Beast (MC Fables #1)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

B EAST

I steer my Harley toward the clubhouse.

It's the old castle ruins on the hill that overlooks St. Boniface.

It's raining now and I'm soaking wet. But after my encounter with Gaston in town, I needed to ride off my anger and fury.

Thirty minutes late, I pull into the garage beneath the clubhouse, which used to be a boat slip, and find Lars waiting for me. He greets me as I climb off my bike.

“Trust you to be late to your own goddamn inauguration celebration,” he says.

I’ve known Lars since we were kids. Basically we’re Ying and Yang. I’m a grumpy asshole with no patience, while he tends to find enjoyment in everything.

“They’ll wait,” I reply. I’m not one for parties and the idea of my inauguration has been a thorn in my side for weeks.

“An inauguration celebration is a big deal, Beast.”

“For everyone else,” I grumble.

I’m not big on being the center of attention. But tonight I will be the focus of every man and woman in the room, because I am officially accepting my role as president of the club.

In Knights’ tradition, when one president dies, his heir it is expected to step into the role. Three months ago, my father, Dodger, was the reigning President of The Knights of St. Boniface until he mysteriously vanished.

An investigation into his disappearance by both law enforcement and the club turned up nothing, until his bike was found at the base of the cliffs that run the length of St. Boniface a few weeks after he disappeared.

Two days later, his Knights cut washed ashore.

But there’s been nothing since.

It’s like he’s fallen off the fucking face of the Earth.

The police theorized he ran off the road and went over the cliff, and his body was washed out to sea. There was a three-day sea and air search, but his body has never been found.

In his absence, I stepped into the role as acting president. Then three days ago, I was officially announced as the new president of the Knights.

Much to my younger half-brother’s disgust.

He challenged my role. Said he was Dodger’s choice for president. But my brother didn’t receive the support of the club and he’s been sulking ever since.

I’m ready to be president. I was born for it. This club is in my veins and I will bleed for it every single day to ensure it survives anything that threatens it.

Like the Unhinged Psychos, a rival club from Bracken’s Lot, over in Cheskabord County.

“Someone’s in a bad mood,” Lars drawls as we hastily make our way up the massive cobblestone stairwell leading inside the castle ruins.

“I’m always in a fucking bad mood,” I remind him.

“True. But more so than usual. You know, we’re going to a party and not a goddamn funeral.”

“I ran into Gaston in town. He was trying to shake down an old man and his niece.”

Lars pulls a face. He can't stand Gaston. Not many people can. “Why the fuck don't we throw that fuckwit out of the club? He's bad news, Beast. You know it and I know it. Fuck, even Gaston knows it.”

“And you know the reason why I can't.”

Like a lot of the men in the club, he needs time to adjust to Dodger’s disappearance.

“Forgive me if I don't share your confidence in the little cunt.”

“I know he is walking a thin line,” I reassure him.

“Yeah, and as prez, it's up to you to make an example out of those who don’t work within the laws of our club.”

Lars is right, but I need to take my time. I need to consider how to handle Gaston and any other club brother who might test my patience and boundaries.

But tonight is not the night.

Tonight is for officially dedicating my life to my club as their president.

I rip open the door leading into the clubhouse. “Come on. Let’s get this the fuck over with.”

The moment I step into the clubhouse bar, it erupts with the sound of men cheering and banging their palms on the tables and bar top. Every man who wears a Knights of St. Boniface cut is in the room celebrating my official inauguration as president.

“At last you fucking show up to your own inauguration,” Viking says as he shoves a beer into my hand. He’s Lars’s father and the club VP.

I take the beer. “Come on, let’s get the official bullshit out of the way and then let's party.”

A calmness settles over the room as I walk down a long, carpeted aisle and take my place in an enormous wing-backed chair sitting at the far end of the room. It’s a massive chair, leather bound and gilded.

Priest, one of the seven legacy members, appears in front of me holding the medieval longsword affectionally nicknamed the Sabre Tooth.

Usually the antique sword lies on hooks in the old stone chapel on the property where we hold Church. It's as old as the castle and was found by one of the original members of the club when they moved into the ruins decades ago. Ever since then, it has been used to knight every brother into the club and announce every president as the reining sovereign.

“Adam Vale, first born to Dodger Vale, do you accept your role as president of the Knights of St. Boniface motorcycle club?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you vow to serve your club as a good and wise president? Who will take no bullshit and protect and serve those in the club and of the town of St Boniface?”

“I do,” I say.

“Then with the power that is the religious pillar of this motorcycle club, I officially proclaim you as president.”

The room erupts with celebratory cheers and wolf whistles as my brothers celebrate their new prez.

“Now let's fucking party!” Priest cries.

Music bursts into the room as my brothers start the party that will rage well into the morning. The club girls come into the room, followed by the old ladies and girlfriends piling in behind them.

Lars hooks his arm around my neck. “Come on, Mr. President, let’s get fucked up.”

An hour later, I take a break from the festivities to sit at one of the tables. Viking joins me, bringing me another beer.

“So now that you're officially president, you know what comes next,” he says, taking a seat next to me.

“Not this again,” I groan. “Can't I enjoy my night before worrying about it?”

One of the many problems of becoming president isn’t the weight of responsibility that comes with ruling over a club. I’ve got big enough shoulders to carry them.

No, the biggest fucking problem is the tradition of every president having to be married. From the beginning, the Knights have known the value of a good old lady. She can make or break a president. And it is a rule that all unwed presidents must wed within the first six months of their inauguration. Which doesn’t bode well for me since I haven’t indulged in a woman in years, let alone wanted one as my old lady.

But it’s tradition. And we uphold tradition like it’s written in the bible in this club.

“No time like the present, as they say. Take a look around the room. Do any of the beauties here tonight tickle your fancy?”

“I don’t need to find a wife tonight, Viking,” I remind him.

“No, but do I need to remind you that you’ve only got six months to get it done.”

I want to tell him I want a wife as much as I want a hole in my head.

But he’s got a point. The clock is ticking rapidly toward the deadline for me to find a bride.

“I'm aware of my responsibilities,” I mutter, taking a pull on my beer.

“You talk like a man who finds the idea of a wife a vile thing. I'll tell you now, son, there's nothing quite like a warm set of open arms waiting for you at the end of the day. Especially for men like us. After the shit we see and the fucked up shit we have to do. Take yourself a wife. Fulfill your commitments. Reign ruthlessly during the day and refill the well by fucking your wife long and hard into the night. It’s the only way to keep sane.”

“I’d rather keep myself sane by sleeping alone and not having a woman to worry about.”

But Viking ignores me. Just like he has all the other times he’s brought it up.

“My wife has a niece, a lovely lass?—”

“No!” I say firmly. “No blind dates, no setups. I'll figure it out myself.”

“Well, you'd better do it soon, son. If you don't fulfil your commitments, your position in the club could be challenged.”

I don’t bother hiding my irritation. I’m well aware of my responsibility. I know I need a wife. But here’s the fucking kicker. It has to be a genuine union. A president cannot enter a marriage of convenience. It has to be a true connection. One that shows unity and strength. Or, you guessed it, my presidency could be challenged.

It's like a fucking curse.

Lars falls into the chair beside me. So far tonight he’s celebrated with a lot of wine, and his eyes are gleaming with trouble. He pats the front of my cut with the back of his hand. “Sophia has brought her cousins tonight. Two very excitable girls who would like to spend the night with the new president and his best friend.”

I follow his gaze to the two beauties watching us from across the room by the bar. Beautiful out-of-towners with luscious curves and eager smiles.

“Not tonight,” I say.

Lars looks disappointed.

“But don’t let me stop you,” I add.

His eyes light up. “I mean, if you insist…”

He’s already risen to his feet and is walking away.

I watch him move through the crowd and return to the two beauties, almost amused when he slumps his arms round both their shoulders and disappears into the night with them.

I quietly observe the celebrations around me. It’s what I do. Always the observer. Never the participator.

It wasn’t always this way. I used to participate. I used to participate a lot . Absentmindedly, I reach up and touch my face and feel the familiar raised skin of my scars. But that’s not who I am anymore.

The song pounding through the room changes to CCR’s, “Tombstone Shadow”. Everybody seems to be determined to have a wild, wonderful night, but I can't shake the feeling something isn't right.

I cast my eye around the room. That’s when I realize Gaston isn’t here.

I stop Bear as he walks past me. I reach out and grab his wrist. “Where is Gaston? Where is my goddamn brother?”