Page 87 of Monk

The smell hit me first.

Smoke and charcoal and roasting meat rolled through the open truck windows the second I pulled into the Diamondback clubhouse compound, rich and savory enough to make my stomach tighten with sudden hunger. I eased the truck into a spot near the edge of the lot and killed the engine, then just sat there for half a second with my hands still on the wheel, taking it all in. The place looked like something out of another life—one I’d once brushed up against without ever truly stepping into. Loud. Rowdy. Full of movement. Full of people who knew exactly where they belonged.

The barbecue was in full swing. A massive pig turned slowly on a spit over an open fire pit, its skin crackling and golden, fat dripping into the flames below with sharp little hisses. Several grills were scattered across the yard, manned by brothers in cuts and faded jeans, flipping steaks and burgers and hot dogs with easy, practiced movements. Long tables had been set up in the shade of the clubhouse, covered with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and loaded down with food—potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, corn on the cob, baskets of rolls still wrapped in dish towels to keep them warm. At the far end, a dessert table groaned beneath pies, cakes, cookies, and brownies stacked in generous homemade rows.

Children darted through the yard in wild zigzags, their laughter high and sharp and contagious, weaving between clusters of adults like they owned the place. Brothers stood in loose groups with beers in hand, talking and laughing and shoving each other with the easy physical affection of men who trusted one another with their lives. Women moved between the tables with paper plates and serving spoons, refilling dishes, wiping down spills, checking on kids, talking over each other in the casual rhythm of people used to doing life together.

It was chaos. Beautiful, warm, living chaos. The kind that should have overwhelmed me. Instead, sitting there with the sun on my skin and smoke in the air, it felt strangely inviting.

I climbed out of the truck and moved around to the passenger side, opening the door for Dad. The late morning heat wrapped around me immediately, and somewhere to my left somebody whooped loud enough to make half the yard laugh.

“Ready?” I asked.

He grinned like a man heading to a county fair instead of a biker clubhouse. “Hell yes.”

I unfolded the wheelchair, locked it into place, and helped him transfer carefully from the seat into it. Once he was settled, I adjusted the footrests and tucked the truck keys into my back pocket before starting toward the gathering, the gravel crunching beneath the wheels. We had barely made it ten feet when a familiar voice boomed across the yard.

“David!”

I looked up to see Blackjack striding toward us with a grin broad enough to split his face. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his cut hanging open over a black T-shirt stretched across a solid chest, dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail. He moved with effortless swagger—the kind that said he was comfortable in his own skin and equally comfortable taking over whatever situation he stepped into.

“Blackjack,” Dad said, his whole face lighting up with genuine pleasure. Before I could fully process that, Blackjack reached us and gently—but very firmly—nudged me aside with his hip. “I got him, Lina,” he said, already reaching for the handles, his tone easy but not remotely open to debate.

Before I could protest, he had full control of the wheelchair, those big hands of his settling over the grips like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“David doesn’t want to stand around chatting with the ladies,” Blackjack said, glancing down at my father with a conspiratorial grin. “Ain’t that right?”

Dad barked out a laugh and slapped his palm up for a high-five. Blackjack met it with a crack that turned half the nearby heads, and then the two of them were off—Blackjack steering him toward a knot of brothers near the fire pit while Dad looked entirely too pleased with himself.

I stood there blinking, my hands still hovering in midair where the wheelchair handles had been a second earlier.

What just happened?

“Lina!”

I turned to see Kansas walking toward me with a beer in one hand and an easy smile on his face. He was tall and lean, his presence commanding even in the middle of all that relaxed chaos. His cut sat perfectly over a plain white T-shirt, his faded jeans worn in all the right places, and there was something about the calm way he carried himself that made it obvious why men followed him. He looked every inch the president—steady, watchful, entirely in control.

“Kansas,” I said, smiling back despite myself.

“Glad you made it,” he said, stopping in front of me. “How’s the farm holding up?”

“Surviving,” I said lightly. “Barely, but surviving.”

Kansas chuckled under his breath and took a sip of his beer. “Monk’s working on that,” he said.

My chest tightened at the mention of John’s name.

Monk.I still wasn’t used to hearing other people call him that. To me he was still John—my John, if I was being dangerously honest with myself. “He is,” I said quietly.

Kansas studied me for a beat, and something in his expression softened. “He’s a good man, Lina,” he said. “I know he’s got his demons. Hell, we all do. But he’s a good man.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to say much of anything, and Kansas gestured toward the tables with the neck of his beer bottle. “Your girl’s over there,” he said. “Near the dessert table. Can’t miss her.”

I followed his gaze and felt my breath catch.

There, near the tables, John stood with Tatum perched on his shoulders like she’d been riding there her whole life. Her little legs dangled on either side of his neck, pink sneakers bumping lightly against his chest, her fingers tangled in his hair for balance. She had a cookie in each hand—one chocolate chip, one oatmeal raisin—and she was grinning so hard her cheeks had gone pink. John had one hand resting over one of her calves, casually steadying her while he talked to a young woman standing beside him.

She was petite and pretty, with long dark hair pulled into a ponytail and an animated face that seemed built for big emotions. She wore jeans and a simple tank top and talked with her hands, gestures flying in every direction like she couldn’t possibly keep all her excitement inside her body. She looked comfortable with him. Familiar.