**CHAPTER 14** **CHOOSING**
The sun was a bleeding yolk over the desert when Sadie stepped onto the clubhouse porch, boots planted wide, hair whipping like a war-banner. Three weeks had passed since Coyote Pass—since gun-smoke and sunrise, since she’d chosen to stay—and the air still tasted of burnt powder and new beginnings. Today she would make that choice *explicit*. No more loose ends. No more ghost-breath on the back of her neck. No more *almost*.
Behind her the common room hummed—propects stringing chili-pepper lights, Luna stacking cases of Shiner Bock in iced tubs, prospects balancing sheet-cake the size of a hog on a plywood table scrawled **KINGS & QUEENS CELEBRATION** in red icing. Word had spread: the club threw a public claiming party—formal acknowledgement that the president’s old lady had taken her throne and wasn’t vacating it. Tonight the cut that read **PROPERTY OF JACE** would be lashed to her shoulders in front of every charter, every ally, every enemy curious enough to drive into the wasteland and stare. Tonight she would *declare*.
She flexed her fingers, feeling the ache of healing knuckles—hairline fracture from pistol-butting a cartel watcher two nights prior. The bastard had slipped onto club property, pretending to be a lost hiker; she’d recognized the lion-head tattoo on his wrist—Victor’s old mark—and reacted before Jace cleared leather. Bone cracked. Blood dotted sand. She’d stared down patched killers afterward, daring anyone to say she’d over-stepped. Nobody had. *First Lady duties*, Brick had grunted, *include door-knocking ferals*.
Jace appeared at her side, silent as dusk, sliding a lukewarm Coke into her grip. “You steadied?” he asked, voice pitched for her ears only. “Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” she admitted, popping the tab, sipping acid-sweet. “Normal. Whole family’s out there. Half of ’em just wanna see if you’ll bolt mid-ceremony.” She side-eyed him. “You *want* me to bolt?” His grin was slow, wicked. “Want you exactly where you stand. But I’ll chase if you run—fair warning.” “Not running,” she murmured. “Not ever again.” He nodded, satisfied, and slung an arm across her shoulders—casual to strangers, anchor to her. Together they watched pick-up trucks kick rooster-tails of dust down access road—charter flags flapping from antennas: Farmington, Kingman, Needles, even a Colorado splinter group that rarely left mountains. Bikes idled like predators, chrome winking molten. The desert itself seemed to gather witness.
– – –
Inside, Luna commandeered kitchen: tamales steaming in hundred-count batches, cast iron skillets sizzling with fajita mix, peach cobbler bubbling under foil. Prospects moved like frantic ants, stringing fairy-lights from rafters, pinning papel picado banners that fluttered whenever the swamp cooler exhaled. Sadie’s sketch of Jace—charcoal on butcher paper—had been tacked above the bar, framed incongruously in rodeo-trophy pine. Brothers kept tipping imaginary hats toward it, a silent benediction. Respect, earned not purchased.
Sage balanced beer cases, catching Sadie’s eye. “You sure you want *this* public? Every camera tonight’s a bull’s-eye on your back.” Sadie exhaled. “Victor already knows where I am. Let him see I’m not hiding behind Jace—I’m standing *beside* him. Different optics.” Sage conceded with tilted bottle. “Optics kill, but they also shield. Just… don’t drink enough to forget reflexes.” “Not a drop,” Sadie promised. Alcohol and adrenaline were a cocktail she’d sworn off since Coyote Pass—clear eyes, steady hands, loaded gun. She needed to remember every second.
– – –
Guests arrived in waves—leather and perfume, gun-oil and lilac. Children darted between legs clutch sparklers; prospects babysat with reluctant horror. Old ladies set casseroles on picnic tables, competitive as county fair. Ryder arrived wearing a tuxedo T-shirt and riding chaps, claiming formal meant personality. Brick had polished his skull-ring walking stick; it clicked across concrete like an executioner’s cadence.
Sadie circulated, accepting back-slaps and cheek-kisses, Spanish blessings and rough blessings alike. Her pulse steadied with each contact—community wrapping around her, chain-mail of shared breath. She caught sight of Maria near citrus tub, ankle still boot-braced, handing out tamales wrapped in foil. Their eyes met—silent acknowledgment of hospitals and gun-smoke. Maria mouthed *proud*, Sadie mouthed *alive*, both smiled through scars.
– – –
dusk bled vermillion. Torches flared along courtyard perimeter—five-gallon cans of kerosene stuffed in braziers, flames clawing sky. Music switched to live mariachi—two cousins from Douglas, trumpets bright enough to slice smoke. The crowd funneled toward the impromptu stage (flat-bed trailer ringed with hay bales and tiki-torches). Ceremony time.
Sadie’s breath shortened when Jace clasped her elbow, guiding forward. The cut waited on a cedar stand, newly stitched crimson on black:
> IRON KINGS MC > **PROPERTY OF JACE** > EST. 2024
Some clubs relegated old-lady patches to denim jackets; Kings stamped property on full leather—same weight as prospect rockers. Wearing it meant every cop, rival, or employer who saw you knew exactly who owned your damage—and who would avenge it.
Sadie had spent two weeks deciding whether the word *PROPERTY* tasted like collar or crown. She’d chosen crown—*chosen* being operative. Tonight she’d wear it publicly, joyfully.
Brick called order with whistle-shriek. Conversations dimmed, faces turned. Even Bear—pale but upright on barstool—raised a beer in salute.
Jace spoke first, voice carrying without effort:
“Brothers, sisters, blood, and kin—we’re here to claim what’s already ours by deed. Sadie Holbrook stood in fire with us, bled with us, fed us ledgers and tamales in equal measure. By patch-law she’s earned colors. By heart-law she’s earned *me*.”
Low whistles, Spanish cheers.
He continued: “Some say old-lady is lesser patch. Bullshit. Old-lady is *first* patch. The one we protect first, avenge last, love hardest. Kings don’t hide our women—we *brand* them so world knows hands off.”
He pivoted to her, eyes storm-bright. “Sadie girl, you stand here of your own will?”
She lifted chin. “I stand. I stay. I choose.”
The crowd erupted—boots stomping dust clouds.
He lifted the leather, spread it shoulders-wide. “Then wear me.”
She turned, shrugged out of flannel, stood in white tank and faded jeans while he settled cut across her back—weight sudden, perfect, indelible. Brothers roared. The mariachi struck triumphant chord. Someone fired a pistol into sky—desert echo like punctuation.
She faced them, arms overhead, fists balled around fabric. “For Bear, for Maria, for every mile we rode through hell—*I’m home*!”
The courtyard *detonated*—cheers, horns, engines revving like war drums. It went on long enough her ears rang. When noise ebbed, Jace tugged her close, kiss tasting of salt and wind and promise. The cut felt like thoracic armor—stone across shoulder-blades, wings across heart.
– – –
THE CELEBRATION
Beer flowed in rivers. Tex-Mex vanished faster than it appeared. Raffles of club merch—leather vests, engraved Zippo sets, a hand-forged Bowie knife—raised funds for Bear’s rehab. Kids chased piñatas shaped like cartel sedans, whacking candy corpses with plastic bats while parents drank. Sadie lost count of cheek-kisses—rough beards, soft abuelas, children sticky-faced. She danced mariachi twirls until boots ached, laughed at Ryder’s dirty limericks, accepted shots of reposado she pretended to sip then poured into kerosene braziers when no one looked. Every breath tasted of *recognized, claimed, defended*.
Later, near midnight, the music down-shifted to slow steel-guitar. Torches burned lower, conversations hushed. Sitting on hay-bale throne, Sadie caught sight of Jace across the yard—deep in hushed conference with two strangers wearing polo shirts and tactical watches. The men didn’t smile; they exuded federal blandness. Her stomach tightened.
She threaded through bodies, arrived as older agent slid a business card across picnic table. “Rodriguez, DEA El Paso,” he said mildly. “Just a courtesy—cartel blow-back concerns. We’d like Ms. Holbrook to consider protective dialogue.”
Jace’s smile could cut wire. “My wife’s protection already contracted.” “Wearing colors doesn’t beat witness-tamper statutes,” Rodriguez replied. “Nor does vigilantism bulletproof her from retaliation.”
Sadie stepped between, voice steel-sweet. “Agent, I handed you twenty-three million in ledgers. That buy me a little faith I can spot retaliation before you file paperwork?”
Rodriguez’s eyes flicked to her cut, to the .38 holstered openly on her belt, recognition dawning. “Fair. Still—Feds can relocate—”
“Fed relocation almost buried me twice,” she cut in. “I’m safer behind Kings than behind bureaucracy. But we’ll call if bullets outrun bikes.”
The agents left with polite warnings, swallowed by night. Jace exhaled slow. “Could’ve played nicer.”
“I’m done pretending nice keeps me breathing.”
– – –
HEAT AND HOPE
The moon hung low, orange from torch-smoke, by the time Jace led her inside, through kitchen, down narrow hall to his office. He locked the door, leaned back, eyes roaming the cut on her shoulders like he still couldn’t believe it.
“See something you like?” she teased, pulse thrumming. “See everything I need.” He closed distance, hands skimming leather to skin beneath. “You smell like mesquite and revolution.” “Best perfume I own.”
He kissed her—slow at first, reverent, then hungry, devouring the night’s adrenaline. She answered with equal greed, fingers tugging his tee over head, tracing scars she could draw blind. When he lifted her onto desk, papers scattering, she wrapped legs around hips, feeling him hard through denim.
“Want you,” he growled against throat. “Want this life we’re carving.” “Then take me—*all* of me.”
Clothes fell away—belt buckles clinking like spurs, boots thudding. He tasted salt on her collarbone where torch-smoke clung. She arched when he sucked the delicate skin under PROPERTY stitching, claiming the flesh the patch announced. When he entered her—desk edge biting bare thighs—she cried out, not from pain but proof—alive, chosen, *his* and *hers*.
They moved like pistons—hard, necessary, smoky breath mingling. Release hit blinding—her first, him following with guttural growl against her neck. For long moments they stayed locked—pulse hammering sync.
After, he carried her to small shower, washed dust and gun-oil from her hair while she dozed against tile. Wrapped in towels, they returned to office couch, limbs tangled, hearts steadying. Cut hung on chair-back—wet spot drying to testament.
She traced the PROPERTY letters lazily. “Feels like armor. And wings.” “You earned both,” he murmured. “And more.”
They dozed—until distant ringtone jolted them awake. Pre- paid cell—unknown number. She answered, cautious.
Voice filtered, distorted: synthetic syrup. “Mrs. Valdez—sorry, *Mrs. Chandler* now—congratulations on your nuptials. Such pretty footage online. Fireworks spectacular.”
Ice flooded veins. Only one man alive called her *Mrs. Valdez* with that venomous affection.
Victor.
Her grip whitened on phone. “Thought federal cages muted rabid dogs.” He chuckled. “Max-security still allows phone privileges—for men with resources. Heard you wore my family’s blood to your wedding. Touching. But the party’s not over—just relocated. You’ll receive invitation soon. *Dress code: mourning.*”
Line went dead.
She stared at Jace, eyes wide. “Victor,” she whispered. “He’s still reaching.”
Jace’s face hardened to stone. “Let him. We’re done running. Next invitation we send—*RSVP engraved on bullet.*”
Outside, celebration music swelled, unaware the last shadow had stirred. Inside, two sovereign hearts beat identical resolve—choice made, claim worn, war unfinished.
Tomorrow they’d load fresh magazines. Tonight they held each other—leather and skin, promise and power—choosing again, and again, until desert echoed only one name: *home*.