Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35443 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
In my defense—and I'm always in need of one—I was tangled up with Eleanor Ashby for most of those years.
Not tangled the way people think. Not like that.
Tangled the way a man gets when someone powerful decides they have a plan for him and he's too young, and too broke, and too goddamn hungry to argue.
She was a formidable force. Formidable opposing force.
But that grin on Dusty's face—wide and a little disbelieving, like he can't quite trust that the door just opened—that pulls me back.
Because I remember bein' exactly that.
Standin' outside somethin' I wanted so bad I could feel it in my soul, just hopin' nobody changed their mind before I could get inside.
I've always wanted to be part of Badlands. Since before I had the words for it. Since I knew that belonging to something mean and permanent was the closest thing to safety a man like me was ever gonna find.
Diesel and I take our places at the tables. This is when it hits. All the other officers are dead. Diesel is the last one standing.
He lets out a long breath, like he's tired of this day. This whole fuckin' shit show that never quite seems to end. "We need to vote on a bunch of shit, actually."
I nod.
Indeed we do.
Diesel calls it. "Church is open. First order of business—Butch."
No preamble. No speech. No here's what happened, here's what we know, here's what we think. Just the man's name dropped in the middle of the room like a bomb.
Butch doesn't react. Which tells me he knew this was comin'. Probably been knowin' it for nineteen days.
"All in favor of Butch remainin' a patched member of Badlands MC—"
Nobody moves.
Not one hand.
Not one.
The silence goes on long enough to become its own kind of answer, and I feel it in my stomach before I feel it anywhere else—that specific sick drop, the one that comes before something irreversible.
I don't dislike Butch.
That's the thing.
I genuinely, actually, do not dislike this man.
He runs the range. He's ex-marine, he's capable, and if the vote comes back no… he's not gonna fold his hands and wait for it.
I can't see a weapon on him. But I'd bet my life there's a gun under that cut. He doesn't go anywhere without iron on him. Which means if this vote goes the wrong direction, somebody in this room is gonna get shot before it's done.
Maybe more than one somebody.
Maybe me.
I look at Diesel.
Diesel looks at me.
Nobody's hand is up.
Then Dusty stands up.
Nobody expected that. Not me, not Diesel, not the room.
A prospect on his feet in church is technically an offense.
Nobody says a word.
"Butch is a good man," Dusty says. His voice shakes a little at the start but evens out. "My girl, Giselle, she likes him." Dusty looks over at Butch, and actually fuckin' winks at him. "Not like that Butch, don't get excited."
Someone laughs in the back of the room.
"She likes him though," Dusty continues. And he's lookin' at me now. "She told me he was worth saving. And she gets these fellings sometimes, ya know? Like a feeling." He leans in to the word the second time around. "It was her idea to help him, not mine. No offense, Butch. I was a bit busy. But anyway, that is just me sayin'…" He blows out a breath. "This club needs all the good men it can get and I think Butch is good, so… I vote yes."
It's the dumbest, bravest, most correct thing anyone has said in this room in weeks.
The spell breaks.
There's grumbling—real grumbling, the kind that means this is irregular and I don't like it—but three seconds later a hand goes up in the back. Then another. Then another.
And then all of 'em.
Every hand in the room.
Diesel exhales through his nose. "Motion carries."
I look at Butch.
He's still standin' exactly where he was. Same posture. Same jaw. But somethin' went out of his eyes—not weakness, just the specific tension of a man who'd been preparin' to receive bad news for nineteen days straight, and just found out it wasn't comin'.
He won't say thank you. That's not how this works. He won't look at Dusty, won't acknowledge the room, won't do a single thing that names what just happened.
But his shoulders drop maybe an inch.
I look at Diesel. "Next order of business."
"We need officers," Diesel says. "You gotta choose."
And that's the moment it lands.
Not when I shot Brick. Not when I walked out of church with blood on my boots and thirty-six bodies to account for. Not when the vote came back and Diesel said my name like a title.
Now.
Standin' in a room full of men who are lookin' at me like I'm the answer to somethin'.
Badlands President.
That's me.
That's what I am now.
I let it sit in my chest for one full second—the weight of it, the wrongness and the rightness of it tangled up together, same as everything else in my life—and then I put it somewhere I can carry it and I open my mouth.