The biker looked over his shoulder at the patch.

“My father gave me this vest.”

The older man’s expression changed.

“Your father?”

The bar door opened.

Three older men stepped inside from the rain.

Every biker in the room went quiet.

One of them saw the patch and stopped.

“Arthur…”

The biker looked between them.

“You know this old man?”

The newcomer answered quietly.

“He founded this club.”

The biker gave a nervous laugh.

“That’s impossible.”

Arthur stepped closer.

“Rex Dalton was my son.”

The biker froze.

“My father’s name was Rex Dalton.”

Arthur’s eyes sharpened.

“What?”

“He raised me.”

The older men exchanged stunned looks.

Arthur’s voice cracked for the first time.

“My son disappeared thirty years ago.”

The biker shook his head.

“He told me his family was dead.”

Arthur slowly pulled an old photograph from his wallet.

A young man stood beside a motorcycle.

The same eyes.

The same jaw.

The same patch.

The biker stopped breathing.

“That’s him.”

Arthur looked at him.

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Elaine.”

Arthur nearly dropped the photograph.

One of the men whispered,

“My God.”

The biker stepped closer.

“What?”

Arthur turned the photo over.

Written on the back were five words:

Meet your grandson someday, Dad.

The biker’s eyes filled.

“No…”

Arthur looked at the man who had just mocked him.

Then at the name stitched across his back.

“You didn’t steal my son’s name.”

His voice broke.

“You inherited it.”

The biker slowly sat down.

All the arrogance disappeared.

Arthur placed a trembling hand on his shoulder.

“I came here thinking someone was pretending to be Rex Dalton.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I found the son he never brought home.”