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Ten Months Later
Beer at the clubhouse always tasted better.
I don’t know what my father put in this shit, but I craved it when I was away from home. Which just lately had been more often than not. I took a sip from my glass and placed it back on the concrete beside me before picking up my spray bottle and coating the wheel of my motorcycle in cleaner.
“You spend more time cleaning that motorcycle than you do riding it these days,” Ripley teased loudly as he strolled out of the clubhouse and over to the garage where I had my bike set up on a stand.
He wasn’t wrong.
I cleaned her before I left to go away for business, and I cleaned her when I got back. If I was lucky, I had time to ride her before I left again. Otherwise, she’d just be pushed back into the garage until I came home.
There were days now where I felt more comfortable in a car than on a motorcycle I’ve been riding since I was fourteen. A motorcycle that was custom made and painted for me because I wasn’t just a member of The Exiled Eight MC, the club ran in my blood, my great grandfather one of the original eight, the founders.
There were expectations about the man I was meant to be.
The role that I’d take.
And a few years ago, if you’d asked me, I’d have been scared as hell to admit I wasn’t sure I wanted them. I’d spent a long time trying to work out this puzzle that was my life, trying to make the pieces fit to please the club and my family, but it was never going to. Because as it turned out, it wasn’t the passion for club life that I inherited from my family.
It was my love for the business.
My grandfather started the club’s building business when he was in his fifties with just him and a few guys from the club fixing leaky roofs and building small extensions for locals, their work known for quality and reliability. When my dad took over as club president, he saw potential.
A way for the club to make money.
A way for his men to build skills and workmanship, and have at least one income coming in that was legitimate in case others were shut down.
I took over a few years back after going to business school and graduating with a minor in architecture. Sure, my dad saw business potential, but I saw a future for the company that was beyond everything people thought we could achieve. It had its ups and downs, but we were now on a path no one could have predicted, and the opportunities were absolutely fucking insane.
Only with those opportunities came choices that needed to be made.
“Truth be told, I’m kind of fucking enjoying Boston. Vegas will always be home, but I think I was built for the cold, not the desert,” I answered, grabbing my scrubbing brush and attacking the dust and water spots on the inside of the wheel and spokes. Boston really had become home. The opportunities there are almost endless, not to mention I’d found a group of friends there who reminded me of the brotherhood I missed when I was away from Vegas. “Though I feel like I’m living out of a damn suitcase.”
“You know there’s a pretty simple fucking solution to that.”
I paused, looking over my bike to see my father standing beside my brother, who had a smug grin plastered on his face. I dropped the scrubbing brush and got to my feet, collecting my beer as I stood. “What? Is this an intervention or something?” I joked though I wondered how far I was from the truth when the stern look on Dad’s face didn’t change.
Not that it wasn’t normal.
My dad was Huntsman, president of the Exiled Eight MC, and well known for being one of the most un-fuck-with-able people in Nevada. An ex-Navy SEAL, he got his nickname from his ability to find anyone. It’s a skill he’s still well-known and sought out for, but these days for different reasons.
To a lot of people, he’s a guy they would cross the street to avoid, his long beard and constant heavy frown would do that. But to me, he’s the one who taught me everything I knew about loyalty, true family, and fighting for the things and the people you give a shit about.
“Not an intervention, a conversation,” my dad corrected.
Probably the conversation I’d spent the past few months trying to avoid like the fucking plague. While I’d settled into my role at the company, it still wasn’t easy thinking about leaving this place I called home permanently.
I could give all the reasons why.
How I’d miss my brothers.
How I wouldn’t be able to support them like I should.
But when it came down to it, I knew the stirring and uncertainty in my gut about leaving was because I didn’t want to be her.
My mom.
“Hey, Drake, are you going to be here for the Silver Ridge Apartment opening?” Zoey called out as she strolled toward us from the clubhouse with a folder in her hands, her timing damn perfect if you asked me. “We’re having a party next Friday night, but Huntsman said you’re heading back to Boston.”
