Chapter Thirty
Dixon
Days pass where it’s just Alexandra and me, where our lives grow closer beyond being united by our quest to find out what happened to her brother. She moves out of her shithole apartment, at my insistence. To my surprise, she gets her full deposit back from the landlord, although there are still visible bloodstains on her kitchen floor. At the sight of it, the heavyset man simply shrugs and says, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Even though it literally is his fucking circus.
Then, as we’re moving out her things, Alexandra reveals to me that, when she moved in, she found a set of human teeth in the silverware drawer. Well, less a set, and more a collection; different teeth, different sizes, different people. She tells me that, when she pointed it out to the landlord, he knocked a couple hundred off the rental price and said that she should just see it as a windfall. When she asked if she had anything to worry about, what with finding mismatched human teeth in a kitchen drawer next to a serrated knife definitely not meant for cooking, the landlord just shrugged and said, “Nah, he won’t be back. Probably.”
She continues working her night shifts at the bar, and I hunt down leads with Ghost, going on trips that take me up and down the coast chasing rumors and former employers of Erik ‘Frost’ Marquez, all while the club prepares for the leadership vote.
On days I’m not hunting Frost, I’m with the fire crew, enjoying them not wanting to kick me off the team and that I don’t want to charge headlong into the flames in pursuit of becoming the world’s crispiest biker.
It’s the type of life I’ve never experienced before. I’m happy.
Alexandra shows it, too.
She hums when she’s getting ready for her bartending shift, and she looks alive and happy coming home, and we fuck like animals after being apart for however long my hunting or her shift keeps us apart. It feels normal. Shockingly, comfortingly normal.
Then comes the night where we’re supposed to vote on club leadership: president, VP, enforcer, and secretary. Reid’s Repairs closes early, we clear off the floor, set up a table, chairs, a few coolers of beer, and set ourselves up for a vote. The process is laid out by Bullet and is so simple, even Thunder could understand it — we’ll all have the chance to speak, to voice our support for who we believe should be leader of the MC, or to make our cases for the position we wish to hold.
The seven of us — Thunder, Bullet, Rook, Ghost, Hawk, Striker, myself — sit around a table. Rook stands first, a look on his face like he just had his cock caught in his zipper and a bird shit on his head at the same time.
He stares down each one of us, like he’s envisioning just how he wants us to die.
“I’ll go first so I can get this shit over with. Though I may be the initial reason this club was put together, because of the fateful mistake of saving Bullet’s life and getting involved in his bullshit shenanigans, I want to remind you all that I didn’t ask for this. I don’t want this. In fact, I want nothing more to do with you all other than the bare minimum, and if you fucking feckless children try to force any more shit on me, I will rain hell down on you and your families. I’m done,” he says.
Then he sits. Arms crossed, a frown on his face.
Thunder stands next, clears his throat, and takes a long look around the room. “From the moment he saved Bullet’s life and selflessly threw himself into the line of fire to protect someone he hardly knew, Rook proved himself to be a warrior capable of leadership. Since then, he has been a stern voice of reason that has shown time and again the wisdom that comes with old age and having a stick up your ass —”
“I’m not fucking old,” Rook interrupts.
“And there is no better man among us to assume the title of club president. I vote for Rook,” Thunder says.
“I fucking hate you,” Rook says.
Bullet stands. “This man saved my life. His wife’s a nurse who saves other people’s lives. He isn’t just a great man himself, but even in his home life, he’s surrounded by greatness. He’s a loving partner, a strong leader, and someone that we can all count on. There is no finer man for the job of club president than Rook.”
“I am going to track you and Madison to your home and murder you in bed. You won’t be asleep — I’ll wake you both up so you can look me in the eye and beg for mercy before I strangle you to death.”
It’s Striker’s turn. He stands and takes a thick stack of notecards out of his pocket.
“I like to think I’ve served this country with honor and distinction. That, faced with true danger, I’ve exhibited bravery. Both in defending what’s right, and in serving alongside all of you in all the dangers we’ve faced together as a club. It’s a record that I’m proud of, and one that I believe would make me fit to be president,” Striker says. He pauses for a moment, flipping over his notecard.
Beside me, Rook whispers, “Fucking finally, some common sense.”
Striker clears his throat. “Except for the fact that we all sit here today with a man who redefines what it means to be brave: Rook. Compared to that man, my time in the service, my accomplishments, my commendations, my accolades, they all mean nothing. I sat down last night to write on these note cards all of Rook’s excellent qualities, both as a leader and a man, and, before I knew it, I was out of notecards. But, let me start first with his fairness, a quality that is something you really want in a president.”
“Fairness? I’ll show you fair. I’ll cut off all your fingers so you can’t write anymore bullshit cards,” Rook rages.
“He’s wise, just like a biblical figure…”
“—I swear to fucking God, Striker, sit the fuck down or I’ll send you to the afterlife and you can chat with all the fucking biblical figures.”
Smiling, Striker sets his cards down on the table with a ‘clack’ and then sits.
It’s my turn.
I stand, clear my throat, and look directly at Striker. “When I first met Owen, or ‘Striker,’ as we’ve known him for so long, I knew he was someone that exemplified leadership. Brave, quick-thinking, loyal, he was a man that I was proud to serve alongside, and if he were elected president, he’d be a man I’d be proud to serve…”
“Thank fuck, someone is finally talking some sense, even if it’s for fucking Striker,” Rook murmurs.
“That’s a feeling I’ve long held. Until I met Rook. Rook is a man among men, a man who puts all others to shame. The only man for the job of MC president.”
Rook”s face goes from relieved to enraged in a split second.
”God damn it, Smokey, not you too!” He shouts, slamming his fist on the table. ”I will gut every one of you backstabbing sons of bitches. I will cut you open and feed your entrails to your weeping families.”
I try to hide my smirk as I go on. ”Rook”s leadership and sacrifice are unparalleled. We would not be sitting here today as a club if not for him. His gruff exterior hides the heart of a genuine hero. There is no one else I would rather follow into battle or trust with my life. Rook is the only choice for MC president.”
Ghost goes to stand, but Rook rises just as quickly and slams his hands on the table.
“Before you even open your fucking mouth, let me ask you this: who are you going to endorse?”
“Not who you think,” Ghost answers.
“Fine. Go ahead.”
“I haven’t known him long, but Rook —”
Rook takes out his gun, switches the safety off with an audible click, and raises it, hammer cocked. “Not another word.” He then aims it at Hawk, who stares back at him placidly. “Were you going to…?”
Hawk nods. “Duh. Is there anyone else more qualified?”
Rook sighs and puts the gun away. “I hate you all.”
”Well, looks like it”s unanimous then,” Thunder says with a satisfied grin. ”Rook is our new club president. All hail President Rook!”
”All hail President Rook!” the others echo loudly, hoisting their beers.
”I fucking despise every one of you,” Rook seethes. ”Mark my words, I will make you regret this.”
But beneath his scowl, I catch the faintest hint of pride in his eyes. We’ve made the right choice. No matter who else we elect to fill the other leadership positions, the club will be in excellent hands with him at the helm. We know it, and whether or not he’ll admit it, Rook knows it, too.