Chapter 9
?
— Dutch —
Church the following week was tense from the moment I banged the gavel. I could feel my brothers watching me, weighing every word, every decision. The meeting with our sister chapter had been a disaster—I’d shown up half-drunk and barely coherent.
I stared down at the financial reports in front of me, the numbers blurring together. My head was fucked, had been for weeks, and it was affecting everything. The club deserved better.
I tried to focus on the numbers, tried to make sense of the quarterly projections and expense reports. My mouth opened to address the first item on the agenda, but the words wouldn’t come. I could feel the weight of every gaze on me, waiting for me to pull my shit together and be their president.
I couldn’t do it.
“I need to take a break,” I said suddenly, the words coming out before I’d fully decided to say them.
The room went dead silent. Every head turned toward me, shock written across their faces.
“What?” Holden leaned forward.
“I need to hit the road for a bit. Clear my head.” I looked around the table at my brothers—men who’d trusted me to lead them, who’d watched me fall apart over the past month. “My head’s not in the right place. You all know it.”
More silence. Finally, Colt spoke up. “How long you thinking?”
“Couple weeks, maybe a month. Going to visit my folks in Florida.”
Handful shifted uncomfortably. “Dutch, you don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.” I set the gavel down carefully. “I’m no good to this club like this. You need your president sharp, not drunk and chasing ghosts.”
The relief on their faces was obvious, even though they tried to hide it.
“We can handle things,” Colt said. “I’ll take point on day-to-day operations.”
“And if something big comes up, you call me,” I added. “I’m taking a break, not abandoning ship.”
“Course, brother,” Colt nodded. “Whatever you need.” There was something in his tone—not judgment, but recognition. He’d been where I was now, completely fucked up over a woman.
He’d rebuilt himself into someone stronger. I needed to figure out how to do the same thing.
I stood up, suddenly feeling lighter than I had in weeks. “Alright then. Church dismissed.”
As my brothers filed out, I could hear the murmur of relief in their voices.
?
The ride to Florida gave me time to think, which was both a blessing and a curse. My parents had moved there five years ago when my father finally retired from the club, trading the president’s house for a modest beach house in a quiet neighborhood where no one knew about their past.
Most retired members stayed local. They’d step back from leadership but stick around, offer advice, show up at family dinners.
Not King. When he handed me the gavel, he couldn’t get out of Oregon fast enough.
I’d always assumed it was about reinvention, about wanting to be Willem Van Der Berg, respectable retiree, instead of King, former MC president with a past that wouldn’t bear scrutiny.
But now I wondered if it was simpler than that. He couldn’t stand watching someone else run his club. Couldn’t handle being in the building without being in charge. So he’d put three thousand miles between himself and the constant reminder that his reign was over.
I hadn’t visited in over a year. There had always been club business, or some crisis that required my attention, or—if I was being honest—I’d just gotten comfortable in my role as prez and let everything else slide.
The club, the women, the constant demands of leadership had consumed my life completely.
I felt like shit about it, especially when it came to my mother. She’d call every few weeks, and I’d promise to visit soon, but soon never came. There was always another deal to close, another territorial dispute to handle, another reason to put family second to the club.
But maybe that’s exactly what I needed to confront.
My mother answered the door before I could knock, like she’d been watching for me through the window.
Ellen Van Der Berg was smaller than I remembered, her blonde hair now completely gray and pulled back in a simple ponytail.
She’d always been beautiful in a fragile way, but now she just looked tired.
“Jacob,” she said, and I could hear the surprise in her voice. “What are you doing here?”
“Can’t a son visit his parents?” I asked, trying for a smile that probably didn’t convince either of us.
She studied my face for a long moment, taking in the dark circles under my eyes and the stubble I hadn’t bothered to shave. “Come in. Your father’s in his workshop.”
The house was exactly like I remembered: clean, quiet, and decorated with the kind of generic artwork you’d find in a hotel.
It had felt like a place people lived rather than a home when they’d first moved here, and nothing had changed.
My mother led me to the kitchen and immediately started bustling around, putting on coffee and pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator.
“I’ll make your favorite sandwich,” she said without asking if I was hungry. “That turkey and swiss you used to love when you were little.”
I watched her move around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, and something about the scene bothered me in a way I couldn’t quite name. She was nervous, I realized. Nervous about having her own son in her house.
“Mom, you don’t have to—”
“It’s no trouble,” she said quickly. “I like having something to do.”
The back door opened with a bang, and my father strode in like he owned the world.
King was still an imposing man at sixty-eight, broad-shouldered and intimidating despite the gray in his beard.
He’d been president of the Venom Riders for twenty years before passing the torch to me, and he’d never let anyone forget it.
“Well, well,” he said, grinning when he saw me. “Look what the cat dragged in. What brings you to our neck of the woods, son?”
“Needed a break from the club, Pops,” I said, which was true enough.
“Smart man. Sometimes you need to step back to see the big picture.” He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise. “Your mother making you lunch? Good. Woman’s been moping around here with nothing to do.”
I glanced at my mother, who had gone very still at the sink. “Moping?”
“You know how women get,” my father said dismissively. “Need constant entertainment or they start getting ideas.”
Something cold settled in my stomach. “What kind of ideas?”
“Oh, the usual bullshit. Wanting to get a job, or volunteer somewhere, or some other nonsense. I keep telling her she’s got everything she needs right here.”
My mother’s hands were gripping the edge of the counter so tightly her knuckles had gone white, but she didn’t turn around or say anything.
“Maybe she’s just bored,” I suggested carefully.
“Bored?” My father laughed like I’d told a joke. “What’s she got to be bored about? She’s got a nice house, a husband who provides for her, no real responsibilities. Hell, most women would kill for her life.”
“Would they?” The question came out before I could stop it.
My father’s smile faltered slightly. “Of course they would. Your mother’s never had to work a day in her life, never had to worry about money or any of that shit. She’s got it made. Has since the day she met me.”
I looked at my mother again, really looked at her. The careful way she moved, like she was trying not to take up too much space. The nervous energy that seemed to radiate from her. The way she hadn’t made eye contact with me since my father had walked in.
“Is that true, Mom?” I asked. “Do you feel like you’ve got it made?”
The silence that followed was deafening. My mother slowly turned around, and for the first time, I saw something in her eyes that made my chest ache. It was the same look I’d seen in Indira’s eyes the night she’d packed her things and left.
“I...” she started, then stopped, glancing at my father.
“Of course it’s true,” my father answered for her. “Ellen’s always been happy with our arrangement. Haven’t you, sweetheart?”
The endearment sounded more like a warning than a term of affection. My mother nodded quickly, but I caught the slight tremor in her hands.
“Actually,” I said, standing up, “I was hoping to talk to Mom alone for a few minutes. Catch up on family stuff.”
My father’s expression darkened. “Family stuff? I’m family too.”
“Of course you are. I just thought—”
“You thought what? That your mother and I keep secrets from each other?” He moved closer to me, and I could smell the beer on his breath even though it wasn’t even noon. “We don’t have secrets in this family, son. We never have.”
But as he said it, I saw my mother flinch, and I realized that was exactly what they had. An entire relationship built on things that were never said and feelings that were never acknowledged. Club business.
How many times had I heard those words growing up?
“Club business, Ellen.” My father’s standard response whenever my mother asked where he’d been, who he’d been with, why he smelled like perfume that wasn’t hers.
I’d watched her face go blank, watched her swallow whatever she’d been about to say, watched her nod and turn away.
I’d thought that was normal. Thought that was what strength looked like—a woman who understood that some things weren’t her concern, who trusted her man to handle his business without questioning him.
Now, looking at the defeat in my mother’s eyes, I realized it wasn’t strength at all. It was resignation. It was the look of someone who’d learned that asking questions only led to fights she couldn’t win, so she’d stopped asking.
“You’re right,” I said, forcing myself to sit back down. “No secrets.”
My father seemed satisfied with that, but the tension in the room remained thick. We ate lunch in uncomfortable silence, my mother picking at her food while my father dominated the conversation with stories about his glory days as president.