Because isn’t that basic human nature? To want what you don’t have?

MORAL GUILT

King

The morning sun is a slight reprieve on what’s shaping up to be an otherwise dark day. I sit on the back deck of the clubhouse, my legs stretched out over the lawn, and soak up the warmth it offers. The wood creaks behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see Harris—or as he’d have his men call him, Tuck—approach, a bottle of Jack held tightly in his hand.

“Didn’t you bring me a beer?” I tease, turning back to watch a bird hop over the playhouse we made for the kids a few weeks back.

“Brought you something better.” Harris drops down beside me with the protests you’d expect from a man his age. He’s a little shy of fifteen years my senior, but the trials he’s put that body through make him physically closer to thirty years older.

I take the offered shot glass he pulls from inside his cut and hold it out as he pours us a first round from the bottle.

“To daughters,” he says, clinking the glasses. “May you never have one.”

I laugh and throw the whiskey back, taking up the bottle to give us a refill. “And to Mr. Harley and Mr. Davidson,” I say, lifting my glass to his. “The men who created the beast that ruined us all.”

Harris chuckles, and throws back the second shot. We each take one more before setting the bottle aside and giving it a rest for now. Harris lifts his legs up, tucking his knees inside his arms and stares out over the back yard. “Been a long ride, brother. I ain’t said it to no one else, but this body’s gettin’ tired.”

“I’m hearin’ you.” I watch a couple of birds fight over a scrap of bread Sonya’s tossed on the grass after breakfast.

“Having this opportunity to sort things out with Ryan?” He fiddles with the ring her mother gave him. “It’s the last thing I was holdin’ on for.”

I turn my gaze back to him, a frown letting him know the last admission has me a little confused. “Holdin’ on? What do you mean?”

“I have stage three liver cancer, King. Had an appointment last week. They told me it’s spread to nearby organs.”

“You supposed to be drinking?” I straighten up and narrow my gaze on the man.

“No point trying to flog a dead horse, my boy. I’ve already had a good part of it cut out, and the cancer still came back. I got less than a seven percent chance at survivin’, King. You tell me that this worn-out body’s capable of that kind of fuckin’ fight.”

“Shit, brother.”

“No words need be said.” He stares out over the grass again, smiling as he tips his face to the sun. “Makes an old man appreciate the little things, that’s for sure.”

“Your boys know?”

“Only those who need to. Almost time for me to pass the gavel before I’m too sick to lift the fuckin’ thing. Just can’t bring myself to do it yet.”

“Not sure about who you’re handin’ it to?” I pour us another shot. The gravity of the moment calls for it.

“No, I trust him. Flinch is a good man, lives and breathes the club. I guess I wanted a good old-fashioned Viking farewell, you know? I wanted to go out with style in a blaze of fuckin’ glory, fightin’ until the last.” He looks over my way, giving me a wane smile that echoes my thoughts . . . too many lost years. “You know me, King. I’m not one to waste away in a hospital bed, pissin’ myself, and more or less starvin’ to death.”

“You goin’ to tell Ryan?”

He shakes his head, taking up his drink and knocking it back. “That girl doesn’t need more burden in her life. Hopefully I’ll be gone before she notices anythin’ is wrong.”

We sit in amicable silence, staring out over the yard as the sun climbs in the sky. Our bottle runs dry, and yet neither of us are ready to get up and face the world we marshal. Life is hard as an outlaw—that was one of the things I was told when I first laid eyes on a Harley and imagined the freedom I could have riding as part of a club, a brotherhood of like-minded men. I guess I knew Apex, the old bastard, was talking about something more back then, but a young naïve kid only wants to know about the glory. I see it in our prospects now—that kind of blissful ignorance that shields them from the misery before their very eyes. If they cared to take a look around at us lifers, at the boys who’ve been there and lived it a thousand times over, they’d see the burden of a lifetime of regrets on each of our shoulders. But even so, one thing reigns true—none of us would change a fucking thing. What’s life without a little regret? It means you weren’t afraid to live it to the fullest and take a chance. Security brings complacency, which in turn breeds boredom. I could have had the nine-to-five job, same as Harris, but we’re restless spirits, looking for what challenges us and makes us better men.

And haven’t we found it.

I give my old friend a last lookover, recognizing the same tired eyes and drained appearance that greets me each and every morning in the bathroom mirror. We’re tired and we’re worn out, but as long as there’s fuel in the tank, we’ll keep burning up the road of life.

Only that’s the problem, isn’t it? Harris is running on reserve already.

“Gettin’ hot out here,” I say. “How about we go inside and find another drop to wet the tongue, huh?”

He reaches out a thick arm and slaps me hard on the back. Memories of a time as young men—when he was in his late twenties and I was a teenage boy finding my legs among men twice my size—flash through my mind. They were good days, carrying troubles of their own, but nothing as deadly as the shit we have to face now.

“Sure,” he replies. “Let’s move this pity-party indoors.”

I let him get up first, looking away as he groans finding his feet after so long on the deck to give him some semblance of dignity. The man’s a rock, burying his pain and hiding his weakness as he walks toward the building. Faking it is a key asset if a man wants to make a great leader. To expect strength and resilience from your men, you need to display the same and lead by example, even if it means living a lie and living the lonely life that is one without any fucking help.

As we step through the doors to the common room, I look around at the faces of my family, the people who have been there through it all. I’m blessed, lucky to have them. These are the people who stood by and let me heal when it all became too much, when I fell apart and let them down. These are the people who displayed what true love and loyalty is. The people I trust with my life.

The people I’d give my life for.

SACRIFICE

Bronx

“You seen Ryan?” I ask Sonya as she slices a stack of bacon.

“No.” She places the large knife down, and wipes her hands on the cloth tucked in the belt loop of her leather pants. “I gave her Sawyer’s old room, since Ramona hasn’t been here for a while. She not in there?”

“Not when I checked.” I run a hand over my head, still sweaty from my helmet, and take a couple of steps backward. “I’ll look again.”

I step out into the short hallway and come close to colliding with King. “You seen Ryan?” he asks. “Harris is lookin’ for her.”

“Yeah, well he’s not the only one.” My heart picks up speed, my head refusing to think the obvious.

“I’ll check out in the yard, ask the boy at the gate if she went for a walk. See if her car’s there.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s one of the places I was headed next. Let me double check upstairs in case she was in the bathroom and I missed it.”

King spins and strides toward where Harris is talking with Callum at the bar. I flash a quick look around the common room again as I swing myself around at the base of the stairs. What am I looking for? As though she’d be sitting out there, right under her fucking father’s nose. Think, Bronx. Settle your shit and think. I barrel up the hall outside of the bedrooms, coming damn close to bowling over Vince as he steps out of his room.