Page 30 of Iron and Ivory

Hell, I'm not sure he still belongs either, and that's an uncomfortable thought.

Because the truth is, everyone else but him made a choice that day in church.

Made it—one way or the other—and wore the consequence of it immediately after.

Either they chose the club and lived, or they chose greed, and died.

All but Butch.

He wasn't in the room.

Wasn't anywhere near the moment where all these choices lived.

And so he never got to declare.

Never got to choose.

That moment came and went without him, and now he's standin' here in the permanent aftermath of it, surrounded by men who know where they stood.

And he has no idea where he would've.

That's why he's not sure he belongs here.

He's not sure whose side he woulda took.

And this place, this clubhouse that used to be his sanctuary, might now be more of a prison.

I don't call him over. Not with a gesture, not with my eyes. Because yeah, I am new to this whole Pres job, but I am not new to how this culture works.

My word is his scripture.

It is law.

It's a stupid power to give me, if I'm bein' honest.

But nonetheless, it is mine.

Butch and I are still starin' at each other when everyone else seems to notice all at once that he's here. The room goes silent. A weird kind of silent.

And Diesel makes his way over to me, stands by my side with his arms crossed and chin up. Not because I need protectin' from Butch, though he is an ex-marine and a helluva fuckin' shot. Could probably kick my ass ten different ways in as many seconds.

No, Diesel's not at my side to protect me. He's here because this is business and we're a united front no matter what.

Badlands needs to make a decision about Butch.

Come to think of it, Badlands needs to make a decision about everything.

Butch walks toward me slow. Not because he's bein' dramatic about it. Because he's not healed yet.

I watch the way he moves across the concrete and I can see the shoulder before I see his face—the way his left arm hangs lower than it should, compensatin' for somethin' that's still tryin' to fit itself back together again.

I heard he had cracked ribs too but I never actually got the medical rundown. Nobody brought me a chart. Nobody came to me and said here's where Butch is at.

And I didn't ask.

He stops in front of me.

He's got maybe three inches on me and about thirty pounds of former marine muscle that the gunshot wound and the cracked ribs have done their best to subtract from. He extends his hand. Palm out, square and deliberate.