Brick had lived a hard life. He had ridden alongside legendary club figures, enduring the grittiest eras of outlaw motorcycle history, earning his revered death head patch through decades of absolute unwavering loyalty to his brothers. But beneath the hardened, violent exterior of the biker outlaw was a man who fiercely loved his family.
Toby was the apple of Brick's eye, a smart, gentle kid who represented the innocence Brick had lost a long time ago. When Sarah's frantic, tearful phone call came through, Brick was at the clubhouse sharing a beer with a few patched members. The moment he heard his sister crying, the atmosphere in the room shifted. The raucous laughter died down. 20 minutes later, the deep guttural rumble of a Harley-Davidson pan head echoed through Sarah's quiet suburban street.
Brick walked into the house, his heavy leather cut smelling of motor oil, tobacco, and rain. He didn't say a word as he walked into the living room and knelt beside the couch where Toby was resting, with an ice pack pressed to his ribs. The giant biker gently moved the ice pack aside, examining the dark, vicious bruising on his nephew's pale skin. Brick's jaw tightened. The veins in his thick neck bulged, but his voice remained eerily calm and quiet, a deadly contrast to his intimidating presence.
"Who did this, Toby?" Brick asked softly.
Toby was terrified. He knew about his uncle's life. He knew what the winged skull on Brick's leather vest represented. "Uncle Brick, please. You can't. His dad is rich. The school protects him. If you do something, I'll be the one who pays for it when you leave."
Brick placed a massive calloused hand on Toby's shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. "Nobody is going to hurt you ever again, kid. I give you my word as a man, but I need a name."