Page 7 of Held-
Somewhere behind me, I hear the creak of the fellowship hall door and the sharp gasp of one of the church ladies. No doubt she’s already clutching her pearls so hard they’ll need to be pried loose with the jaws of life.
BRAYDEN
“Remindme again why we're playing Santa Claus to a bunch of uptight rich assholes?” Domino grumbles, killing his engine beside me. He scratches his beard, eyeing the pristine white church like it might burst into flames at our approach. Or maybe he's hoping it will.
I swing my leg over my bike, boots hitting pavement with a solid thud. “Because some rich assholes screwed over a lot of kids, and my aunt guilted me into fixing it.”
“Your aunt could guilt the devil into going to church,” Skelly laughs, pulling off his helmet. His pink mohawk springs up like it's been waiting for freedom all morning.
“Tell me about it,” I mutter, rolling my shoulders to work out the kink from the hour ride. “She played the 'your uncle's heart condition' card. It's the equivalent of Danny Kaye using his old arm injury against Bing Crosby in White Christmas.”
Domino stares at me blankly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“The Christmas movie? With the—” I stop myself. “Never mind.” No point explaining that my aunt has been making me watch it every year since I was a kid. Some things the club doesn't need to know about.
“Still don't see why we had to haul ass across here for some church toy drive,” Domino continues, eyeing the building suspiciously. “Plenty of kids need help in our own backyard.”
“Because I promised,” I say simply, running a hand through my hair. It's gotten too long again, hanging past my shoulders. “And because my aunt said this town's big donor family pulled out to spite some woman who divorced their son.”
“Rich people drama,” Skelly snorts, stretching his arms overhead. The movement makes the skull tattoos dance across his forearms. “My favorite kind of bullshit.”
I scan the parking lot, noting the gleaming SUVs and luxury sedans parked in neat rows. San Salona—the kind of place where people judge you by your zip code and family name. The kind of place I couldn't wait to escape fifteen years ago.
“Let's just get this done,” I say, nodding toward the truck where our prospects Rabbit and Velcro are already unloading boxes. “In and out, minimal interaction with the locals.”
“You afraid they'll recognize you?” Domino grins, slapping me on the back. “What was it your aunt called you? Bray Baby?”
“Call me that again and I'll make you eat your own colors,” I threaten. The guys have been ribbing me about this “charity mission” since we left Carlsbad.
“You sure you’re one of us, Cole?” Big asks, leaning against his bike with an expression that makes me want to rearrange his teeth. “Because this—” he gestures toward the pristine church and manicured grounds, “—seems far more fitting for you.”
“Fuck off,” I growl, but that only eggs him on.
“No, seriously.” He nudges Domino, who's already chuckling. “All this time I thought you were slumming it with us, when really you're just a rich boy playing biker.”
The other guys start hooting, and I feel heat crawling up my neck. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen when my aunt called in her favor. The past I've spent fifteen years burying is suddenly right on the surface.
“Where you been hiding your silver spoon, Bray?” Skelly joins in, eyes glinting with amusement.
I step into his space, close enough that our cuts almost touch. “That silver spoon is about to be relocated to your ass right next to your head if you keep it up.”
This gets a chorus of “oohs” from the prospects, who quickly shut up when I turn my glare on them.
“I grew up dirt poor with a single mom who worked two jobs until she dumped me onto my aunt and took off when I was sixteen,” I fire back. “My aunt married into money. I didn't. The only silver I've ever owned is the knife in my boot and the rings on my knuckles.”
The laughter dies down, but I can still see the questions in their eyes. Fair enough. I've never talked much about where I come from, and showing up at some fancy church in rich-boy territory isn't exactly helping my case.
“Look,” I say, lowering my voice. “My aunt is the only family I've got left who gives a shit whether I live or die. She asked for help, so we're helping. End of story.”
Domino nods slowly. “Respect for family. I get that.”
“Good. Now can we unload this truck before some church lady calls the cops on us?”
As if summoned by my words, the church's front door opens and a woman in a floral cardigan peers out, her face a mask of barely concealed horror. She takes one look at our cuts, our bikes, our general existence, and promptly disappears back inside. I'd bet money she's already on the phone with someone.
“Friendly place,” Skelly observes.
“Real welcoming,” I agree, grabbing the first box from the truck. It's heavier than expected, packed solid with wrapped toys.