I pull her tighter against my chest. “Damn right, I am. And ya know what else?”
London laughs. “What?”
“I’m gonna marry you one day.” The words come out before I can stop them.
She stares at me and, without hesitating, says, “Damn right you are.”
We’re all sitting together, table covered in empty crawfish shells and empty beer bottles as the sun sinks into the bayou. The sounds of nature fill the air with the rhythmic chirpingof cicadas, mixing with the occasional frogs croaking from the trees. A soft breeze blows, bringing the earthy smell of damp soil and adding to the peaceful feel of a moment filled with laughter and conversation.
Riggs stands, lifting his beer, and everyone quiets down. His eyes sweep the table full of people who have bled together, buried together, and stood through fire together. “We all came out here to eat, drink, and raise a little hell,” he begins. “But there’s another reason I wanted the family together today.” He glances down at the end of the table. “Catcher,” Riggs says. “Since day one, you’ve taken everything we’ve thrown at ya without bitchin’ or backin’ down. You’ve been through hell and back, even died for a minute. You spent weeks in the hospital clawing your way back. And through it all, you never stopped believing in what this patch means.”
He places his drink down, reaches under the table, and pulls up a new cut with fresh stitching, ‘KINGS OF RETRIBUTION MC LOUISIANA.’ Then Riggs looks right at me. Typically, this is the club president’s job, but this time, Riggs gives me the floor, allowing me to have the honor.
My throat becomes tight as I stand and take the cut from him. It feels heavier than anything I’ve ever held as I walk to Catcher, who is already pushing himself up, still sore, still healing. I slide the cut over his shoulders. “You didn’t hesitate lookin’ death in the eyes to save the woman I love,” I tell him. “You bled for her, for the club. You’ve earned this.”
Catcher stands tall, swallowing hard.
I pull him in for a hug, clapping him on the back. “Thank you, brother.”
The yard erupts with cheers, chanting “Catcher,” and bottles banging against the table’s surface.
Catcher wipes a hand over his face, brushing away the emotion.
But we all see it.
We all feel it.
Family ain’t just blood.
Sometimes, it’s the man who nearly dies protecting what you love most.
It’s the ones who bleed for the club.
The brother who rides and dies beside you.
That man is…
Kings of Retribution.
