Page 8 of Tinsel & Chrome
Grizzly
Twenty-five years later...
I never expected to make it this far.
Hell, there were days I didn’t think I’d live to see thirty, much less sixty-something and retired.
But here I am, sitting in the same rocking chair I built with my own hands twenty years ago, a worn coffee mug in one hand, and my granddaughter’s giggles in the air.
Jingle Blaze is in full swing again.
The neighborhood’s louder than ever—kids tearing down the street on decorated mini bikes, the smell of grilled meat in the air, and speakers blasting outlaw Christmas songs someone put together on a custom playlist.
Bishop walks past with a beer in one hand and a string of lights in the other.
Still VP after all these years, stubborn bastard.
Said he didn’t want to be Prez when Forge stepped down, and damn if he didn’t mean it.
Forge is stretched out in a lawn chair by the firepit, looking smug as hell, watching Bayou boss around half the club like she owns it.
And she might as well.
Titan’s got a grandbaby on his hip, telling some story that probably ends in something blowing up.
And our boys? They’re the club now.
Walker—my boy—rides at the head of the pack.
Solid.
Steady.
Respected. He goes by “Knox”
now.
Short for Fort Knox.
Because nothing gets through him.
Loyal to the bone.
Wade’s our Enforcer, fierce like I used to be. Eli, Logan, Jesse—they all wear the patch now. Officers, leaders, brothers.
The girls? Club princesses.
Treated like royalty.
No one messes with Wynn unless they want to answer to six pissed-off bikers and a hundred-pound woman with a bat.
Daisy Boone just punched a prospect for talking too loud near the babies.
Emma Johnson has every old lady and sweetbutt wrapped around her finger.
And Bayou? She doesn’t just run Jingle Blaze—she commands it.
She’s got a clipboard, a whistle, and more bite than any grown man in this club.
I watch her yell at a patch to move the bounce house three inches to the left and smile into my mug.
That’s Forge’s daughter, alright.
Out back, the newest generation is digging up the Secret Santa Box.
I already know what’s in it—Wynn left a note in there ten years ago just for today.
Said, “If you’re reading this, you’re one of us.
Welcome to the madness.
Love, the Little Few.”
That box has more meaning in it than any treasure chest. It’s got the soul of this place. Of this family. Because that’s what we are. We fight. We bleed. We lose people. But we keep going. We ride for each other. And every July, we come home to light up the bayou with reindeer gators, fireworks, whiskey, and love.