The Bartender's Kutte

I poured Lurch his whiskey for five years and warmed his bed for three. The night he walked into my bar with another woman's name on his patch, I told him I was pregnant. He asked me who the father was — in front of her, in front of his brothers. I finished my shift. I closed the register. I moved to Monterey. Five years later, his mother finds me at the restaurant where I wait tables and tells me he's dead. His will names me. Names my son. So I'm driving back to that clubhouse with my boy in the truck and one goal: sign the papers, take what's ours, and leave the Copper Hounds behind for good. What I didn't count on is Mandy — the woman whose patch he chose — sitting in the president's chair now, waiting for me. She has something to say. So do I. Neither of us is going to say what she came for.