“I need to talk to my inner circle,” Shane said. He took a sip of his coffee. “You said Dawson’s gotten too comfortable. Does he have a vouch?”
“Two,” Blade said darkly. “This behavior is just as upsetting to us as it is to you.”
Joker tensed at my side. He caught my eye then pressed his lips together. We both knew this wasn’t going to end well.
Shane’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “He’s banned from Ballast and still got a vouch?”
“Yes,” Priest said. “We’ll deal with it.”
“All right,” Shane said. He stood up, his anger calmed down into something closer to distaste. “I’ll discuss with my guys and contact you about reparations.”
Blade nodded. As Shane shook hands with the leadership, my heart sank lower and lower. Whatever the Empire decided to ask for, Joker and I would be responsible for it. Shane was rightfully furious, and I knew whatever the club demanded for reparations, it wasn’t going to be good or easy.
Shane left the clubhouse, and all the eyes in the room fell to Joker and me.
“That’s fucking it,” Blade said. He was nearly vibrating with fury—and the other three didn’t look much better. Dante frowned deeply, Mal leaned back with disappointment, and Priest set his coffee down and returned to the table with a serious expression on his face.
“If it wasn’t already obvious, Dawson is no longer working for us,” Blade said. “Effective immediately.”
“Blade—” I said, but I knew this was already a lost cause. There was no way Dawson could keep working on-site after what he’d done, but part of me still wanted to try. Simply because I knew if Dawson was already this far gone in his drinking, this loss could push him over the edge.
“Don’t even try me,” Blade said. “I don’t want to hear it. I’ve already given this guy too many chances, and he’s not getting another. If Shane really wanted to, he’d be within his rights to declare war. It’s only the history between our clubs that stopped him.”
“Yeah,” Joker said at my side. He toed at the hardwood, staring at his feet. “You’re right. He fucked up.”
Blade looked at me then, expectantly. Shamefully, I still wanted to defend Dawson. Wanted there to be some way that I could make this right, help him keep his job, and keep spending time with him. But I couldn’t redeem him, not from this.
“I’ll abide by the reparations,” I said. “Whatever Shane decides.”
“Me too,” Joker confirmed. “Terms of the vouch.”
“Good,” Dante said.
“Anything else to discuss?” Priest asked.
“Not until we hear from Shane.” Mal sighed. “This is going to throw a real wrench in the construction process. And in the relationship between our clubs. We’ll disseminate what happened in church, and then I’ll talk to Brennan about what the rest of the construction is going to look like.”
“Agreed,” Blade said, and Priest and Dante nodded. He sighed, then shook his head, like he couldn’t believe he had to deal with this. “Dismissed.”
Joker and I exchanged a brief goodbye, and I watched him as he hopped onto his bike and took off toward Junee. Likely going to Brennan’s. I paused at my bike, running my hand over the familiar leather of the saddle as I took a few deep, steadying breaths.
I was angry, obviously. Angry that Dawson had fucked with the club and fucked up his own job. But more than that, I was gripped with a deep sense of disappointment. Not just at Dawson—at myself, too. I’d seen all the warning signs. He was a binge drinker, with a family history of alcoholism, and he was hiding his drinking. He was in denial, and clearly, so was I. I was so drawn to him, so enamored with the novelty of our connection and how my body reacted to him, that I’d willingly looked the other direction.
I’d thought I was projecting, or that it simply wasn’t as bad as it seemed. I’d wanted to give him agency and the benefit of the doubt. And this was how it’d worked out.
I sighed and carded my hands roughly through my hair before I pulled my helmet on. This whole relationship was a mistake. Mal had been right—I never should’ve gotten involved. I should’ve kept my distance from such an obvious red flag, regardless of the connection I felt. And if I wasn’t able to do that, I should’ve pushed Dawson harder to face his issues instead of just pretending they weren’t there.
I’d tried to operate in this middle ground, where I didn’t acknowledge the depth of his problem while simultaneously trying to connect with him—obviously that had been doomed to fail. I just hadn’t wanted to push Dawson away, or cause him to make another misstep with the club. But now he’d done it all on his own.
I was angry—angry in a bone-deep, exhausted way. The club and I had done so much for Dawson. I’d vouched for him, for God’s sake. And now I had to deal with the consequences.
Dawson would find out about this, sooner rather than later. I was gripped with a sudden urge to see him, though, and to hear what he had to say for himself. I didn’t want him to find out from the leadership and have a chance to build up a defense before he talked to me. I wanted his unfiltered reaction—and his reasoning for what he’d done.
So I hopped on my bike and gunned it toward Junee. The ride didn’t improve my mood the way it usually did, though. If anything, my anger and disappointment built and built the closer I got to Dawson’s house. How could he do this? How could he betray the club—betray me? I thought we’d been building something good and special. How could he turn around and be so thoughtless and selfish?
It was textbook addiction behavior—I’d seen it in my sponsees, my peers in my group, even myself. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
I parked my bike outside Dawson’s apartment, wrenched off my helmet, and stormed to Dawson’s front door. I knocked hard. Waited. Knocked again. Waited. Getting angrier and angrier. Dawson wasn’t at the clubhouse, that was for sure. If he wasn’t at home, where was he? Out drinking again already?
But then, I heard heavy footsteps, and a groan. Dawson cracked the door open, saw me, and then opened it fully. “Nix,” he said, a little sheepishly. Like he knew why I was here.
He looked bad. His skin was sallow, with dark circles under his eyes like he hadn’t slept the night before. His hair was unkempt, and even though it appeared that he’d showered, he still smelled faintly of booze.
“Can I come in?” I asked, shortly.
“Uh.” Dawson glanced around his apartment, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted me inside. If he turned me away now, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. But then he sighed, stepped out of the doorway, and said, “Of course.”
I stepped into his house and shut the door behind me. “What the fuck were you thinking?”
Dawson sat down on the couch on one side, clearly expecting me to sit at the other. But I was so full of thrumming energy, I remained standing, with my arms crossed over my chest.
Dawson was clearly hungover: the coffee table was littered with fast food wrappers, coffee, painkillers, and a seltzer. He moved a little stiffly, like he was sore, and he rubbed meaningfully over his chest like it ached. “What do you mean?”