Page 17

TICK TOCK

2 011

The holidays came and went in a haze of bourbon, bloodshed, and the quiet kind of madness that only came when you were trying to keep a goddamn secret while living under the same roof as the man whose daughter you were fucking.

Natalia was still by my side. Still in my bed. Still the reason I woke up hard every morning and had to count backward from ten just to stop myself from taking her on the nearest surface.

We’d nearly gotten caught more times than I cared to admit. One night, I had her sprawled on the kitchen counter, legs over my shoulders, her hands fisted in my hair while I licked her sweet little pussy as it was now my goddamn addiction. She was biting her lip, trying not to moan too loud, trying to keep the sounds buried in her throat while I lapped at her like I hadn’t eaten in days.

And then Aiyana walked in.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t gasp.

Just stopped at the door, looked right at me with those knowing eyes, and gave the softest little smirk before walking the fuck out.

Did that stop me?

Hell no!

I kept going. I fucking devoured her pretty cunt I slid my tongue in deep, my fingers working her open while she trembled beneath me, her hips bucking against my mouth until she came so hard she nearly knocked the damn spice rack over. She shoved me out after, red-faced and panting, yelling something about me never being allowed in the kitchen again.

I still went back the next night. Couldn’t help myself.

That was the problem with Natalia. She made a man forget his goddamn limits.

After New Year’s, I finally closed on the house. A spot just outside the city limits, tucked far enough from the clubhouse to give me peace, but close enough that I could still raise hell if needed.

Didn’t hesitate bringing her with me.

Barrel didn’t even question it.

All I had to do was mention that Rancid had been eyeing her room like he was ready to crawl in and unzip his fly, and that was it. Barrel turned red, cussed for ten straight minutes, and gave me the green light to get her the hell out of there.

What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t know, was that his best friend had been balls-deep in his daughter since the moment he turned his back.

Either way, my mind was more at ease having her with me. So I moved my woman into that house so fast her feet barely touched the floor.

No more sneaking down dark hallways.

No more hiding behind locked doors.

She had a real bed now. A real home. And every inch of it had her name carved into it as far as I was concerned.

I hadn’t been around the clubhouse much lately. I was doing everything I could to avoid it. I only showed up for Church or to help Bulldog plan the runs. The club still needed money. We still had jobs. Guns that needed moving. Debt that needed collecting. Protection that needed enforcing. But I’d stayed away as much as I could. I had a woman to protect and a house that kept me sane. I didn’t need to breathe in the decay every damn day to know it was getting worse.

But coming back to the clubhouse that day was horrific. The smell hit me before I even walked in. It wasn’t the usual musk I’d grown used to over the years. That of sweat, engine grease, leather, blood.

This was different. This was a smell that was layered with desperation. Cheap cigars. Liquor that clung to the walls like mold. The kind of stink that told me something wasn’t right.

Something was rotting in the heart of the Royal Bastards.

Rancid had been busy the last few months, bringing in new faces. Greasy, twitchy little bastards who didn’t belong in our house. Some of them didn’t even ride. Just leery, hollow-eyed men with too many weapons and not enough loyalty. Mercs. Hired guns.

Not brothers .

I walked past the bar and caught the eyes of two of them. They were new blood, no colors, standing in the corner like they were waiting for the signal to kill. They looked at me like they didn’t know who the fuck I was.

They would know my name by the end of this. I’d make sure of it.

“Church is in session,” Saddle muttered to me as his pace matched my own. “Founding members only.”

My stomach coiled, if Church was being called behind closed doors, shit was deeper than we thought.

I stepped into the back room and closed the door behind me. Every brother who mattered was already seated at the table. I looked over at Saddle, Powertrain sitting beside him, Virgil, Brimstone, Silencer, Guardian, and at the head, Bulldog. The man who’d built this empire with his own bare fists. Both founding members and new patches such as Knuckles and Spectre’s son, Macabre stood around us, we were looking at him expectantly.

He looked tired, older. His beard was a little grayer, his hands a little slower. Still carved from steel, but the weight on his shoulders had deepened. His jaw was tight, eyes tracking everyone who walked in like he didn’t trust a single soul anymore.

I wondered where Elrik was, but didn’t say anything. Just took my seat and let the silence stretch until it got heavy. Saddle was the first to speak. “Rancid’s bringing in strays.”

He didn’t have to clarify. We all knew what he meant.

“Every week it’s another fresh face,” Guardian added. “Most of ’em ain’t got bikes. They’re not here to ride. They’re here to muscle. ”

Then Brim slammed his palm on the table. “This shit needs to stop. Right now.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Bulldog rasped.

“Then fucking do something,” Saddle growled. “Rancid’s stacking bodies like we’re gearing up for war. Those men ain’t club. They don’t ride with us. They don’t bleed with us.”

“They’ll tear this club apart,” Hart added, voice low and dark. “One crack in the foundation, and the whole goddamn house goes down.”

I looked at Bulldog, waiting.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He just stared at the table like he was counting ghosts. He took a slow drag of his smoke and exhaled like the weight of the world lived in his lungs. He hadn’t smoked for years, not since his son, Elrik, was born.

“I know,” he said. Voice low, graveled. “I’ve been watching him. Listening.”

“Then why haven’t you shut it down?” Brim snapped.

"Why haven’t you put a bullet in his skull yet?" Virgil asked, his voice laced with that eerie, lifeless calm only he could pull off.

Bulldog’s eyes darkened. “Because I want to see how far he’d go.”

“And?” I asked, jaw tight.

He looked up at us, at the brothers who helped build this club from nothing, and finally said the thing we all knew was coming.

“He’s coming for my seat.”

Silence fell, not shock, just confirmation. We’d all seen it, the way Rancid had started making decisions without permission, bringing in outside muscle, whispering to younger prospects like he was already patching them into his future.

He wanted the gavel.

Bad.

“Over my dead body,” I muttered under my breath.

“He doesn’t give a fuck about this club,” Guardian muttered. “He wants the crown, not the responsibility.”

“He wants power ,” I said coldly. “And he’s building an army to take it.”

Bulldog nodded slowly. “He thinks I’m too old. Too tired to fight.”

“You are, ” Saddle said bluntly. “You’ve been bleeding for this club since before some of these punks were born. No one’s questioning your legacy, Brother, but maybe it’s time.”

Bulldog looked at him. “You’re saying I should step down?”

“We’re saying it’s time to vote for someone who will respect what you built,” Saddle said. “Before Rancid poisons it from the inside out.”

No one spoke.

Then Cipher leaned forward, voice quiet but firm. “There’s only one name that makes sense.”

We all knew who it was, and we all looked at Bulldog. He didn’t speak. Just stared down at the table.

“Elrik,” Saddle said, calm and solid. “Your son.”

Bulldog’s jaw clenched. A muscle twitched near his temple. “He’s not ready.”

“He’s got fire,” I said. “He’s got your blood. And he doesn’t play politics. He plays to win. ”

Saddle nodded. “He’s respected. By us and new blood alike.”

“He’ll have a war on his hands,” Bulldog muttered.

“He’ll finish it,” Grimm shot back. “With all of us standing behind him.”

Bulldog finally looked up, eyes meeting each of ours, one by one. The room was silent yet thick with loyalty and brotherhood.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

I leaned forward; fingers laced.

“Yeah,” I said. “Because if we don’t move first, Rancid will.”

The words had barely left my mouth when the doors to Bulldog’s office slammed open.

Rancid stormed in like a loaded gun, eyes bloodshot and rage carved into every step. His cut was half unzipped, jaw clenched, fists balled so tight his knuckles blanched white.

“You motherfuckers think I’d actually allow this to happen?” he barked, voice cutting through the room like a damn chainsaw. “You think I’d just sit back and let you hand the club to some fucking child! ”

No one moved. Not even Bulldog.

There was just a subtle shift in weight, the silent preparation of men ready to bleed for their President and their club.

“You voted without me? Without us!” Rancid snarled, gesturing at the men who had followed him in. “Without a fucking word?”

“This isn’t your table to vote at,” Guardian growled. A deadly sound that alerted us that he was ready for a fight.

Bulldog stood slow, calm, the way a storm gathers before it tears the sky open.

“You were never up for vote, Rancid,” he said evenly. “This ain’t about you.”

Rancid stepped forward, teeth bared. “The hell it ain’t. Everything’s about me now.”

“You think bringing in outside muscle makes you a leader?” Bulldog snapped, his voice rising now. “You ain’t leading shit. You’re divided the club with your bullshit delusions.”

“You’re too old and senile for this chair,” Rancid shot back. “Too slow. Too soft. This generation doesn’t follow ghosts, they follow fire.”

I stood, hand resting on my knife hilt, just in case.

“Then let’s see if you’ve got enough fire to back that mouth,” Bulldog growled. “Outside. Now!”

This was the way of club life. You wanted to fight for a seat, then you’d best be prepared not to get your ass dead.

We all followed into the yard, patches and prospects lining the gravel lot under the weight of bad blood.

Bulldog shrugged out of his cut and tossed it to Saddle without looking. Rancid did the same, pacing like a caged animal, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His men stood close, too close, watching like hyenas ready to pounce the second their alpha dropped.

“Let this be clean,” Bulldog warned. “One-on-one.”

“Fuck clean,” Rancid spat. “I’m not here for show—I’m here to take what’s mine.”

Bulldog took his stance, feet spread apart, fists up as he squared his shoulders. He may look older, but his fists had drilled holes in skulls before. His bones were marred with scars, and he looked ready to defend what was his.

He gestured a “bring it” motion and prepared to take anything that came at him, like a true leader.

The first punch came fast.

Rancid lunged, fist swinging wide. Bulldog ducked, slammed a fist into his ribs… crack . Rancid grunted, stumbled, swung again. Bulldog caught his jaw this time, spinning his head with a sharp right hook that sent blood flying from his lip.

Rancid staggered but didn’t fall. He came back wild, fists flying, catching Bulldog with a solid shot to the cheek. Bulldog’s head jerked, but he didn’t flinch, just stepped in and landed a brutal uppercut to Rancid’s gut that knocked the air clean out of him.

The men watching flinched, murmuring. Some of Rancid’s crew moved. Saddle, Hart and I also moved in, hands on knives, guns within reach . The air was heavy with the implication of threats.

But Rancid held up a hand, spitting blood, shaking his head. “No.”

He was limping now. One eye swelling shut. Blood smeared across his mouth, his knuckles busted open. Bulldog circled him like a wolf.

“You don’t get to take this club,” Bulldog said, voice low, panting. “You don’t earn a patch by poisoning it.”

Rancid stumbled forward, swinging wild. Bulldog dodged, grabbed him by the collar, and drove a knee into his gut.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Rancid dropped to his knees, coughing, gasping for breath, clutching his side. Bulldog grabbed him by the hair, yanked his head up, made sure every man standing there saw the truth.

“This,” he growled, “is what happens when you come for a king and forget to bring a sword.”

Then he dropped him. Just let him fall face first into the gravel.

Broken, battered and beaten.

The tension snapped like a wire ready to split. Rancid’s men inched forward, and Saddle was forced to pull his gun. “Back the fuck off.”

Rancid lifted a shaky hand. “Don’t,” he barked. The men froze, uncertain.

His voice cracked, but his pride still clung to the scraps of his ego. He stood, slow and unsteady, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he looked straight at Bulldog.

“You’ve got your vote. You’ve got your golden boy,” he hissed. “But this ain’t over.”

He turned to me. To Saddle. Then to the others.

“I see every one of you. And I promise you this…when the dust settles, I’ll still be standing. And your precious Elrik ?” He spat in the dirt. “He’ll be the first to bleed.”

Then he picked up his cut, slung it over his shoulder, and staggered off, alone, but not empty-handed.

He still had followers, and they still had venom.

His threat hung heavy over us all, and we all knew this wasn’t the end of it.