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It was on Christmas Day that Elle bashfully sat on a small wooden stool, her handsewn quilt over her legs, next to the biggest fucking tree I could find. I had convinced her to sing us a song, and was now trying to get my men settled. They hadn’t spent hours and days on the road with Elle, not like me, Pops, Dagger, and Vice had. Due to having to protect the home-front from Cartel, only halfway from Mississippi, they had joined our caravan.
They had no idea what they were in for. All they knew was they now had a woman in the clubhouse, and they were still adjusting to that fact. That was clear when you saw them all sitting on beat-up couches—that would soon hit the burn pile—and folding chairs, all with a fuck load of ‘throw’ blankets covering their jeaned legs and weaponed hips. It was the oddest but funniest thing, seeing deadly tattooed men forced to be domesticated.
“What the fuck is happening here?” Crow, our club Secretary, quietly asked as Pops kept handing out bowls of popcorn with needles and string. Elle wanted homemade decorations on her fourteen-foot tree.
Just returning from visiting Everleigh with gifts for Christmas, Pops was in a great mood, but still growled, “You fucking string that damn popcorn before I slit your throat.”
The wide-eyed biker held up the items and got to work. “Chill, Prez. I’m on it.”
Si shrugged, holding up a coffee cup. “The hot cocoa is actually quite tasty.”
Pops did a chin dip until he saw another brother pull a flask from his cut and splash some whiskey in the biker’s cup. Pops grumbled, “What the fuck are you—” then thought for a few seconds. He quickly turned to the coffee table behind him and grabbed his cocoa, maneuvering so that Elle couldn’t see. “Hit me.”
From a chair, another brother eyed the deception. “Oh, hell no! And I gotta drink this Eggnog bullshit?”
Elle’s smile fell. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to drink it.”
Pops glared at the poor biker. The eggnog was nauseating, no doubt, but he lifted his glass to her, scared of his Prez, and said, “No, no, no. I said delicious, not bullshit.” And then he gulped it down, his shoulders convulsing as he gagged mid-swallow.
Elle was back to smiling. She even clapped, asking everyone, “Isn’t this so much fun?”
Eyeing men who better answer right, Vice rested his hand on his piece…
All men started replying:
“Best fun ever!”
“I can’t believe I have to wait a whole year to do it again.”
“My life is now complete.”
Dagger, winking his one eye, admitted, “Stripper pole is now only my second favorite thing.”
When the tree suddenly shook a little, someone chuckled, “I think there’s a squirrel in that tree we cut down.”
Someone else smarted off, “That sonofabitch is so big, there could be a family of them in there.”
At Elle’s sudden alarmed look, as she eyed the wild tree next to her, which didn’t quite look the same after being rammed through a doorway not meant for such an item, I stood and yelled, “Everyone shut the fuck up! It’s gift time!”
Staring at me now, Elle forgot about the creatures in the tree—that I would shoot later for scaring my woman—and smiled. “You got me a present?”
Tugging on my cut, I proudly stated, “I made it.”
Meatball, our club Treasurer, whimpered in the background, “He’s become a goddamn pussy,” because he had seen my arts and crafts sprawled all over Pops’ desk.
Ignoring the blue puff paint under my fingernails, I retrieved the gift from under the tree and handed it to Elle, hoping she’d love it.
With grace and a sweet innocence, she ripped at the paper until seeing a Jack Daniels box. Men behind me sighed, whispering, “There’s hope.”
I waved off what she was seeing. “I didn’t have a better box so ignore it.”
“Never mind,” someone cursed behind me.
Elle, smiling again, opened the box and started pulling out a wine bottle.
Men sighed. “At least it’s alcohol,” until they saw it was empty, and I had decorated it.
A muffled cry escaped a biker.
