Page 4 of The Bonds We Break

A stranger hangs in front of me.

When it’s my turn, I know it’s over and Saint is going to live.

I created the rules. Each punishment was to be brutal but not deadly. I’d done the math. If we all did that, he’d die from his injuries eventually. If he didn’t, we’d bury him alive and let the earth accept him home.

I pull my father’s knife from its holster on my belt. “This is going to hurt,” I promise.

“Not worse than anything my dad inflicted,” Saint grunts. But his eyes meet mine in an understanding I don’t want. Nor do I want to be reminded of the small boy beaten for not remembering his Bible verses.

Assuming that story is even true. Although at this point, Saint has no reason to continue lying.

Carefully I carve the initials of the club into his stomach. A large I and O. Iron Outlaws.

Then Niro passes me a container of salt, and I dump the whole thing over the wound.

And even then, Saint doesn’t even scream. Instead, as I finally call him Judas, he passes out from blood loss and pain.

2

KING

Twenty-four days.

That’s how many have passed since my club let me down.

Not all of them, but as I sit in my office, the room we use for church, the gap between them and me couldn’t be any wider.

I reach for the bottle of Jack on my desk and take another chug. The alcohol no longer burns. It no longer numbs either. Because ever since the vote went in favor of Saint, I’m wondering if I actually know the men who call me President.

Clutch, my VP, the man who loves my twin sister, Gwen, knocks on the door, even when I told him not to.

I shout for him to come in.

“You coming out to join us?” he asks.

I reach for the packet of cigarettes only to find it empty. A full packet, still wrapped in film, lands by my hand.

“I got you covered,” he says.

I glance up, nod, and then remove the packaging.

“Okay, I’m done with this shit,” he says, tugging out his seat next to the big table that fits us all. “You’re the president of this goddamn club. It’s time you started acting like it.”

If my best friend realized how close I was to blowing up the whole world, he’d watch how he spoke to me. Even so, I let the rage swirl internally. Externally, I light my cigarette and lean back in my chair. “Why don’t you say what’s on your mind?”

“You ready to listen?” he asks.

“If it’s going to be some misplaced pep talk where you get all life-moves-on with me, then you can shove it up your ass.”

“The men can feel you pulling away. It’s causing a split in the club. You’ve got Niro and Bates walking around like they have a direct line to you. Like they are the only ones you trust. Then you got the others who felt Saint did enough for us as a club, that he deserves a chance at redemption. You offered him that. You told the club members to vote with their conscience. If you didn’t mean that, if you wanted the fucker dead, you should have said so. But pouting away in here is not going to build a better club. And I know you’re a better president than that.”

I feel the tide.

The one that pushes me to be club president, then drags me under, making me feel like I’m worthless.

It eddies. Tugging me back and forth.

But like a riptide, no one sees how dangerous I am on the surface. “Noted,” I say.