The last time I walked out of the clubhouse I did so with a half-broken rib and split knuckles. Mick didn’t take kindly to my decision to leave the club and his bullshit behind. He gave me the choice, ditch the kutte or ditch my fascination of not living in a jail cell for his ass. I guessed he didn’t think I’d take off the leather, because once I slid it off my shoulders, he had pounced on me. I gave as good as I got, but that didn’t matter. Men I called brothers stood watching our prez attack me. Only a handful of them had worked to break up the brawl and get me out of the club before I got real angry. Those were the few I still kept in contact with.
Stale cigars and beer. The place still smelled the same. I walked across the empty lounge and headed to his office in the back. I could he
