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“Let’s get out of here before the tide traps us. We have work to do.”
That word — work — cuts right through the peaceful illusion. Still, I keep it off my face; Dixon is smiling, and I like his smile, and I don’t want the frown that I feel in my heart to do anything to shake that smile off his face.
Still, as I follow him out of the cave, I can’t help but wonder where this road we’re traveling together will take us.
And what the revenge I crave will cost me.
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…”
