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MY NAME IS Tyler Winston, but I’m better known around Braedon as Lash. I’m the president of the Knight’s Rebellion MC. As the oldest son of my parents, the club is my birthright; my dad groomed me to take over one day from the time I was born. I don’t know of a time in my life where I wasn’t learning the ins and outs of the MC.
We live in a small town called Braedon. Braedon is the only place I’ve ever lived; it’s home and always will be. It’s a farming community and there’s not much else to the town. Mom and Pop shops line the main street and there’s one bank, a grocery store, and the rest of the town is different sized farms. Our town is so small you literally blink and miss going through it. I wouldn’t change where I live for anything in the world though. This is my town, and the members of Braedon are the people I know and love. Well, maybe not all of them but you get my point.
Sarge was my father. He started the club with some friends after they came home from their careers in the military. When they were in the service, they had a brotherhood, a sense of purpose, responsibility, and a code they lived by. Once they left the service the group of friends were lost, out of control, and had no purpose in their lives. So, the Knight’s Rebellion MC was started.
The old timers, as we call the founding members of the club, started running drugs and guns for other clubs and eventually the Rossi mafia. They protected our small town, kept the pimps out when they tried to bring their filth into our community, and made sure no one got their hands on drugs being sold in town. I’m not going to say they didn’t do drugs because they did. Cocaine, weed, and heroin were among the favorites of the old timers. However, if anyone tried to sell in Braedon, they soon learned it didn’t happen and went on their way. Or were forced to go on their way by any means necessary. It caused quite a stir and the club had many enemies because we wouldn’t let them in our town.
When my dad and the other guys decided to start the club, they found an abandoned farm and bought it for pennies on the dollar. The property came with a hundred acres, a dilapidated house, a barn with an underground storage area, and enough property in front to ensure privacy. Members of the club voted to tear down the house because it would cost more to repair than to just get rid of it. In it’s place they built what is now the compound.
Our compound looks like a huge warehouse. The outside is gun metal gray and nondescript other than the club’s colors painted on the front to let everyone know who lives here. Inside there’s a large common room filled with tables and chairs, a long bar taking up the entire right wall, two pool tables, a few couches, and TVs mounted to the wall. Behind the common room is a kitchen large enough to feed the entire club. My mom had industrial sized appliances put in it so she could make food for an army instead of the guys in the club. Our meeting room for church is across the hall from the kitchen. There’s two bathrooms on the lower level and then a door leading out back. I also have a small office close by the door leading out back.
Upstairs hold the rooms of the members who choose to stay here. Each officer has a room, there’s a few rooms for the rebels of the club, and any other member who wants a room. Even the prospects have a room if they need it. Not many prospects choose to stay here though. They’re still young enough they can go home for the most part. Or to an apartment they’ve managed to rent for themselves. The only time they don’t is if they have an early morning or get back from a run too late to bother leaving. Or if they get too drunk. If it’s not their time to stay here for a week, they usually leave though.
Our prospects, the young guys who are hoping to patch into the club, stay here for a week before they switch out with one of the other prospects. Right now, we have three of them. Evan, Austin, and Cal are our current prospects. They help out around the clubhouse and do whatever else we task them with doing. Sabotage and Death push them when they need to and try them out in different scenarios when they can since they’re the enforcer and sergeant at arms respectively. When we go on a run, Sab and Death are constantly watching over the prospects to see what they do in any given situation we may come across. I’ve been known to take them out with me on occasion and test them as well. Not recently since I’ve been so damn busy.
Sarge and the guys made sure to repair the barn. It sits about fifty feet from the clubhouse and is now a garage for us instead of a barn. We use the underground storage area when we have to hold transports for any length of time. The barn has been turned into a three-bay garage where we work on our bikes, store them for the winter, and make sure our cages are ready for winter when it hits, and we can no longer ride our bikes. We house the ATVs in there for our private use around the compound and a few dirt bikes too. There’s also room for about four guys to stay up in the top of the barn if there’s a lockdown and no room in the clubhouse.
We built two other buildings out behind the clubhouse. It’s for when we have a large party with other clubs or if we go on lockdown. The buildings are like two row houses, with apartments connected to one another in each building. They’re big enough to hold about twenty families during lockdowns and more single guys who got too drunk at a party.
Each officer of the club has a home built on the property as well. Our homes are built back from the other four buildings and not easily visible when other clubs are at our compound. We mainly use them for privacy and peace when we need it. Running a club can get to you and it’s our sanctuary. It allows us to remain close to the club in case something happens, but still lets us maintain a sense of being away from it all.
The land filling our compound is filled with lush green grass. Trees surround our homes to keep them private. A twelve-foot-high fence with barbed wire at the top now surrounds the entire property to keep unwanted visitors out as well. I put in a track to race the dirt bikes on a few years ago. It’s back farther in the property so not many people know about it. There’s also a pond at the very back of the compound. We built a pavilion out there to complete it with two huge grills, picnic tables, and a ramp in case we ever decide to stock it with fish. Usually we just hang out and swim when it gets too hot to avoid.
Growing up was an unusual experience because most of my time was spent at the clubhouse. If I wasn’t at school, playing football, or helping my mom out with something, I was there. It was the same for my two younger brothers and the Whittaker boys. Along with my dad, John ‘Snipe’ Whittaker started the club. So, the six of us boys were always at the clubhouse to learn as much as we could.
Nothing was hidden from us when we were at the clubhouse. We saw more sex before we hit double digits than anyone else. I had my first drink when I was thirteen years old because I snuck some beer from the bar and ran outside with it. To say I was sick as hell from it would be an understatement. Plus, I got an ass whoopin’ from my dad when he found me out behind the clubhouse. Not because I drank, but because I took it without permission, and he didn’t want to deal with my mom about it. Drugs were never hidden from us either. Any of us who were at the clubhouse on a regular basis knew more about sex and drugs than we should have, but it’s the life we grew up in.
I had sex for the first time when I was fourteen. A friendly club came up for a summer party my dad always hosted, and I had sex with one of the daughters of a member. After that, I never saw her again. But, it wasn’t like I wanted to. She was sixteen and trying to rebel against her own father. Thankfully he didn’t find out because things between the clubs could’ve gone south really quick. That’s not what my intention was. I was a horny teenager and wanted to have sex. That’s all that was on my mind at the time.
Instead of getting a car or truck like most kids in town, I got my first bike when I got my license. I’d been riding for longer than that though. that’s why we built the dirt track and used the dirt paths that litter the compound from when it was a farm. All of us boys got taught to ride dirt bikes and motorcycles from an early age. Our mothers all hated it, but we loved the sense of freedom and time spent with our fathers, uncles, and cousins in the club.
My father was killed when I was twenty-four by a rival club. They wanted to bring drugs into Braedon and my dad refused to let them. The club, Bastards Revivals MC, decided they were going to force our hand and came in anyway. We didn’t back down and my father paid the ultimate price because of it. Needless to say, Bastards Revivals MC no longer exists because we hunted down every last member and made sure they paid for the lives we lost.
By the time I was twenty-four, I found myself running the club in my father’s place. I sure as hell wasn’t ready, but the old timers voted me in instead of Sniper taking over. It wasn’t long after that each of us took our spot among the officers positions and the originals retired, stepped down from their positions, or died for one reason or another. I’ve been to way too many funerals for the men of our club because of the past and I don’t want to attend another one for a long, long time.
The biggest change I’ve made so far is no member, rebel, or ol’ lady is allowed to use any drug. Period. My dad didn’t give a shit and the members were always fucked up on one drug or another. I don’t tolerate it and if there’s even a hint of drug use, the person is out bad, and members are lucky if they only get a beat down from the rest of us before stripping him of his colors. All of his colors. Including the tattoos referencing the club on his body. My thought is if your senses are dulled from whatever your drug of choice is, then you don’t have my back or the back of anyone else in the club. That’s not acceptable in any circumstance. Plus, I’ve seen men get so greedy and be willing to do absolutely anything to get their hands on what they want. A lot of problems I don’t want to deal with have been eliminated because of the bylaw I added.
Because there’s only one member with an ol’ lady, a few of the older women come around to cook and make sure the rebels are keeping the clubhouse clean. My mom is here on a regular basis still to make sure nothing needs to be done. She’s also been known to put a rebel in her place a time or two for not doing what’s expected of them. We give them free room and board while they provide the members with entertainment, cook, and clean the place up.
I don’t ever want an ol’ lady. The things I saw growing up soured me on the entire concept of settling down with one woman for the rest of my life. Plus, I like variety in my pussy. Like some of the other men, I don’t always use the rebels when I need to find release, there’s plenty of places in the surrounding towns to find a piece of strange when I want it. I also don’t ever want to have kids. There’s nothing wrong with kids, but I don’t want them subjected to the life we lead. The same with any woman who would be with me. My only concern is the club and taking us in a direction to ensure we stay in the black, none of us end up behind bars, and no one else in my family leaves in a body bag.
It’s the same way most of the guys in the club think. We only live for the club and love the freedom we have to do who, and what, we want. There’s pussy on tap when we have an itch to scratch, we party when we want to, and don’t have to answer to a single person. Well, other than when the cops come calling. But, we try to avoid those fuckers at all costs.
WALKING IN THE clubhouse after being on the road for the last two days, I’m assaulted with the aftermath of a party. It’s the middle of the fucking day and apparently the club has been living it up while I’ve been gone conducting business trying to ensure the Rossi mafia aren’t going to skin us alive. I want to stop working for them and the only way to do so is to make moves to replace what we do for them with other clubs and men we trust not to fuck them over. Men I’ve personally done other business with over the years since taking over the club. It’s not going to be easy, but I’m slowly trying to make things work.
I’ve been trying to sever ties with the family since taking over the club three years ago. About the only thing I’ve accomplished is ensuring we aren’t at their beck and call anymore. We’ll only be called in when Sal can’t get the job done by the members of the family or their soldiers. He’s not even the head of the damn family; he’s the underboss and handles more business than the actual boss lately for some reason.
“What the fuck is goin’ on here?” I bellow, looking around the destroyed common room.
People jump up from the floor, off the pool table, one of the rebels falls from the top of the bar, and what furniture we have in here. There’s empty bottles of beer and alcohol littering every surface and broken on the floor. Empty food containers are strewn about, some with food still in them. It’s an absolute pig sty and it’s never looked this bad before. I mean, we party, but it looks like fights and a giant orgy took place in here. The whole place smells of sex, stale cigarettes, alcohol, and greasy food. Absolutely disgusting.
“Lash, baby, you’re back,” Mona, one of the rebels, purrs getting off the couch and Talon’s naked body. “I missed you so damn much.”
“The fuck you did. You missed me so much, you fell on Talon’s cock and passed out on him?” I question her, my voice not breaking through whatever fog she’s still in. “It doesn’t even matter because you’re not my ol’ lady and you never will be. Get this fuckin’ place cleaned up or get the fuck out. All of you!”
Mona is in her early twenties, but she looks as if she’s reaching almost forty. Or her late thirties at the very least. The saying rode hard and put away wet definitely applies to this woman. Her hair is dyed red and in desperate need of another appointment at the salon to get it touched up; her roots are more than showing at this point. Mona’s tits are fake as fuck and give me no pleasure because I like a woman to be all natural. She’s desperate to become an ol’ lady for some reason and is always hanging around trying to hear things that don’t concern her. I’ve been keeping an eye on her for a while now.
I’m not going to say I haven’t fucked Mona on more than one occasion because I have. It’s been a while since I have, and she’s been trying to get me to fuck her again. It’s not because of the size of my cock, which is bigger than average. Mona only cares about getting a patch and tat to declare her someone’s property. She’s too desperate though and it’s raised my suspicions for obvious reasons. Especially considering she only wants an officer and not just a regular patched member.
