Chapter 23 : Church of Doubt
[SAMCRO Clubhouse — June 7, 2008, 6:45 PM]
The chapel doors were closed.
I stood outside with the other prospects—Half-Sack, a Nomad hanger-on, two support guys who weren't going anywhere. We waited while inside, men decided whether Opie Winston would live or die.
"What do you think they're talking about?" Half-Sack's voice was low, nervous.
"Club business."
"Yeah, but what kind? Opie looked like a dead man walking when he went in."
Because he might be.
"I don't know," I lied. "We'll find out when they're done."
The raised voices were audible through the heavy doors—not words, just tones. Bobby's steady cadence. Clay's sharp responses. Tig's angry interjections. Someone's fist hitting the table.
I paced. Smoked. Paced more.
The minutes stretched into an hour. Then two.
Half-Sack gave up around the ninety-minute mark, wandering off to restock the bar. The Nomad started playing cards with one of the support guys. I kept pacing.
This is it. Everything I've worked for comes down to what happens in that room.
I thought about the croweater who'd fallen at the party—my first real test in this world, the moment that established my competence under pressure. That felt like a lifetime ago. Different stakes, different scale.
I thought about the Nord fight in the TM parking lot. About the gun run to Lodi. About Sarah's honest eyes across a coffee shop table.
All of it building to this moment. A vote I couldn't participate in, couldn't even witness.
The price of being a prospect.
The chapel doors opened.
---
Bobby emerged first.
His face was grim, unreadable. He scanned the room, found me near the wall, and walked over without speaking.
"Well?"
"Not guilty by vote." His voice was low, meant only for me. "But Clay's not convinced. He's watching Opie."
Relief flooded through me—partial, incomplete, but real.
"What swayed them?"
"I did. Some of your research." Bobby's eyes narrowed. "And Opie's record. Twenty-five years of loyalty is hard to argue against, even with evidence."
"But Clay—"
"Clay wanted mayhem." The word hung heavy between us. "He was outvoted. Jax, me, Chibs, even Piney went against. Tig backed Clay, obviously. So did a couple others."
Mayhem. The club's death sentence.
"But they didn't get it."
"Not today." Bobby's expression was still grim. "But Clay doesn't forget. And he doesn't forgive. Opie won the vote, but he lost Clay's trust forever."
Better than losing his life. Better than Donna losing hers.
"What happens now?"
"Opie stays. Keeps his patch. But he's under a microscope—any hint of contact with feds, any suspicious behavior, and the vote gets revisited." Bobby leaned closer. "And Cole? Clay knows you pushed this. Your research, your questions. He doesn't know how much, but he knows."
My stomach tightened. "What does that mean?"
"It means watch your back." Bobby straightened. "You did good work. But good work has consequences in this club."
He walked away.
---
Other members filtered out of chapel.
Jax looked exhausted, drained by the fight he'd just had. Chibs nodded at me as he passed—brief acknowledgment, nothing more. Tig walked past without a glance, radiating frustrated violence.
Then Clay.
The president stopped three feet away. His eyes fixed on mine, cold and calculating.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
I held his gaze. Didn't look away, didn't apologize, didn't try to explain. Whatever he was thinking, whatever suspicions he was forming, there was nothing I could say that would help.
He walked away without a word.
The message was clear: I know what you did. I'm watching.
Half-Sack appeared at my shoulder. "What was that about?"
"Nothing good."
---
[TM Back Lot — 9:00 PM]
My hands shook as I lit the cigarette.
Opie had survived the vote. The immediate death order was off the table. But nothing was actually resolved—Clay still wanted him gone, Stahl was still out there, and the underlying dynamics that led to Donna's death in the original timeline were still in play.
One battle won. War continues.
I inhaled, let the smoke fill my lungs, exhaled slowly.
The night was quiet around me. Charming sleeping while its criminals made decisions about life and death. Normal people in normal beds, unaware of the vote that had just been taken, the woman who might have died, the butterfly effects rippling out from a prospect's interference.
You changed something. Maybe enough. Maybe not.
The chapel doors opened again. Opie emerged, alone.
His face showed nothing—the same stone expression he'd worn going in. But something had shifted in his posture. Not relief exactly. More like resigned exhaustion.
He walked toward his bike without looking at anyone.
"Opie."
He paused, turned. Found me standing in the shadows.
"What?"
"I'm glad it worked out."
He stared at me for a long moment. Trying to read what was behind my words, what I knew and how I knew it.
"Yeah," he said finally. "Me too."
He climbed on his bike, kicked the engine to life, and rode away.
Going home to Donna. Alive, for now.
I watched his taillights disappear into the darkness, already calculating the next steps.
Clay's still out there. Tig's still out there. And Stahl won't stop just because one play failed.
The war wasn't over. It was just beginning.
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