Chapter 15
FIFTEEN
JAX
When I pull up to the clubhouse, the first thing I notice is the usual crowd—some of the guys hanging around, shooting the shit by their bikes, sharing beers, and talking about whatever nonsense keeps them entertained.
Nothing unusual.
Except for who’s in the middle of it.
Butch.
And he’s got a crew of the older guys with him, standing in a tight circle while he rants, his hands flying through the air like he’s giving some kind of goddamn sermon. What gets me isn’t just that he’s talking. It’s that the guys around him are nodding, watching him, looking like they actually agree with whatever bullshit he’s spewing.
I knew this transition was going to be tough, but looking at this?
Yeah. We might have a coup on our hands.
I peel off my helmet, swing my leg over my bike, and head for the front door, angling my stride just enough to catch the last bit of Butch’s speech. “Our time is now. We don’t have to take this shit. We’re the original members.”
Well, fuck. This is going to hell fast.
Inside, I walk straight back to Mason’s office, not even bothering to knock before I push the door open.
He looks up from his phone, his brows drawing together at the look on my face. “Jax?”
I shut the door behind me. “We’ve got a problem.”
Mason sighs, setting his phone down and leaning back in his chair. “How bad?”
I rub a hand down my face, exhaling sharply. “Butch and the old heads are out there rallying the guys. I just caught him saying, our time is now. ”
Mason’s jaw tightens, his fingers tapping against the arm of his chair. “He’s pushing back harder than I thought.”
“He’s not just pushing back,” I say, planting my hands on his desk. “He’s got guys listening. Nodding. They’re not just letting him vent, Mason. They agree with him.”
Mason exhales through his nose, his expression darkening. “That son of a bitch.”
I nod. “Yeah. And if we don’t get ahead of this, we’re going to have a split in the club real damn fast.”
Mason leans forward, his elbows resting on the desk. “We need to shut this shit down before it goes any further.”
“Agreed,” I say. “But we need to be smart about it. If we push too hard, we’ll force them into making a move before we’re ready.”
Mason is quiet for a moment, his gaze sharp and calculating. Then, he nods.
“Call a church meeting,” he says, his voice firm. “Tonight. Every brother in the club needs to be here. No exceptions.”
I push off the desk, already reaching for my phone.
Time to find out where everyone really stands.
An hour later, the meeting room is packed, the air thick with tension. Every brother in the club is here, some looking bored like they’d rather be anywhere else, others looking like they’re ready to throw down at a moment’s notice.
Mason stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, his gaze sweeping over the room. He’s not a man who needs to raise his voice to command attention—he just stands there, waiting, letting the silence settle until it becomes uncomfortable.
Then he speaks.
“You all know why we’re here,” he says, his voice even but firm. “And I’m not about to waste time dancing around the issue.”
The room is dead quiet.
“This club was started back in the seventies,” Mason continues. “Back then, it was about one thing—riding bikes and getting laid. That was it. No politics, no business, no real direction. Just a bunch of guys who loved to ride and live free.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in before he continues.
“But clubs don’t stay the same. Not if they want to last. We grew and expanded. We bought this compound, built the clubhouse, and yeah, we started running guns. That got us money. Power. Respect. But it also put a target on our backs.”
Murmurs ripple through the room, but Mason doesn’t acknowledge them. He presses on.
“Then we opened Perdition,” he says. “We gave normies a taste of our world. We built businesses, started looking toward a future that wasn’t just about running illegal shit and hoping we didn’t get busted.” His voice sharpens, his gaze locking onto the older members. “The club has never stayed the same. We’ve evolved, changed, adapted. And now? Now, times are changing again.”
I glance around the room, watching the reactions. Some guys nod along. Others shift uncomfortably; arms crossed tight, jaws set.
“I get that some of you aren’t happy about the shift,” Mason says. “I get that you liked things the way they were. But here’s the thing—this isn’t just about what you want. It’s about what’s best for the club . And if you don’t like it? Fine.”
His voice drops lower, more dangerous.
“But don’t stand around bitching about it. Be man enough to speak up and give me a better solution.”
The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken words.
Then Butch leans forward, eyes dark with barely restrained frustration. “Yeah? And what if we don’t want to change?”
Mason meets his stare head-on. “Then maybe it’s time to ask yourself if you still belong in this club.”
The room is so damn quiet I can hear my own pulse hammering in my ears. Every eye is on Butch as he pulls out his switchblade, the metallic snap echoing through the meeting room.
My gut tightens.
I know what’s coming before he even does it.
He slides the blade through his Iron Reapers MC patches, cutting them clean off his vest. The fabric falls to the table like dead weight, the club’s emblem discarded like it’s nothing.
"I'm out," Butch says, voice steady, like he’s already made peace with it. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel and heads for the door.
Nobody moves.
Nobody breathes.
There’s more to leaving a club than just slicing off your patches. Butch knows that. We all know that. What he just did? It’s serious. It’s final.
It means he’s excommunicated. Off-limits. He’s no longer a brother—just another man walking into the world with nothing and no one to protect him.
Mason stands there, arms crossed, his jaw flexing as he watches Butch’s retreating back. His voice cuts through the thick tension.
"You want to walk out and leave your brothers, your family behind? Fine, but don’t fucking ask to come back."
Butch stops.
Slowly, he turns, his face red with fury. “Fuck you,” he spits, literal spit flying from his mouth as he storms back toward Mason. “You ruined our club!”
Before anyone can react, Mason grabs a fistful of Butch’s shirt and slams him against the wall, the impact rattling the shelves behind him.
"Fuck you, you motherfucker," Mason growls, his voice deadly calm before he buries his fist in Butch’s gut.
The older man wheezes, doubling over, but Mason doesn’t let go.
“Don’t ever fucking come back here,” he snarls, his grip still iron-tight on Butch’s collar. “And if you try and pull something, I’ll end you, you stupid motherfucker.”
Another punch lands, this time square to the jaw, sending Butch crumbling to the ground. He groans, spitting blood onto the concrete floor, but Mason’s already done with him.
Mason straightens, rolling his shoulders like the whole thing was just an inconvenience, and looks around the room. "You want to join him?" His voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the silence. "Fucking leave. I don’t need this in our club."
Nobody moves.
Nobody wants to be the next one to test Mason.
I exhale slowly, my fingers flexing at my sides as I glance at Rev and Blade. This is bigger than just Butch walking out—this is a shift in the club. A line drawn in the sand.