Chapter 8
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— Dutch —
The gavel felt heavier than usual in my hand as I banged it against the wooden table.
“Church is in session,” I announced, my voice hoarse from another sleepless night.
I looked around the table at my brothers—Holden, Colt, Glitch, Handful, and a handful of patched members who’d earned their seat at this table through blood and loyalty.
Holden cleared his throat and shifted in his chair, but didn’t speak.
“You called this meeting,” I said, gesturing to him with the gavel. “You got something to say, say it.”
Holden’s voice was steady when he finally spoke, but I could see the reluctance in his eyes. “This isn’t easy, Dutch, but we need to talk about what’s been happening with the club.”
The room went dead silent. Every brother around the table was staring at me, and none of them looked happy.
“The Atlanta deal,” Holden continued when I didn’t respond. “Fifty thousand dollars down the drain because you were too busy tracking your ex-girlfriend to show up for the meet.”
“She’s not my ex—”
“You sent Handful in your place,” Holden cut me off. “Handful, who’s never handled a gun deal bigger than small-time local sales. Our contacts thought it was disrespectful. They walked away.”
Heat flooded my face. “Handful’s capable—”
“Handful’s a good brother, but he’s not the club president,” Colt said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact. “They wanted to deal with you, not a substitute.”
“And that’s not the only problem,” Glitch added, opening his laptop.
“The territorial dispute with the Wolves is escalating because you haven’t returned their president’s calls.
We missed the vote on the new gun supplier because you didn’t show up to the regional meeting.
And the feds have been sniffing around our money laundering operation because you haven’t been coordinating with our contact at the bank. ”
The words landed like hammer blows. I’d been so focused on finding Indira, on understanding why she’d left, that I’d let everything else slide. But hearing it laid out like this, seeing the disappointment in my brothers’ faces...
“It’s temporary,” I said, my voice sounding weak even to my own ears. “I just need to—”
“You need to get your head out of your ass,” Colt said bluntly. “Brother, I get it. She was special to you. But she’s gone, and the club is still here.”
“You don’t understand—”
“We understand perfectly,” Holden said. “You’re destroying everything our fathers built, everything you’ve worked for, over some pussy who made it clear she wants nothing to do with you.”
The way he dismissed her made something snap inside me. “Don’t talk about Indira like that.”
“Like what? Like she’s just another woman?” Colt leaned forward. “Dutch, that’s exactly what she is. You’ve had plenty of women before her, and you’ll have plenty after her. But there’s only one Venom Riders MC.”
“She wasn’t just another woman.” The words came out louder than I’d intended, and I saw several brothers exchange glances.
“Then what was she?” Glitch asked quietly. “Because you never made her your old lady, never gave her a cut. So what was she, Dutch?”
My head reared back in shock. What had Indira been to me?
How could they even ask that question? “She was...” I started, then stopped, staring at my brothers in disbelief.
How could they not see it? I’d never spent more than a few weeks with a woman before Indira.
Never took one back to my house, never added a woman to the clubhouse approved visitors list, never spent nights away from the clubhouse just to be with someone.
“She’s the one,” I said finally, my voice rough. “I’d already ordered a cut for her. I was planning to claim her at the next party. I thought that was fucking obvious. I fucking love her.”
The silence around the table told me it hadn’t been obvious at all. Not to them, and apparently not to Indira either.
“Then why didn’t you treat her better?” Handful asked, and there was genuine confusion in his voice. “If you loved her, why did you keep fucking Crystal and all the other club girls?”
“Because that’s what we do.” But even as I said it, the words felt hollow. “That’s what my father did. That’s what presidents do.”
“Your father’s marriage is a fucking disaster,” Colt said bluntly, and the irony of those words coming from him wasn’t lost on me.
Here was a man whose own marriage had imploded so spectacularly that he’d sworn off relationships entirely, lecturing me about what didn’t work.
“Everyone knows it. From what I’ve heard, your mother has been miserable for years. ”
“She’s never complained—”
“She’s never had a choice,” Glitch interrupted. “Your mother had no way to leave. Indira did.”
“Which is why she left,” Holden added. “Because she could.”
I stared around the table at my brothers. Colt telling me my father’s marriage was a disaster, Glitch pointing out my mother’s misery, Handful talking about respect. All of them weighing in on my family like they knew better than I did.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “My parents have been together for over forty years. That doesn’t happen if a woman is miserable. My mother chose to stay.”
“Did she choose,” Holden asked quietly, “or did she just not have any other options?”
I shook my head, rejecting the idea. “My father provides for her. She has everything she needs.”
“Except a voice,” Glitch said, not looking up from his laptop.
“Except respect,” Holden added quietly.
“The club comes first,” I said, falling back on the only truth I’d ever known.
“Does it?” Holden asked. “Right now, your personal drama is destroying the club. So which one actually comes first, Dutch?”
I stared around the table at these men who’d followed me into hell more times than I could count. Men who’d trusted me with their lives, their futures, their families’ security. And I’d let them down because I couldn’t handle one woman.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“We want you to be the prez you’ve always been, before this Indira shit,” Holden said. “We want you to show up. Do your job. Handle club business like it matters.”
“And forget about Indira?”
“Move on from Indira,” Colt corrected. “There’s a difference.”
I looked around the table again, seeing the faces of men who’d stood by me for years. Good men who deserved better than a president who was falling apart over a woman. “You’re right,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“What?” Holden leaned forward like he hadn’t heard correctly.
“You’re right. All of you.” I straightened in my chair, trying to summon the authority that had gotten me elected to this position in the first place. “I’ve been a shit prez for the past month. I’ve put my personal problems ahead of club business, and that’s not acceptable.”
The relief on their faces was obvious, but I wasn’t finished.
“But you’re wrong about one thing,” I continued. “I’m not moving on from Indira. I’m going to get her back.”
The room erupted in protests, but I held up my hand for silence.
“I’m going to get her back,” I repeated, “but I’m going to do it the right way. Without neglecting my responsibilities. Because you’re right—she deserves better than the man she left.”
“Dutch—” Holden started.
“Church is dismissed,” I said, banging the gavel before anyone could argue further.
As my brothers filed out, I could hear them muttering among themselves.
They thought I was delusional. They thought I was setting myself up for more heartbreak.
Maybe they were right. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d lost something I was never going to find again.
If there was even a chance of getting Indira back, I had to try.
But first, I had to prove to myself that I could be the man she deserved. Clearly she’d found me lacking, and that was unacceptable. Dutch, President of the Venom Riders MC, ruled Millfield. I was going to get Indira back.
Three hours later, I was sitting on the floor of Indira’s apartment with my back against her kitchen cabinets, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels beside me.
I’d used the key I’d gotten from her landlord—the same landlord I’d convinced to let me take over her lease two weeks ago, after he’d told me she’d terminated it.
The apartment still smelled like her. Jasmine from her shampoo, mixed with the faint scent of the expensive candles she liked to burn when she was stressed.
I’d come here every few days since she left, tidying up, putting things back the way they were.
The books were arranged by height on the shelves, just like she always did.
The throw pillows were straight on the couch.
I’d even swept up the broken glass from the picture frame and vase, though I’d kept the pieces in a box in the closet.
Evidence of her rage, proof that she’d cared enough to destroy things.
I’d told myself I was maintaining it for when she came back. Keeping it ready, keeping it perfect. So she’d walk through the door and see that nothing had changed, that I’d kept her space waiting for her.
But sitting here now, drunk and alone, I could admit the truth. She wasn’t coming back. Not to this apartment, and definitely not to me.
I pulled out my phone and stared at her contact information. I’d called her number so many times that I had her voicemail message memorized. But the calls had stopped going through weeks ago when she’d blocked my number.