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TICK TOCK

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It was the year that life had decided to chew me up and spit me out, pretty much reaming me a new one. I was running on empty, fueled by rage and the kind of misery that turns a man into something not worth even mentioning. Twenty-five years old, and I’d already lived enough for two lifetimes. I’d just finished collecting on a debt that left my knuckles cracked and bleeding when I walked into that bar on the outskirts of town. Didn’t even know its name. I just needed a drink strong enough to burn the damn taste of blood out of my mouth.

That’s where Paul “Bulldog” Jameson found me.

The place reeked of stale beer and bad decisions. I was nursing my third whiskey of the night when he walked in, wearing his patch like a badge and carrying this air of authority that made the room, and the assholes in it, shrink around him. He didn’t sit. Didn’t order a drink. Just stood there, scanning the crowd until his eyes landed on me.

I spotted him across the room the reflection of the bar mirror, the determined look in his eyes cut through the haze of smoke and neon lights. The thud of his boots on the worn floorboards hit hard. A slow and steady sound, full of that no-bullshit biker purpose. Every step he took set my nerves on edge. You didn’t just walk toward someone like that unless you were ready to start some shit… or finish it.

“You the one who taught Tommy Russo a lesson?” he asked, his voice full of gravel and grit.

I didn’t look up right away. I took a drag of my smoke, blew it out slowly, then turned just enough to meet his eyes. “Depends on who’s askin’.”

He stepped closer, boots heavy, his presence even heavier. I was on edge but kept my cool. “Name’s Bulldog. Paul Jameson. President of the Royal Bastards MC.”

He paused, letting the weight of that title settle between us before adding, “And you’ve got my attention.” I didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just let the silence stretch between us.

Tommy fucking Russo. Now there was a piece of shit I wish I’d finished off properly. He was a low-level bookie with greasy hair and a bigger ego than his wallet could handle. Thought he was some hotshot mover, setting up side deals, skimming off the top, and acting like the muscle he hired wouldn’t catch on.

I was that muscle. At least, I was supposed to be.

At first, it was just a job for me. I’d get in, look scary, get paid. Nothing personal and nothing I couldn’t handle. But Russo had a habit of thinking he was untouchable. He thought calling me expendable was smart. Thought stiffing me on my cut and mouthing off in front of his boys would make him look like a big man.

Wrong move. Wrong guy.

I gave him exactly what he was askin’ for. A lesson in pain he wouldn't forget even if he got hit in the head with a crowbar ten years from now. In the end, I left him with a broken nose, a shattered ego, and a mouth full of blood and shame. Snapped two of his ribs, knocked out four teeth, and carved a warning into the side of his car with my knife just for good measure. You don’t fuck over your own muscle and walk away clean.

Did I enjoy it? Maybe . Probably. Hell, definitely.

So when Bulldog stood there, arms crossed and that patch all shiny on his cut, staring me down like he was deciding whether to recruit me or fuck me up, I didn’t back down.

“Tommy got what was comin’,” I said, voice low and steady. “You got a problem with that?”

He cracked a smile, slow and dangerous. “Nah, brother. I’ve got a job for you.”

And just like that, the game fucking changed. It wasn’t loud. No big speech. No promises whispered under breath. Just a look, a flicker of understanding in Bulldog’s eyes like he saw straight through the smoke, the leather, the scars. Like he recognized the rage simmering beneath my skin and didn’t flinch. That’s all it took to gain his respect.

No threats. No dick-measuring bullshit. Just two men who’d seen hell and weren’t afraid to walk back into the fire if it meant protecting what was theirs.

We talked that night. Not much though. Men like us didn’t need a lot of words. But it was enough.

He lit up a cigar, took a slow drag, and said, “I need a rider. Someone who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. A man who knows the road like it’s tattooed on his soul.”

I looked him dead in the eye and didn’t hesitate. “Been riding since I was fifteen. Stole my old man’s Harley while he was passed out drunk on the porch. Left him in a cloud of dust and I never looked back.”

That bike? It was my escape, my salvation. When fists flew at home and the world turned to shit, the throttle was my therapy. The roar of the engine drowned out the screaming in my head. Every mile I put between me and the past felt like a breath I hadn’t been allowed to take until then.

Bulldog nodded, like he’d been there too.

“I’ll ride for you,” I said, my voice rough with resolve. “But I don’t follow blindly. I don’t kiss rings or suck up to a patch. You want loyalty, you earn it.”

His lips twitched into a crooked grin, eyes gleaming as if he’d just found a kindred soul.

“Good,” he said. “I don’t need sheep.”

He took one last drag of his cigar, flicked the ash onto the floor, and locked eyes with me.

“I need a wolf.”

* * *

Joining the Bastards wasn’t the hardest part. Any fool with a death wish, and a bike can show up with a patched heart and ask for a shot. No , the hard part was earning their respect. That took blood. That took pain. That took getting dragged through the fire and coming out the other side still breathing, still swinging.

They tested me every goddamn step of the way. Pushed me, fucked with me, made damn sure I wasn’t just another poser in a cut. Every run was a gauntlet, every brother watching to see if I’d crack. But I didn’t. I held the line, gritted my teeth, and proved I was unbreakable. I didn’t just earn my patch, I bled for that fucker. Every thread stitched into my cut came with a price.

For the most part, the brothers were good men. Decent men, which I hadn’t expected from a bunch of derelicts. But they had their women, their families, and they brought me in as one of their own. I never wanted a family because I always saw it as a burden, just like I was to my own. But as the years went by, I realized that family is what you make of it. And sometimes it’s not perfect but it does the job.

Barrel, for example. He was one of the first to see something in me. I’d met him when we’d moved to Louisiana from Washington. He was a Nomad, a drifter. Carried ghosts in his eyes and scars that ran deeper than flesh. He didn’t throw around friendship, but we clicked. Same taste in rides. Same need for silence. Same rage we kept buried under the roar of our engines.

We ran jobs together as Bulldog started to expand the Bastards name. Real dirty ones. Gun runs, protection deals, a border gig that ended in bloodshed. We didn’t have to speak to understand each other. Our trust was unspoken yet solid. And when shit hit the fan one night down in the Bayou, that trust got tested.

It was supposed to be a simple run. In and out. Smooth as whiskey. Hart, our current Road Captain, and founding member of the MC, was leading the run. The man was sharp as hell, road-smart, was always two steps ahead and someone you didn’t think twice about getting behind.

But that night? That night the devil laid a trap.

Gunfire cracked before we even got off our bikes. Screams. Shouting. Metal meeting flesh. Hart took a bullet to the chest, dropped hard, blood splattering across the gravel. Barrel was right behind him, caught one in the shoulder trying to drag him back.

And me? I snapped.

I unloaded my clip, laying cover, and when the smoke started to clear, I hauled Hart out of the line of fire with Barrel backing me. It wasn’t hero shit. It was instinct. Brotherhood.

Hart survived, barely. The bullet missed his heart by a fraction of a fucking inch. He came to Church two weeks later looking different. He wasn’t broken, not beaten, but something had changed in him. No longer was there fear in his eyes, no weakness in his stance. Hart was still every inch the warrior who’d led us into the fire more times than I could count. But something in him had settled, he’d gone quiet. He’d looked death in the eye and finally decided he didn’t need to keep dancing with it.

Bulldog called us in, expecting Hart to be ready to bounce back, to throw on his cut and take the reins again like nothing had happened. But Hart didn’t move. Didn’t speak at first. He just stared down at his patch, fingers running over the stitching like it held the weight of every mile, every fight, every brother lost. Then he looked up at us, his voice steady, and his eyes dead honest.

“I’ve paid my dues,” he said, voice low. “But I can’t keep giving the club everything and leave Quiver and the kids with nothing. They deserve more than a ghost walking through the door at midnight, or not at all.”

There was no drama in it. No grand speech. Just truth. Enough was enough. Hart wasn’t walking away out of fear. He was walking away because he could . Because he’d earned it. And because for the first time, he saw something worth living for more than the patch.

And that? That took more strength than anything I’d seen on the road.

He handed Bulldog his Road Captain cut, like he was laying down a sword, and for the first time, I saw peace in his eyes.

Bulldog didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight like he was grinding down all the words he wanted to say. Hart met his stare, calm and solid, the kind of stillness that only comes when a man’s made peace with his choices.

Finally, Bulldog let out a rough breath and nodded once. “We’ve had a long run, brother,” he said, voice low and full of emotion. “You’ve led us through hell more times than I can count. You carried this club on your back. No one’s gonna question what you’ve given.”

Hart gave him a half-smile, the kind that said more than words ever could.

Bulldog stepped forward and clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’re not ridin’ out on runs anymore. We get that. You’ve got your woman. You’ve got your kids. And that kind of loyalty? That kind of love? It’s rare in this life. You hold on to it, Hart. Tight.”

Hart nodded. “I’ll never stop being a Bastard. Just gotta be a man my family can count on too.”

“You’ll always be a Bastard,” Bulldog said firmly. “You’re one of the fucking Founders . That patch on your back? It doesn’t come off, Hart. You bleed Royal Bastards, and that demands respect till your last breath.”

The room was quiet. No one argued. No one questioned it. Because when Bulldog spoke like that, it was law. Then he pulled Hart into a quick, rough hug, the kind only real brothers give, and stepped back, emotion burning in his eyes but never spilling over.

After a long minute, Bulldog’s eyes focused on me. I wasn’t sure what he was thinking, but the wheels were turning. He then turned to the rest of the table, voice rising with that hard earned authority only a true Prez could have.

“Tick Tock’s been riding with us for years now. He’s earned his patch, earned our trust, and two weeks ago, he earned a hell of a lot more. Hart’s stepped down as Road Captain, and we need someone who can lead the way forward. Someone who knows the road just like he does.”

He paused, eyes scanning each brother in the room. “I’m putting it to a vote. Tick Tock for Road Captain.”

Silence stretched for half a second, and then hands started rising. One by one, every single brother lifted his hand. No hesitation. No one even attempted at saying something contrary.

Unanimous.

Hart looked over at me and nodded with quiet approval. “You’ve got my vote too,” he said. “I saw that fire in you, brother. Just make sure you don’t let it burn you alive.”

Bulldog turned back to me, pride clear in the hard set of his jaw. “It’s done,” he said. “Tick Tock’s our new Road Captain.”

I stood there, the weight of it settled deep in my chest. This wasn’t just a title, it was a bond. A badge of honor and I wasn’t going to let them down.

I reached out, gripped Bulldog’s hand in a firm shake, then turned to Hart and gave him a nod of pure respect. We didn’t need words. He’d passed the torch. I’d carry it.