Page 50 of Switch

As I reach for my cut, I glance back at her—messy hair, tangled sheets, that lazy smirk still playing on her lips.

“Lock the door behind me,” I tell her. “And make sure you pick up when I call.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, Dad.”

I smirk. “Careful, baby. Don’t tempt me.”

She grabs the nearest pillow and chucks it at me. I dodge it easily, laughing as I sling my cut over my shoulders.

One last look at her, and I already know—I’m coming right back here the second I’m done.

I roll up to the clubhouse, and right away, I know something’s off.

All my brothers are outside, standing around in tight clusters, talking low, faces hard. This ain’t just hanging out—this isbad.

The second I kill my engine, I’m off my bike, striding toward them. No one has to say shit. I can feel it in the air.

Then I see it.

"Pussy Whipped." "Traitors." Other bullshit sprayed across our clubhouse walls in thick, ugly letters.

Windows smashed. Glass and beer bottles littering the ground. I push through the guys and step inside Perdition, my boots crunching over broken glass. The place iswrecked. Stools flipped, liquor spilled everywhere, the bar top covered in shards from busted bottles.

This ain’t just vandalism. This was a message.

A muscle ticks in my jaw as I turn back to the group. Blade’s standing with his arms crossed, looking ready to rip someone’s throat out. Piston’s pacing like a caged animal and Tank just stares at the mess, his whole body wound tight. Rev kicks at a broken bottle, shaking his head.

Then I hear it—the low rumble of bikes pulling in.

Mason and Dagger roll up, engines cutting off at the same time.

The second Mason steps off his bike, the whole yard goes dead quiet. Every brother stills, eyes on him.

He doesn’t say a word at first. Just walks up slowly, taking in the damage. The busted-out windows, the spray paint, thewreckage inside. His hands flex at his sides, but his face stays cold, unreadable.

Dagger stands beside him, arms loose but his stance sharp. His eyes flick over the words on the wall, then to Mason.

Mason exhales hard through his nose, like he’s keeping himself from tearing something apart. Then he turns to us, voice like gravel.

"Who the fuck did this?"

No one says it, but we don’t have to. Mason knows.We all fucking know.The ones who walked away. Butch and his little band of bitter old bastards who couldn't handle the club moving forward. The ones who thought they could do better, who thought they could run therealIron Reapers, like this club ain't been evolving since day one.

I grind my teeth, fists clenching at my sides.

Piston lets out a low laugh, dark and humorless. “Well, guess we don’t gotta wonder how they feel about us anymore.”

Rev shakes his head, still glaring at the graffiti. “Motherfuckers got some balls, I’ll give ‘em that.”

Blade steps forward, arms crossed. “So what’s the play, Prez?” His voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge to it. He’s ready to ride, ready to crack skulls. We all are.

Mason looks around at all of us, at the rage brewing just under the surface. His gaze drags back over the clubhouse, overourhome, marked up like we’re some fucking joke. Then he lets out a slow breath and rubs his beard.

“They think we’re weak.” His voice is steady, but it carries enough weight to silence everyone.

“They think ‘cause we’re taking the club in a new direction, we ain’t got the stomach to do what needs to be done.” His eyes flick to each of us, sharp, assessing. “They think they can fuck with us and walk away.” A beat of silence. Then Mason turns,faces the damage straight on, and spits on the ground. “They’re dead fucking wrong.”

A murmur of agreement rolls through the group. Low, dangerous. The kind of sound that means shit’s about togo down.

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