Chapter 9 #3
The words hit too close to the truth. Xavier is making progress but he's still in the wheelchair most of the time. Still can't walk without assistance. Still struggles with basic mobility. Still has months of physical therapy ahead of him.
"That's not—" I start, but my voice catches.
"Answer the question," Cassandra interrupts from the side of the room, stepping forward from where she'd been blending into the crowd. I hadn't even noticed her there. "Can he walk? Can Xavier walk or is he crippled?"
I hesitate. Just for a fraction of a second. But it's enough. That moment of silence tells them everything.
"Holy shit," someone breathes in the shocked quiet. "He can't, can he? Xavier King can't fucking walk."
"He's in physical therapy—" Zay begins, trying to control the narrative.
"So he's crippled," Johnson states flatly, victoriously. "Our president is a cripple and you've been hiding it from us. Lying to our faces while the club falls apart."
"Don't use that word," I snap, anger flaring hot and immediate, burning through the anxiety.
"Why not? It's accurate, isn't it?" Johnson steps closer, smelling blood. "Xavier King, the big bad president, the man we all feared and followed, is now a cripple who can't walk. Can't lead. Can't protect this club. Can't even protect himself."
I'm moving before I can think about it. Three long steps and I'm in Johnson's face, close enough to smell the bourbon on his breath, close enough to see the satisfaction in his eyes. "Say that word one more time and I'll break your fucking jaw."
"You think I'm scared of you?" he sneers, leaning in closer. "You think—"
"Enough," George's voice cuts through the tension like a blade. "This isn't helping anyone. We're supposed to be family. Brothers and sisters. Act like it."
Johnson backs down first, stepping away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Just saying what everyone's thinking. What everyone's too scared to say out loud."
"Then let me make this clear," I say, turning to address the entire room, projecting my voice to reach every corner.
"Xavier is recovering. Yes, he was seriously injured.
Yes, he's working through mobility issues.
But he's still your president. He's still in charge.
He's still the man who built this club from nothing.
And anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with him directly. "
"When?" Cassandra challenges, arms crossed. "When can we take it up with him? Because we can't visit him at the hospital. Can't call him. Can't see him. Can't confirm he even exists anymore. For all we know, you're making all this up and he's actually dead or in a vegetative state somewhere."
"He's alive," Zay interrupts coldly. "He's conscious. He's recovering. That's all you need to know right now."
"That's not enough," George says quietly, but his voice carries.
"The club deserves transparency. The club deserves to see their president.
To evaluate his condition. To know he's actually capable of leading.
This isn't a dictatorship where you three make all the decisions behind closed doors.
This is supposed to be a brotherhood. We deserve the truth. "
He's right. I hate that he's right but he absolutely is. We've been hiding Xavier like he's something shameful. Protecting him but also isolating him from the very people he's supposed to lead.
"We'll arrange something," I say, making the decision in the moment without consulting anyone.
"When?" George presses, not letting me off the hook.
"Soon."
"That's vague. That's meaningless. Give us a date."
"That's what you're getting right now."
George studies me for a long moment, those calculating eyes reading me the same way Asher does. Then he nods slowly, deliberately. "Okay. But if Xavier doesn't show his face in the next week, we're calling a vote of no confidence. Official. By the books."
"You can't—" Zay starts, voice rising.
"We can," George interrupts smoothly. "Check the bylaws, Article Seven, Section Three.
If the president is incapacitated and unable to perform his duties for more than thirty days, the club can vote on interim leadership until he recovers or is permanently replaced.
We've been patient. We've given him time.
We've waited and trusted. But we need leadership.
Real leadership. Not this shadow government you three have been running. "
I look around the room. See the agreement on too many faces. See the doubt, the fear, the anger at being kept in the dark and treated like children who can't handle the truth.
"One week," I say, committing us before I can second-guess it. "Xavier will address the club in one week. In person. Here. Noon."
"You can promise that?" Johnson asks skeptically, eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"I can." I have absolutely no idea if Xavier will actually agree to this but I'm committing us anyway, because what other choice do I have?
"One week. He'll show up. He'll prove he's still capable of leading.
He'll answer your questions. And then you all can decide if you want to follow him or stage your little coup and see how that works out for you. "
"Fair enough," George says. He looks at Johnson, then around the room. "One week. We can wait one week. That's reasonable."
Johnson doesn't look happy but he nods curtly.
The tension in the room doesn't dissipate exactly, but it shifts. Becomes something more manageable, something we can survive.
Zay touches my elbow gently. "We should go."
He's right. We've accomplished what we came for—shown my face, reminded them I exist, bought us time. Staying longer risks another confrontation, more questions we can't answer.
"One week," I repeat, looking at George, at Johnson, at Cassandra, at all of them. Making eye contact. Making this a promise. "Be here. Noon. And you'll get your answers. All of them."
We turn and walk out. I can feel their eyes on my back all the way to the door—hot, suspicious, judging. Can feel the weight of the promise I just made.
Once we're outside, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"That went well," Zay says dryly, sarcasm heavy.
"Could've been worse."
"Could've been better." He unlocks the truck. "You just committed Xavier to a public appearance in front of a hostile crowd. He's going to love that."
"He doesn't have a choice," I reply, climbing in and slamming the door harder than necessary. "They're right. The club needs to see him. Needs to know he's still in charge. Needs transparency."
"And if he can't convince them? If they vote no confidence anyway?"
"Then we deal with it." I buckle my seatbelt. "But at least we'll have tried."
The drive back is even quieter than the drive there. I spend it staring out the window, mind racing through scenarios and possibilities and all the ways this can go catastrophically wrong.
One week. We have one week to get Xavier ready to face the club. To prove he's still capable of leading despite the wheelchair, despite the injuries, despite everything.
One week to hold everything together.
One week before it all potentially falls apart.
I close my eyes and try to remember what Xavier felt like last night. Try to hold onto that feeling of being present, of being alive, of forgetting everything except his hands on my body and his voice in my ear telling me to stay with him.
But the memory is already fading, slipping through my fingers like smoke.
And the fear is creeping back in. Always the fear. Always the guilt. Always Marcus's face in my dreams.
Always the knowledge that I'm one revelation away from losing everything.