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PART TWO
Nine years later
“Denying colliding fates is to not give a fuck about the creator of life.”
~ Legend, President of the Steel Stallions
Chapter nine
Holding Rebels and Fate
Lynx
Burying emotions can be a dangerous game, but I continued to do what was needed over the years. You either become a basket case or an even more rebellious motherfucker.
I chose the latter, always taking walks on the wild side because I lacked the caution and maturity to do anything else. If it didn’t suit, I bucked.
I roared.
I fought.
And… I killed.
So, why ‘Prez’ thought I should become Vice President after our Lucifer was taken down was complete fuckery in my opinion.
Legend had calmed down over the years… He became this wise fucker who got on my nerves, more than when he had been a loose cannon. At least when he was volatile, I could relate to him. Now? Ol’ mighty mature one? Fuck off.
Clueless to what the Stallions saw in me, I assumed all the old bastards had finally started going senile. I felt the VP position should go to Dagger. He was a lifer, after all. But that damn honorary father figure of mine refused the title, causing a chain reaction within the club.
With a new patch sewn to my cut, I was shoved into the VP seat at the table.
Dumbfounded, and feeling utterly unprepared, I stared up at all the men gazing at me as if so pleased to see Legend’s dream coming true.
I was incapable of meeting the demands Legend required of me, and I needed him to recognize this fact. So, again, I bucked. The heavy VP responsibilities didn’t stop this rebel from earning more stripes. I forged ahead, looking for a way out of this leadership role. But, as many know, the only way ‘out’ is to be put to ground.
So be it.
It looked like that opportunity had come when Legend and I ran into trouble with some cartel members. When I say ‘trouble,’ it would be more accurate to say I—the dumbass rebel—kicked a hornet’s nest without the back-up needed to help finish the fight I’d once again started. It was unusual, but Prez and I were on our own. Dagger, nor Vice—our newly appointed Enforcer—were with us when the Mexicans decided to teach a loud-mouthed, wet-nosed biker a lesson.
Prez had tried to reel me in but failed. So, always with balls of steel, he defended me and was paying the price.
Not able to fight off the men restraining me, I was forced to watch ten men overpower that proud Prez. Yes, ten. It was like witnessing a hero fall from the sky.
The cold heart in my chest began to bleed. This loyal man hadn’t deserved this.
“Take me!” I boomed at the top of my lungs, stopping every man involved in the struggle. We were in New York, very far from our home turf in Austin. So, I had to do something to prevent Legend from falling into the wrong hands.
“No!” challenged Prez, more to me than the men restraining him.
With a strong Spanish accent, a man snarled, “Why would we want the VP when we can have El Jefe?”—Head Honcho.
I wanted to ask why the fuck the cartel was in mafia-land to begin with, but there was no time for more of my insolence. For once, I needed to put someone else ahead of my ego.
I stared at the legendary Prez, silently apologizing as I said, “Because… I’m his son.”
I had just given away key information—dangerous for me and the club.
Legend started fighting even harder, struggling madly against their hold. “He’s lying! He’s on fucking drugs!” Due to the cold weather, his hot and angry breath appeared to be steam from a dragon getting ready to spew fire.
