It’s time.
“I know you’re awake.” Her voice is closer now. I give up the sleeping act and open my eyes to find she’s hovering over me with a sympathetic look on her face. “I’m your president’s old lady for about ten more minutes, so just give me this, will ya?”
I give her nothing, which is about the most I’m capable of right now.
“I’m selfish. I want my man at home with me, and in order to get that, he has to give up the gavel. Because with everything going on, even when he’s with me, he’s not with me. I want this as much for the club as I do for myself. I have my kids—all my kids—and my husband for the first time in my entire fucking life. I know you don’t want this, Wyatt, but please, please don’t fight it.”
“You make arguing difficult,” I say. She’s not wrong, so I have no argument. I just wish it wasn’t like this. I wish it wasn’t me.
“That’s because you know this is right.”
She’s tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. We both know what she means, but neither of us are willing to voice it. It’s fucked enough to admit to myself that Jim’s not doing his job. I can’t verbalize it to Ruby or anyone else. In our world, that’s treason.
The chapel is silent—which never happens.
We’ve got seven votes in, and it all comes down to me and Trigger. Torque, who’s only been out of county for a few months now, just voted yea. Asshole even winked at me when he did it.
The vote has to be unanimous for it to pass. The only way for Pop to leave his seat without a unanimous vote is if he inks out or dies. Brothers don’t force a president to stay if he doesn’t want to. It’s fucking disrespectful. But a big part of me is praying—or begging—that Trigger votes nay and this bullshit about handing me the gavel will blow over. It’s not that I don’t want it. It scares me. These men are voting to place their lives in my hands, and fuck if that doesn’t say something.
“This isn’t how presidents go out,” Ryan says. His elbows are planted on the table before us, and he’s snarling at the finished wood. “But if it gets you off my dick, then yea.”
Seven sets of eyes land on mine at once. I try not to fidget or move in my seat. They’ve voted to make me president. All they need is my vote now. What kind of fucking crock is that? I have to vote on my own promotion. Bullshit. If I could, I’d fucking change that. When I throw up my middle finger and growl, “Yea,” at the room, I feel like a fucking tool. I’m not an insecure dude, but fuck if this isn’t making me feel like my asshole is growing a pussy.
The room erupts with cheers and taunting from my brothers—my men—as I take this moment to absorb what’s happening here. I started in this club seventeen years ago as a prospect and worked my way up over those years. I’ve handled runs, paid off cops, bribed politicians, had more money than I knew what to do with, and have killed in the time since I patched in.
The Forsaken Motorcycle Club is my life.
It’s my home.
And now the Fort Bragg charter is mine to protect.
“Pass the kit,” Pop says from beside me. The sewing kit gets passed to the head of the table, and Pop and I remove our president and vice president patches, respectively. With dirty, worn hands, Pop holds his patch in front of him and studies it for a long moment. Then he slides it over to me.
A wave of emotion comes over me as I stare down Pop’s president patch. With a single finger, I touch it, like I’m making sure it’s real. Most brothers keep their patches to remember their time in that position, but some hand them down to the next in line. It’s the greatest honor a retiring president can bestow upon the new president.
Everyone in the room has their eyes on us, waiting for my reaction. The younger guys keep their eyes on Pop. His sons—Ryan and Ian—are slowing nodding their heads. Like, somehow, they know this is right. Grady, Pop’s sergeant at arms, has his eyes on me. The expression on his face remains impassive except for the small lift of the corner of his mouth.
“You fucker,” I grumble, refusing to meet his eyes. My brothers laugh, but it’s not the chaos-driven maniacal laugh I usually hear. It’s deeper, a little sad, and maybe even a little hopeful.
I sew on my new patch slowly, careful to make the stitching look good on my leather cut. And I take a deep breath every now and then to stabilize myself so I don’t fucking lose it. My hands want to shake, but I don’t allow it. The men around me can tell I’m nervous, no doubt, and they don’t judge me for it. My unease shows them that I take this seriously, and that means something to them. I know it does, because back when I was patched in to Detroit, Amber’s dad was president, but then he patched out of Detroit and into the California Nomads, leaving us with his VP, Rig, to take his place.
Amber.