#cole 002.

"Where's Cole?" Lydia stormed into the clubhouse, her appearance disheveled and her eyes bleary with worry, scanning the room urgently for any sign of the Son's president. It was an all-hands-on-deck situation now; she had reluctantly granted Will permission to enlist the club's help, her inner turmoil and chagrin notwithstanding. But with Landon's fate hanging in the balance, she was willing to swallow her pride and do whatever it took to bring him back safely. A member pointed towards the back room, the same one where she had met Cole months ago to deliver some belongings from Cassie's place. Their last encounter had left things on a tense note, but Lydia's desperation outweighed any lingering resentment. With a determined nod, she made her way towards the back, not bothering to knock as she crossed the threshold.

"I got a phone call," she began, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and urgency. With hands shaking, she unlocked her phone, her fingers moving swiftly to access an application. "Less than an hour ago, from a blocked number—they want money, they want..." Lydia's voice trailed off as she swallowed hard, handing her phone over to Cole. "I recorded the whole thing. I don't... I sent it over to the police station," she explained, her words rushed and frantic. "They're working on it, but they said it could take days to locate the call and..." She shook her head, her gaze pleading as she looked up at the blonde. "...I didn't know who else to go to." Nate was god knows where, so she needed the next best thing-- and that was Cole.

He sat in his car for a good ten minutes before finally building up the courage to head over to Cole's door. Seven years sober, he'd almost forgotten how intense the cravings could get, especially when most of his days passed by without a single thought dedicated to his former vices. That wasn't to say he never felt the sting of addiction haunting him on the odd day, perhaps if he saw something that reminded him of Hannah or even something as simple as a hard evening at work. However, considering that his deepest shame had just been announced to the masses, it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise -- he felt desperate to use again.

"Hey." Malcolm greeted the other male, unable to meet his gaze as he entered. "I'm -- I'm sorry to put you out or whatever. I don't even..." Brows knitted together, shaking his head. "I know I should have a sponsor to deal with this shit, I've just -- I thought I was doing better, thought maybe I could be okay without one right now, but...this shit is messin' with me."

Mac was exhausted, physically and mentally. The death of Dean, Serkan and the prospect had shaken the Sons to their core, their emotions most likely echoing those of Los B after the incident at the gala. He’d been spending most of his time looking after his mother, who was taking the death of her brother-in-law incredibly hard, and his sister who -- though she pretended she was okay -- was struggling more than she’d like to let out. That left Mac to pick up the pieces, keeping himself busy taking care of those he cared about. Crumbling into his own grief wasn’t an option, so he was coping the only he way he knew how -- which was to not.

The memorial put together for the fallen members had been nice, all things considered. Plenty of booze and nice words to go around, but for Mac it all just felt so hollow. While he appreciated the condolences tossed his way, all he could really feel was pissed off. 

After most of the clubhouse had been cleared out, Mac lingered out back hoping to get a moment of peace. A cigarette hanging lazily from his lips, he removed his suit jacket and let it hang over the back of the bench he was perched on. “Holy fuck...” he exhaled then, grabbing the cigarette with his pointer and middle finger and tapping the ash onto the concrete. For a moment, he almost let his emotions catch up to him -- that is, until he heard the back door open. “If you’re comin’ out to check on me, there better be some booze in your hands,” the male said wryly, not bothering to look back to see who it was.