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The entire club waited silently. The leadership had become so lax that church meetings were rare, but enough members were incensed after the drive-by shooting that they demanded this gathering.

The Knights didn’t have a formal table or gavel, and there were no Robert’s Rules to follow.

Still, most of the grumbles were held back as everyone looked to Scrap for leadership.

Wolf had his doubts that he would do much.

The older man was tired and ready to let someone else make the hard decisions.

The problem was, no one in the club was willing to step into that role.

Maybe Quillon could fill the void, but did he want to?

Scrap’s old lady left years ago, and he had no other family as far as anyone knew.

Was Quillon’s wife, Tracie, ready to be the first queen of the MC?

Wolf shifted his stance—he preferred standing, as the meeting area was next to the main stage—and frowned at the lackluster attitude of the group.

Baghouse was enraged and cursing a blue streak under his breath.

Melter was picking at a dry cuticle and seemingly unaffected by the shooting.

Camshaft, Quillon, and Wolf appeared to be the most concerned.

Scrap finally spoke as he tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. “I’d say those jagoffs are nothin’ to worry about. They’re just stupid shits playin’ in the streets n’at. Nothin’ to worry about.”

Wolf couldn’t believe his ears. Neither could many of the other members. Camshaft and Crossman glanced at each other in disbelief, and Quillon made a chuffing noise as he closed his eyes and shook his head.

“What the fuck?” Baghouse started, his eyes going wide. “Are you stupid or somethin’?”

Melter scoffed. “Show some fuckin’ respect!”

“I’ll show some goddamn respect when we get off our fuckin’ asses and take care of business!”

Melter jumped to his feet. “You want me to take care of business here, asswipe?”

“Enough!” Scrap roared, temporarily halting the infighting. “We don’t have the manpower or the money for a fuckin’ street war. When was the last time we had a prospect? Huh? The last one was Crossman, and that’s been what? Five years?”

Wolf folded his arms. Scrap had a good point. They didn’t have the numbers or the financial backers of the Slaggers. But did that mean they had to give up their territory? Sell the strip joint? Dissolve the club completely?

When he joined the Iron City Knights years ago, they had a reputation as being a tough but fair group.

You didn’t fuck with them and they wouldn’t fuck with you, but if you did, watch out.

That had gone by the wayside, and all Wolf saw now was a group of old men coasting on past glories and ready to retire.

“Point of order.” Quillon’s low voice cut through the cacophony.

Scrap waved at him to continue, and the members quieted to hear what the man had to say.

“I’m gonna disagree with you, Scrap. No disrespect, but flying bullets are not toys to put away at the end of playtime.

Yeah, we think they fired in the air, prolly to scare us.

Either that or they really suck at aiming since no one got hurt.

This time.” He looked the club president in the eye and didn’t waver.

“There is going to be a next time, and someone will get hurt. It’s inevitable.

Could be a patron. Could be a dancer. Could be one of us, but it’s coming unless we stop it now. ”

Scrap sighed. At one time, the man had been tougher than the steel he made. Now he just looked tired and worn out. “How the fuck are we supposed to do that?”

“We have allies.”

Scrap sat back and crossed his arms in front of his chest, stating without words that he didn’t like the suggestion. “You think we’re that weak we gotta ask someone for help?”

“Yes.” Quillon didn’t back down. “I got a woman I love, work I enjoy, and a club I respect. One is threatened, all three are threatened. My life is good, and I want to keep it that way, whatever it takes.”

Wolf jumped in before Scrap could work up a head of steam. “Who did you have in mind?”

“I spoke to Tower from the Miners’ Sons MC.

He’s got a few younger men who are restless and don’t want to spend half their lives underground.

They might even patch over if they like city life instead of rural coal mining.

Tower said if we got jobs for them and a place to live, he’d send them our way to test the fit, so to speak. ”

An idea formed in Wolf’s head. One he loved.

“My landlady is moving to her daughter’s place in Florida for the summer.

She might even stay there permanently. I can speak to her about letting those guys stay at her place.

Two bedrooms on the main floor and my apartment on the top floor.

Rent is low as long as we keep the place up. ”

Camshaft spoke up. “Sounds like a plan, but where will you be stayin’?”

Wolf grinned. “I got a spot.”

Melter popped his eyes. “Christ on a cracker, you got a woman?”

“Yeah.”

If he wasn’t sure before, he was now. The short answer cemented Jazz’s place in his life more firmly than he realized.

The thought of being with her in that odd little house should have been abhorrent to him.

Instead, he was already mentally sifting through his stuff to see what he’d bring over and what he’d leave behind.

Melter whooped and slapped his thigh. “Fuck me sideways, you got laid last night!”

Anger flared in Wolf. “How much did those dental implants you got last year set you back? If you want to keep them, I suggest you watch your mouth about my woman.”

My woman. Damn, those words tasted good on his tongue. Almost as good as Jazz herself.

Based on her messed-up words last night, he could tell she was nervous and unsure. The sex was mind-blowing, but was she ready to trust him and his commitment? He was completely confident she would get there.

Quillon brought the main topic back. “So, do we need a formal vote or what?”

A sea of shrugs and a chorus of “Yeah, sures” and “Whatevers” came from the sparse membership.

Wolf frowned at the apathy. It seemed like no one really cared about the future of the club.

At one time, the name Iron City Knights meant something.

It seemed at this point, the club was dying a slow, quiet death, and no one gave a shit.

“Through the fires of hell, men of steel are forged.” The club motto rang in his head like hammers against an anvil. The time would come when they would have to reforge the club. When they did, would the result be a stronger steel or something so weak it would snap in half? Only time would tell.

Quillon waved a hand in the air in a move-on gesture. “Motion carried and approved. Let’s get this shit done.”