Page 57 of Faultlines

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

After another round of handshakes, Finn excuses himself and heads toward a table near the far side of the room.

Reid watches him go, taking a thoughtful sip of his beer. “I can see why people trust him.”

“Yeah,” Jensen agrees, leaning back in his chair. “Good guy.”

The conversation drifts toward work. Reid ardently describes a detail of the sustainable development project Mercer Development proposed. Jensen listens intently, asking thoughtful questions. I’m only listening with half an ear.

A few minutes later, a deep rumble rolls through the windows, vibrating the glass and making the beer bottles on the table subtly tremble. The sound grows louder with each passing second. Several people glance toward the entrance, their conversations dying down.

“What—is—that?” Reid asks, his voice raised over the growing din.

Before anyone can answer, the unmistakable roar of what I assume are motorcycles come from the parking lot, vibrating through the floorboards. I cast a look toward the front windows, where the evening light, reflects off polished chrome.

“That’s an impressive line-up of Harleys,” Jensen says, his voice a little lost beneath the rumble.

The engines continue for several seconds, a guttural symphony of power, before shutting off one after another, leaving a sudden, almost jarring silence in their wake.

A gust of air sweeps in as the front door opens with a creak. A man well over six and a half feet tall steps inside, his silhouette framed against the fading sun. He’s broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with a shaved head and a presence that seems to absorb the room’s chatter. Tattoos climb his neck from beneath a dark T-shirt.

I’d heard enough contractors throw around motorcycle club lingo over the years to know his worn leather vest is called a kutte. It crackles as he moves, the back emblazoned with Black Tide. My eyes catch the other patches: a small diamond-shaped 1% patch, the name “Titan” stitched above the pocket, and a rectangular “President” patch directly below his name.

A woman at the bar stops mid-laugh, her hand frozen on her glass. The bartender’s rag pauses against the counter. Someone’s chair scrapes faintly as they turn, and the low murmur of conversation dims like a dial being turned down. Scanning the room, the man’s gaze piercing, he spots Finn, and his entire expression softens.

A wide grin spreads across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Little brother,” a deep, gravelly voice says, cutting through the hushed air.

Finn stands, knocking his chair back a few inches with a scrape. The two men meet halfway across the room and pull each other into a rough embrace. The big biker claps Finn on the shoulder, the sound a solid thwack.

“Sorry I’m late. Had to make a stop.”

“To pick up half a county of bikers on your way?” Finn asks with a playful note in his voice.

His brother glances toward the windows, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “Only five in total.”

“Only five?”

A wry smile touching his lips. “I’ve heard smaller armies.”

His brother laughs, a sound deep enough to carry across the room, rich and unrestrained.

The door swings open again, and more men step inside. Their identical club kuttes shift and creak with each movement, announcing their presence before they say a word. Unlike their apparent leader, they don’t approach Finn directly. Instead, they exchange greetings with a few nods before claiming a nearby table, their movements efficient. My gaze catches their names and titles stitched onto their kuttes: Warden—Vice President, Forge—Treasurer, Helios—Road Captain, and Ares—Sergeant-at-Arms; not sure what any of it means.

Finn’s brother sits across from him, his bulk filling the space.

From across the room, Reid watches the interaction with keen interest, a thoughtful frown on his face. “Must be the brother.” Reid says, his voice low.

Jensen nods in agreement. “Must be.”

The contrast between the two men is stark even in the pub’s subdued lighting.

“I didn’t see that coming,” I say, surprise in my tone.

Finn looks every bit the professional doctor, clean-cut, and a little nerdy with his shirt neatly pressed.

His brother is the kind of man who makes a room feel smaller just by existing in it, not threatening exactly, just a fact of physics that everyone around him quietly adjusts to.

Yet the resemblance is there once you know to look for it. They have the same greenish eyes when they smile, and the same curve of the mouth. Across the room, Finn says something that makes his brother throw back his head and laugh, a booming sound that cuts through the pub’s murmur.