Pres. A brand-new reporter off the ranks for KLAS-TV. Who knows which way she’ll lean on her views toward the club.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips, and I begin to flick my poker chip through my fingers again. “That’s exactly why we need her. Elizabeth Hale hasn’t been tainted by mainstream media yet. We’ll show her the decent side of the club and get her to report what we want. Not how a seasoned professional would spin it and make us out to be the villains, no matter what the true story is.”

Nitro, my VP, shifts in his seat beside me, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His expression skeptical, a frown pulling at his features. “You better be sure about this, Pres, because if she goes searching in the wrong places…” He takes a deep breath before continuing, “She could absolutely paint us as the villains you’re so desperately trying to stop us from looking like.”

His words hit home, the weight of them settling in my gut. I know the risks—hell, I probably know them better than anyone here. The only reason I wear this president patch is because the man who wore it before me was put in the same predicament—was painted as the villain. The Feds came after him, and now he’s rotting away in a cell while I wear his patch, trying to make sure the club doesn’t fall victim to the same assholes who came after us when he was in power.

But I also know what’s at stake if we do nothing.

The club is my family.

The club is my responsibility.

And I’ll be damned if I let us go down without a fight.

Exhaling as I run my fingers through my hair, I sit back in my chair, a slow grin forming across my face. I need to project confidence, to let them see that I’ve got this under control—even if the doubts are clawing at the back of my mind. “You leave Elizabeth to me… I will personally handle her the entire time she’s at the clubhouse. I promise you, she won’t leave my fucking sight.”

Ghost moves to stand, his eyes still searching my face for any sign of hesitation. “Well then, we better get out there because she’s due to arrive at any moment, and we want to make our special guest feel welcome.”

I force myself up from my chair, the poker chip slipping into my pocket as I do.

The weight of the moment settles over me, but I push it aside.

I can’t afford to doubt myself, not now.

Not when the stakes are this high.

“We sure do… everyone be on your best behavior while Miss Hale is here for the next few days. If this goes to plan, we could have those fucking Feds off our backs by the new year.”

Nitro snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “That, or we could all be behind fucking bars as the clock strikes midnight. Either or.”

Chuckling, I shake my head at my VP. “Oh, ye of little faith. You’re my right-hand man, Nitro… trust me. Trust me to make sure that Elizabeth writes a glowing feature on us.”

Nitro huffs, his eyes meeting mine, a mixture of loyalty and concern in his gaze. “As your right-hand man, I have to point out just how fucking bad this can go. I’ve done that, but you know no matter what route you decide to go, Pres… I have your back. If you think Miss Hale is gonna be the person to pull the heat off the club, then I am one hundred percent in.”

There’s a moment of silence, a stillness that settles over the room as I glance around the Chapel table. Each of my brothers meets my gaze, their expressions a mix of determination and trust—it’s a heavy thing, that trust—they’re putting their faith in me, in my judgment, and I won’t let them down.

I can’t.

Sniffing back, I reach for my gavel and then slam it onto the table with a swift, single hit. “Then let’s go give Elizabeth Hale a warm Las Vegas Defiance MC welcome.”

Everyone stands, and we file out of the Chapel. The weight of what’s ahead hangs heavy on my shoulders, weighing me down like a lead weight. There’s tension in my chest, a mix of anticipation and unease, knowing Elizabeth Hale is a wildcard and how she chooses to play her cards could determine everything for us. I’ve faced down rival clubs, corrupt cops, and the Feds themselves, but there’s something different about this—something unpredictable.

And though I plan to have as much influence over the words in Elizabeth’s feature as possible, the fact is, I won’t know the final version until I see it in print. Ghost and Nitro are right—this is a huge risk.

Rolling my shoulders as I step out to the clubhouse’s main room, it’s buzzing with activity, the club’s usual chaos in full swing. The roar of laughter, the clinking of beer bottles, the rumble of engines in the distance—it’s all familiar, a reminder of why I’m doing this.

This place, these people, they’re family.

They have been since I was a scrappy teen, and they took me in.

Every risk I take, every decision I make, it’s all for them.

As we approach the main doors, I catch sight of a car pulling up—a sleek sedan, too polished for this part of town. My pulse quickens as the car door opens, a long leg juts out, my gaze locking onto the bright red sky-high heel, and my brow raises at the tight leather pants clinging to her toned leg. I side-eye Nitro, and a slow smirk crosses his face as Elizabeth exits her car. She’s younger than I anticipated. Those tight black leather pants cling to her athletic body, drawing my eyes in ways they shouldn’t. A simple white blouse hangs a little too low in front for a woman who is going to be around a club full of bikers and to complete her edgy look, she tops it off with a distressed leather jacket. Her light brown hair hangs in soft waves around her face as she glances up at the clubhouse and all the brothers standing, staring at her.

Nitro leans in against my ear with a slight chuckle. “I thought you said you were getting a reporter, not a freaking femme fatale,” he whispers.

I nudge his ribs as Elizabeth steps toward us, taking off her sunglasses and flicking her hair to reveal even more of her stunning face. Her eyes widen as she takes in the outside of the clubhouse, a mixture of curiosity and unease rolling through her, and for a moment, she hesitates, her gaze meeting mine across the distance. It’s like she’s unsure whether she should continue to approach us or whether we should meet her halfway.

I force a smile, making the move to step forward, my brothers flanking me on either side. She tilts her head, her posture stiffening, her hand moving to her hip as if she is assessing us, her eyes darting from one brother to the next without saying a single word.

Game on, Elizabeth.

“Miss Hale,” I call out, my voice carrying over the noise inside, drawing her attention back to me. She turns, her eyes locking onto mine, and I see a flicker of something there—curiosity, maybe even a hint of petulance. “Welcome to Las Vegas Defiance.”

She offers a tentative smile, her steps careful as she approaches. “Thank you, uh… I’m assuming you’re the president?” she asks, her voice wavering just slightly, showing a slight crack in the bravado she’s been attempting to portray.

“Sin,” I correct her, extending a hand. “You can call me Sin. And these are my brothers. We’re all here to make sure you have everything you need for your story.”

Her gaze flicks to the men standing behind me—Nitro, Ghost, Koa, Bear, Mace, Deek, and the others. There’s a wariness in her eyes, a guardedness that tells me she’s not quite sure what she’s walked into. I can’t blame her. The club can be intimidating, especially to someone on the outside looking in—no matter how brave they pretend to be.

“Well… Sin,” she replies, her voice gaining a little more strength as she shakes my hand. There’s something different about her touch. Her grip is firm, but it’s almost as though there’s an electrical charge surging between our palms. Static maybe? Her eyes search mine as if she is trying to figure me out, like she can feel it too. “I’m here to tell the real story of Las Vegas Defiance… whatever that may be, without prejudice… or coercion.”

A grin tugs at my lips, and I release her hand, the static instantly releasing its charge, and I motion for her to follow. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on, Miss Hale. So then, let’s get you settled in, and we can start showing you what the club is really about.”

Her eyes scan me up and down, not hiding the fact she’s doing it at all. I jerk my head back in confusion as she hums under her breath, “Yeah… we’ll see,” she mumbles, then takes off toward the front door, her red heels clicking as she goes.

I snap my head around to Nitro, and he throws his hands in the air in frustration, taking off after her. The other guys follow with a look of hesitation on their faces. Puffing out a long breath of air, I slide my hand into my jeans pocket to feel for my poker chip. Pulling it out, I begin to flick it between my fingers as I head in behind everyone else. The eyes of my brothers are on me as I enter, and the weight of their trust and their doubts follows every step I take.

This could be the beginning of something good for the club.

Or it could be the beginning of our downfall.

But one thing’s for sure—Elizabeth Hale is about to write a story she never saw coming, and I’ll make damn sure it’s the one we want her to tell—whether she likes it or not.