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ATOM

I t takes me a minute to realize that the ringing in my dream is actually my phone ringing in real life. And the ringtone belongs to one man only.

My president.

Ember is wrapped around me. I would have sworn I was a light sleeper who appreciated his own space. But being all up in Ember’s warmth and scent as she sleeps is a revelation.

My life as a rancher is about to get a whole lot harder, because I know I’m going to struggle to get out of bed for the rest of my life.

Her tits are smushed up against my chest, and my cock stirs at the thought of what we did in the shower.

Over a beer, she asked me about what I said, and I was blunt and honest. I wanna knock her up as soon as she’ll let me. She was worried I didn’t want her to work once she became a mom. But I reassured her I’m not gonna stop her from rebuilding and running her bar, because I trust her that she’d keep her safety and the baby’s in mind. Plus, our baby can come hang out with me in the tractor.

She grinned and told me I had to wait at least a year, but I figure if I start a baby-fever campaign in the new year, showing her cute baby shit and making up the spare room into a nursery, I might be able to convince her sooner.

The mild chub starts to stretch into a full-blown hard-on at the thought.

I’ll build her a stable of her own in gratitude and fill it with horses she loves. I see Lemmy is getting older. Not sure how long Holsteiners live. Twenty to thirty years, maybe. One day, we’ll have to deal with the grief of his passing. I want to make sure she has at least two other horses she loves just as much by then, to help carry her through the enormity of his loss.

The phone rings off, and I feel a moment of relief before it starts ringing again.

Ember’s messy hair falls over her face, tickling my arms.

I thought I slept best out in the open air beneath the stars, but I’m starting to think I sleep best wherever she is.

I snake my arm from beneath Ember so I can grab my phone, wishing I could just shut the fucker off.

“What?” I mumble quietly. Squinting, I see the time is four in the morning.

“You better get your ass to the clubhouse now.”

Butcher hangs up before I have the time to compose an answer.

What the fuck was that? Is the clubhouse under attack?

Has he arranged for some prospects to come and protect the house?

I rub my face aggressively, trying to shake off the dregs of sleep so I can function.

“What’s up?” Ember mumbles.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I have to go. Your father just demanded I get to the clubhouse but gave me no other details than that.”

She rubs her eyes, then sits up. “Do you think he knows about us?”

I have a bad feeling in my gut that’s roiling around, growing in size. “I don’t know, but I’ll let you know what’s going on. More likely an issue with the club.”

But there was something in the way Butcher spoke. I’ve never heard him sound like that before. My gut tells me there is much more to this request.

Fuck.

What if he’s being held against his will there or some shit?

I fire off a quick message to Wraith.

Me: Butcher just told me to get my ass to the club. He sounded weird. Worried there may be trouble. Headed there now.

It’s four in the morning, and if Wraith has half a brain, he’s wrapped around his woman, fast asleep. Just like I was.

While the enforcer part of me is ready to just roll out the door, I pause. Given I don’t know what I’m racing to, I spend an extra moment making sure I’m sufficiently armed. I place my knife on my belt but add a pocketknife to my cut and a small flip blade into my boot.

And for once, I decide to holster two weapons and pack some extra ammo into my pockets. This will all look like total overkill if I arrive there and Butcher has got his panties in a knot over something that could have waited until the morning.

I grab and load a gun for Ember. He’s demanded I go, yet left no details for cover. But she’ll be safe enough here. And to get to her, someone would have to ride right past the clubhouse.

We’ll see them.

I check my phone, and there is still no reply from Wraith.

Which, on second thought, if something were happening to the club, if it were under attack or Butcher was, surely, he’d call his sergeant at arms ahead of his enforcer.

Ember’s lips are soft, her cheeks warm to the touch when I lean in to kiss her goodbye.

“I’m nervous,” she says. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Try to go back to sleep, sweetheart. I’ll message you when I can. I put a gun next to the bed. It’s loaded and the safety is on.”

“The land,” she says suddenly.

“What?”

“The land. My dad’s been thinking about what Wheeler is going to do with the land once it’s his. He’s worried about the land the club sits on. If anything goes wrong or goes down and you need an out, offer Dad the clubhouse land in return.”

I swallow deeply. “He thinks Dad is up to something too?”

“You do?”

I nod. “Saw him talking to some developers. Probably getting an assessment on the land value.”

Ember reaches for my hand. “Your life is worth so much more than those acres. Offer them to him if it helps you. I know your grandpa will agree for the good of you and the club.”

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it, but it’s a strong bargaining chip. “Thank you.”

I kiss her one more time and find strength in her lips. Tonight will require the kind of courage only Em could inspire.

It’s still dark when I mount my bike and peel out onto the trail down to the clubhouse. The full moon is high in the sky, bringing a hard-to-describe brightness to the landscape. The moonlight dances across the meadow, creating monochrome shadows.

Usually, I love the clarity and power of being alone in the darkness.

There’s no one around, and you feel so insignificant under the enormity of the night sky, it’s as though the weight of the stars sits on your chest.

I take in some deep breaths, using the ride to calm my unusually racing heart. Under pressure, I’m usually cool. It’s one of the characteristics that make me a good and fair enforcer.

But today, I struggle to find the inner calm I usually tap into before making a decision, even though I know I’ll handle whatever I’m walking into better if my heart isn’t racing at a million beats per hour.

The trail comes down over the crest of a hill to the clubhouse, and I pause at the top, searching the landscape for clues as to what’s going on.

But I see no signs of any kind of intrusion. There are no unusual vehicles in the lot; I don’t see any unexpected people crawling around. Both the inner gate and the outer gate farther down the trail remain locked.

It doesn’t mean that there isn’t something untoward going on in the clubhouse, but it’s a relief to realize it isn’t a large-scale siege.

I freewheel the last twenty meters into the parking lot with the engine off. If anyone inside had been paying attention, they might have heard it sooner. It is the middle of the night, after all.

Once I’ve parked my bike, I grab my weapon, and, raising it to eye level, I make my way into the clubhouse.

But as I glance around the corner, I see Butcher and Wraith sitting by the bar.

Butcher is sitting bolt upright, smoking a cigarette.

Wraith is resting his forehead on his clasped knuckles. The fucker’s phone is right there in front of him. He must have seen my message and chosen not to reply.

Neither is speaking.

Then, Butcher sees me, and fuck. I’ve seen that look. It’s the one he has when he’s facing one of his enemies.

Has Catfish ratted me out to Butcher?

My heart sinks.

I know Catfish wouldn’t have done that. I trust my brother.

So, I’m officially clueless.

I lower my weapon and reholster it. I suppose this is it. The moment of reckoning I fully deserve.

“Butcher. Wraith. What the fuck, brothers? You scared the shit out of me. Phone call like that, I thought the clubhouse was under attack or some shit.”

“In a way, it is,” Butcher says cryptically. “Take a seat.”

The making of a man is in how he handles the darkest moments. But I have startling clarity. I won’t be the first man who has fallen for the wrong woman, though I have a strong feeling my consequences will be worse than most.

But all I need to remember is Ember isn’t the wrong woman.

She’s the most right woman there has ever been. And while I wish I had more time as just the two of us before the world knew about us, I’m as sure in my decision as I could be.

No amount of time could make me want Ember as my wife any more than I do now.

But I decide to play it cool.

I don’t know why Wraith won’t meet my eyes, but I do as Butcher says and sit down at the bar next to him.

“You want to tell me what this is about?” I ask.

Butcher stubs out the end of his cigarette as he blows a solid stream of smoke into the air. “The Outlaws were created because the founding members believed in one fundamental guiding principle. That the men of this world should be able to create a brotherhood that supported each other in one goal…a life outside the rules, built to their own design.”

I know this, but as Butcher says the words, it chafes at me that I see a double standard. If I could create a life by my own design, then Ember is my old lady, my wife, the mother of my children. But in this instance, this isn’t what Butcher means.

“I know this. Why are you telling me?”

The feeling in the pit of my stomach grows. I don’t know what I expected when he found out. But fists were the thing I would have preferred to this soliloquy, because he’s creeping me out.

“Inherent to that was an honor code built on trust. Trust for your brother, that you would have his back, at all times and above all things.”

I’m embarrassed to admit I consider concocting a plan to lie. To hide what Ember and I have been doing. But there is an equally strong part of me that just wants the truth out there. So I can claim her publicly and bring taking her as my old lady to the table for a vote.

Can’t wait to see her wearing a Property of Atom patch.

But a memory hits me…my grandpa looking at some legal documents when I was a child. His words sound strongly in my mind, although I am certain they were accompanied by a Marcus Aurelius quote that I can’t recall.

Don’t answer their questions, boy—make them tell you what they know, first.

I’m making a huge assumption. While this seems like a court with Butcher as judge and Wraith as executioner, this may not be about Ember and me at all.

“I know all this about the history of the club. I heard it from my grandpa and my dad. My question is, why are you telling me all this, and why won’t you make eye contact with me, Wraith?”

Wraith finally looks up and meets my gaze. Devastation is etched in the corners of his eyes and the wrinkles across his brow. The man looks like he hasn’t slept for a week.

Guess he wasn’t home with Raven the same way I was with Ember.

And I suddenly feel sick.

Wraith tips his head in the direction of church. “There’s something underneath the table in front of your seat.”

Butcher shifts to stare at me. “Go look, then come back and tell me what you find.”

It’s an odd request, not at all what I was expecting, but I do as he asks. My grandpa donated this wood to the club to become the table for church. Two huge slabs cut from the same tree felled on our property. A storm had taken it down, leaving it upended with its huge root ball on display.

Grandpa polished both sides of the large slabs by hand.

I once asked him why he did the underside that no one would see.

He’d told me it was a sign to the club. If you only work on the surface, the parts everyone can see, you’re a superficial man, one more concerned with external image. But to do the underside was to work on what was hidden. To be the best possible person you could be, with or without witness. To address the darkest parts of oneself, to mine one’s own depths for perfection, was to be the best possible version of yourself.

The underside is smooth to the touch, but then my hand brushes up against a small plastic circle. I dip my head to see what I’m touching and have to hide the gasp when I realize it’s some kind of bugging device.

A weird kind of relief floods through me first.

I’m not here because Butcher knows about Ember and me.

And then it hits me, why I got that whole reminder of what the club was built on.

The pieces fall into place so quickly, I can barely think straight.

I’m here because Butcher thinks I’m a traitor to the club.

When Ember was about twelve years old, she was sulking because Lemmy had pulled up lame. I don’t even remember the problem. Something to do with his foreleg. And she’d been complaining to my grandfather about not being able to ride.

But when everyone’s back was turned, she went into the stables where my grandfather had just tied his horse up to be de-tacked. Ember sneakily untied him, used a stool in the stable to climb onto him, then reined him around.

Aurelius was nothing like his namesake. In another life, he was a war horse, a Destrier breed now extinct. Angry. A biter. Had a disdain for being ridden.

A twelve-year-old girl in pigtails was the ultimate insult.

So, Aurelius tried to buck her off. I remember the cowboys running from all directions to try and grab the reins. Even as a kid, my only thought was for her safety. I climbed onto the paddock fence and calmly shouted at Ember to bring him close so I could jump on the saddle behind her to rein him in.

It was a move I likely couldn’t ever repeat. I took hold of the reins, then used my knees and my young but familiar bark to bring him back under control.

My grandpa told me it was the kind of courage bikers were made of.

My father told me I was a fucking idiot for risking my life for hers.

But it was Butcher who rubbed my back when I puked from the adrenaline.

My heart is racing even harder than it did back then. And I’m ashamed to admit my hands shake as I stand.

Then, I press my hands firmly onto my knees, wiping my sweating palms on the denim.

“Tell me you don’t think this is me,” I say quietly, finding my voice as I return to the bar.

“Until you can tell me something to convince me otherwise, it’s the only thing I can think,” Butcher says, but Wraith silently shakes his head enough for me to see it.

He doesn’t agree with this line of questioning, and it gives me some hope.

“I’d have to be carrying a death wish to bring a tracking device into the Iron Outlaws’ clubhouse and place it in front of my own seat at the church table. That act alone should be enough to tell you it’s not me. The fucker who did this wouldn’t have put it in front of their own seat.”

“It’s also the fact you were there first when the fire started. You weren’t supposed to be there that night. How did you know those fuckers were going to burn down the bar? Did you plan to get there fast enough so you could save her like a hero?” Butcher asks.

My jaw drops open. I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth. “You need to watch what you’re saying, Butch. You’ve already crossed a line that’s going to be really hard to get back from. But let’s think about this logically, instead of this fucking mind game you’ve got going on. If you were going to try and get intel from that room, would you put the bug, which likely has limited range…in front of yourself?”

Butcher lights another cigarette. “There was also the way you chased after the guys in the truck. I’ve never known you to miss a shot. But you missed them when they were fifteen feet from you. Then, you chased them. Your bike should outrun that truck any day of the week, but you say you never caught them. And you say they were responsible for you coming off your bike, but you’re sitting here like you’re fine while a crash at the kind of speeds you say you were doing would have caused more damage.”

My head is spinning with the allegations that I undeniably know aren’t true. But worse, I can’t believe the two men challenging me could believe that shit.

“Fuck you, Butch.” It’s all I can think of. Not how to defend myself, because I shouldn’t have to.

“What?” Butcher says.

“You’re a fucking imbecile. Two things: One, if you were going to plant a bug with limited range in the clubhouse, you’d want to place it closest to the person who is going to say what you need to hear. In this room, it’s you, Wraith, Grudge, and me. Two, I know it’s not me. And I wouldn’t assume it’s either of you or Grudge. And three, this all means the person who planted that fucking thing is still listening. If you’re going to accuse me of something, have more fucking evidence than a device anyone could have placed. Oh, and four, why would they need a fucking bug if it was me? If, for some insane reason, I had flipped sides, I’d just walk out of here and call ‘em. Wouldn’t need a fucking bug. That alone tells me it’s been planted by someone who doesn’t get to be in church when the decisions are made.” I turn to Wraith. “How did you find it?”

“Everything has been going too smoothly in the Russians’ favor. We’ve all felt it. But it started after that call I had with you when you’d taken Ember to your place. Started going back over all the prospects to see if we made a mistake. But then it occurred to me that the plans we made always happened in church, where the prospects aren’t allowed. Just decided to do a search. Took it to Butcher as soon as I found it.”

I run my tongue over my teeth. “You don’t think to bring it to me?”

Wraith shakes his head. “Took it to Butcher because I didn’t think he’d react this way.”

It relieves me to hear Wraith say that.

But there are still so many emotions running through me.

The obvious one is rage that someone has walked into our clubhouse to spy on us with the intent of harming us.

The second is annoyance that someone is seemingly setting me up for a fall, but that emotion doesn’t help me at all.

And the third, the one that kills me inside, is the hurt that the man I once thought of as a second father thinks I’m capable of this.

As I’m forming my thoughts, some of the other core members arrive. Even Grudge, moving like an old man.

“It’s going to be indelibly inked through my bones forever that at a moment like this, Butcher, you chose to believe the very worst in me. And that is unforgivable.”

“If I’m wrong, then tell me why you were the first on the scene at the fire of Whiskey Fever, and didn’t get those two fuckers in the truck.”