Chapter 1
ETHAN
As the wind whips around me, the scent of freedom is thick in the air.
The engine of my pure black Harley Davidson Fat Boy roars beneath me as we tear through the rolling hills of the Derbyshire Dales. The landscape stretches out in front of us—a patchwork of emerald fields and meandering rivers dotted with quaint villages and ancient stone walls.
The black leather biker jacket I’m wearing displays the club logo and my insignia. It lets everyone who sees it know I’m the President of the Robin Hood Riders. Jake and Spike, the Treasurer and Enforcer, are riding alongside me, and over the rumble of our bikes, their laughter echoes through my earpiece.
"Did you see the look on Tommy's face when he got knocked out?" Spike chuckles, recalling the chaos of last night's party at the club.
"Yeah, that idiot had it coming," Jake adds, shaking his head. "But man, things have started getting out of hand lately. We need to rein the youngsters in before they ruin everything."
I nod grimly, anger and frustration simmering beneath the surface. Jake’s right, it’s something I’ve been noticing in the club for a while now. The prospects don’t seem to have the same respect for authority that I had when I was doing my time.
"I'll set them straight when we get back. Show them who's in charge," I tell my two travel companions.
Spike revs his engine. “I can’t wait to be a part of that. I haven’t dished out a punishment in a long while.”
“Oh, there will be blood. And lots of it.” Jake adds with a laugh. “Let’s head back.”
There’s a sudden sputter, a mechanical hiccup, and my Harley Davidson shudders to a halt.
"Damn it," I mutter, pulling over to the side of the road and dismounting my bike.
I remove my helmet, allowing my shoulder length brown hair to fall loose, and immediately light up a cigarette. The bitter taste of nicotine is a welcome distraction from the frustration gnawing at my insides.
"What's the problem?" Jake asks, peering over my shoulder as I inspect the engine.
"Looks like a busted fuel line," I reply, my voice tight with irritation. "I'll have to fix it before I can start back."
It’s a hot summer day in the Dales, so I remove my jacket before starting work on the bike. Underneath I’m wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that reveals the tattoos on my arms.
I got my first tattoo, a logo at the top of my left arm with ‘President’s Son’ written below, when I was 13 years old, courtesy of the resident tattooist at the biker club where I grew up. Over the years, I’ve got a lot more ink. Both my arms have full sleeves, and there are some around my neck, fingers, and even down my thighs, although those aren’t on show today.
Spike whistles appreciatively, eyeing my bike with admiration. "She's a beauty, that Harley of yours. Shame she's acting up."
I grunt in agreement, running a hand over the sleek black frame.
"Yeah, she's a stubborn one, but she's never let me down before. You two head back to the club. I won’t be long. It’s a quick fix."
“You sure?” Jake questions.
“Yeah, go bang some heads.”
Jake and Spike both start their bikes and roar away, the thunderous sound of their engines dimming into the distance like a storm passing over. I retrieve a mechanics kit from the storage box on my bike and set about the repair. Thankfully, I also carry spare fuel!
I’ve been the leader of the Robin Hood Riders for about five years. I took over from my father when I turned twenty-three. It’s young to become President, but I had no choice when my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He helped me as much as he could, despite his treatment. Sadly, he died last year from the devastating disease.
My father was already President when I was born, so club life is all I’ve ever known, especially as my mother left soon after giving birth to me. When Dad became ill, it seemed logical for me to take over from him.
Lately, the dynamics in the club have been changing, though, and I know I only have myself to blame. For a while now, I’ve wanted something more than the endless parties and the responsibility that comes with running the club. I suspect the insubordinate behavior of the prospects is a symptom of my own dissatisfaction with the ways things are.
Sometimes I feel like walking away from it all. It doesn’t mean I’ll ever give up my bike, though. I love her too much, even if she is causing me trouble right now. Once I’ve finished these repairs, I’ll jump back on her, and go crack a few heads. Maybe that will make me feel better.