Page 3 of Glacier

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That first night was the hardest, but the cleanup got easier the more the brothers fucked up. My dad didn’t last past the night; his body was too ravaged by drugs to survive the pain. I couldn’t say I missed him. He’d been heavy on the fists before he’d started drinking and doing drugs, but he became worse after—at least until I was big enough to stop him.

Then came the brothers who thought that because I was young, I’d be soft. Seeing me burn my father’s back tattoo should have shown them that killing didn’t bother me—not when it came to protecting my club. By the time our six months were up, we’d whittled out everyone we didn’t want and buried them. With Harris and Shoes’ help, we re-established the weapons pipeline and had another chapter take over drug transportation.

We cleaned up the rental cabins that used to generate income on the other side of the ranch, upgraded the website, and had visitors booked for the summer. The dude ranch was back up and running, and I had plans to open a roadhouse. We needed legal businesses to clean our money—I’d be damned if I paid someone else to do it for us. Maybe one day, but we weren’t there yet.

It took ten years of constant hard work before I was comfortable enough to relax. After a decade as President, I expected respect from those who knew me and understood what my brothers and I were capable of. Those who pushed back were dealt with swiftly. You fucked with us; we fucked right back.

Another ten years passed before we were comfortable and able to take stock of the club and our lives. We diversified, moved our clubhouse, and made a lot of changes. Through it all, we held ourselves accountable and remained true to our motto:

Nobody fucks with the Kings.

CHAPTER 1

GLACIER – Age 38

Irelaxed back in my chair, legs spread wide. Grunting, I tightened my grip on Rita’s head as she bobbed over my cock. I was close to coming. I shut my eyes and let myself go. I didn’t often use one of the Tarts, but when I did, I chose Rita. She knew the rules and had no expectations of becoming an Ol’ Lady.

“Harder, Ri,” I growled, thrusting my hips until I hit the back of her throat, ignoring the way she gagged. Rita could take it.

“Fuck,” I muttered as I came down her throat.

She swallowed like the champ she was, then licked me clean before pulling away and wiping her mouth.

Fastening my jeans, I nodded towards the envelopes on the table. “Extra this month. I know you have some additional expenses for your ma. Give the envelopes to the rest of the Tarts. Names are on the front.”

Rita gathered up the envelopes. “Thanks. Do you need anything else?”

“Nah, doll. It’s all good. Go home.”

She left without a word. That was why she’d been around as long as she had. Rita never caused problems and kept the brothers happy. If we had Tart legacies, Rita was one. So was Harriet. Their moms had been Tarts for the club before I’d taken over.

Clicking the mouse, I opened the spreadsheet Midnight had sent to review that month’s earnings. Our legal businesses were doing okay. In the twenty years since I’d taken over as President, we’d diversified. The ranch continued to operate as a ranch, but I’d hired a manager who lived in the main house with his family. My manager’s wife ran the cabins and dude ranch.

There were no happy memories in that house, so the move had been an easy one for me—one of the best decisions I’d made.

We relocated the club to the other side of the property, away from the day-to-day operations of the ranch. I built a new two-storey clubhouse, which included rooms for the brothers on the top floor, each with its own bathroom. No more sharing; I wanted my brothers to be comfortable. The ground floor housed the club offices, two guest rooms with ensuites, an industrial kitchen, common room, bathrooms, and a bar.

The Tarts had their own separate building with rooms, bathrooms, and a kitchen.

About five hundred yards behind the clubhouse, sheltered by a line of trees, I designated space for twenty homes to be built. All brothers were welcome to a plot, but so far, only Lawless, Lurcher, and I had built homes.

Along with the ranch, cabins, and dude ranch, we also operated a roadhouse I built when I constructed the clubhouse. It sat on land we couldn’t utilise for the ranch because it wasn’t suitable for growing crops or grazing. The roadhouse was about a mile away from the clubhouse on the main road.

The ranch was just outside the town of Bitterthorn, where we owned several other legitimate businesses. We had acquired them over the years as they became available to ensure our town remained under our control. Brothers ran the tattoo shop, garage, and tow service. The diner was managed by the parents of KOAMC brothers Skipper and Wings. We generated enough revenue from the legal side to be comfortable, but I wanted more for my brothers. We’d worked our asses off to keep all the brothers happy and flush with cash.

Our two illegal streams were where we made the bulk of our money. They kept us wealthy and at the top of our game. We moved guns over the border into Canada, but we had no issues conducting business on home turf when it suited us—like taking over the customers from the Queens Wraiths when they retired. It was less travel, mostly less risk, same payoff.

In addition to the guns, we operated underground fights. Easy enough when you owned the town outright; those in charge knew better than to ask questions. We staged the fights at various locations around Bitterthorn, rotating venues to maintain discretion. Old barns, abandoned warehouses—anywhere with thick walls and no neighbours to file complaints. Not that it would have been a problem if they did; the sheriff's office worked for us.

Lurcher, better known as Lurch, our Sergeant at Arms, oversaw the fights, managing logistics, scheduling, and pay-outs. River, our Enforcer, maintained order—brutal and efficient at his job. Bet, our Secretary, handled the books, ensuring every dollar was accounted for and paid out correctly. Together, they operated like a well-oiled machine, keeping the entire operation tight.

On a good fight night, we generated more money than our legal businesses made in a month. Most of the brothers showed up; it was entertainment, tradition, and profit rolled into one. Brothers often served as bouncers, as there were always a few idiots brave enough after a few drinks to cause trouble. That never ended well for them.

My brothers loved nothing more than cracking heads together and reminding everyone exactly who owned Bitterthorn because…

Nobody fucks with the Kings.