Page 6 of Dash

The men rapped their knuckles on the table to show their approval of this.

Monty, an older man with light gray hair, which he wore loose past his shoulders, and a matching long beard, smiled. It brightened his craggy face and his almost black eyes. The man was not known to be a jovial person. To see him smile, and know the pride in his club, was damn inspirational.

Once the men quieted, Teller continued with the more mundane items on the agenda. “Bills are paid. Lights will stay on in the clubhouse, the strip club, and the garage. Booze delivery is due later today. Three months paid in our ride fund. Dues, well dues are another thing. Three of y’all are outstanding.” He glanced around, his gaze lingering on a few men longer than others.

More grumbling in response, but no one offered anything.

“Does the ride fund include the Rally in Ohio?” Whiskey, a young army vet new to the club, asked. It would be his first time riding with the club as a full patch. Dash couldn’t help the grin from spreading on his face. To say Whiskey was eager to attend was an understatement.

“Yeah, it’s included,” Teller said as he bobbed his head up and down.

“So, then, we have one final matter of business,” Monty said with a sigh. His chair creaked as he leaned forward over the table, resting on his elbows, the joy in his expression lost to the weight of what he’d share with his brothers. Joy was fleeting for the man who headed the mother chapter of their national one percent motorcycle club. He wore the face of a man weighed down by the world’s problems.

Dash surveyed the room, measuring the responses from the surrounding men. More than half had served their country, including himself, and wore the blank expressions of trained soldiers waiting for their next order. Old habits die hard.

Clearing his throat, Monty stared at the logo on the table. “Bowie’s in a bad way. Lung cancer. We gotta send some boys to Ohio to help out our brother.”

Clark, Montana’s former Sergeant at Arms, had taken the promotion to Vice President when Odin’s Fury patched over the Roughneck Riders in Ohio. They needed to get the guns from Ohio so they could move them through the Montana and New York chapters up to Canada.

“At final church, Bowie will recommend Clark for president,” Monty announced. He paused and sat back in his chair while his dark eyes shifted over each of his officers.

Everyone in that room knew six months wasn’t enough time for Clark to get a feel for the men in that club. Maybe, if they had found an exceptional hang around, they could have one solid prospect, but even that was unlikely. The club had been a husk when they’d left after the patch over. Some trash still needed to get taken out. Monty trusted Clark enough to sniff it out and get rid of it.

“I’m sending Dash up to be acting VP until Clark can find someone else,” Monty declared.

It wasn’t a question. It was an order from his president, from the president of the mother chapter of Odin’s Fury Motorcycle Club, his motorcycle club. Dash bowed his head. “I go where my club needs me to go.”

He didn’t have a woman; he didn’t have kids. He could go wherever. That was the life. He’d signed up for this when he took that cut, when he agreed to prospect. He knew it when he earned his colors.

“Prez.” Romeo waited to be acknowledged. Monty pointed the gavel at him before putting it on the table. “If Bowie’s bad, Sparrow won’t wanna stay in Montana. So, I’ll go too, offer what I can.” Sparrow came from Ohio and was a club daughter of Bowie’s club. She had a special place in her heart for Bowie. It made sense she’d want to be there if he was in a bad way, and even more so that her Ol’ Man would want to go with her.

The president steepled his fingers against his bearded chin—the tips rested against the underside of his bottom lip. He stared at Odin’s profile on the table in the heavy silence. Dash wasn’t sure how long Monty had been the leader of the motorcycle club. It’d been well over a decade at a minimum. In Dash’s twelve years, he’d had the same president the whole time: Monty.

“I’d hoped you’d take the SAA spot in Dash’s absence,” Monty said without taking his eyes off Odin. Dash suspected Monty’s hesitance to Romeo going to Ohio had more to do with the circumstances of how Sparrow became his Ol’ Lady and less to do with his need to fill the SAA position. It’d been a bit messy with fist fights, gunshots, and Bowie having to send one of his newer patches to Nástrond. It’s never pleasant to have killed one of their own—no matter the circumstances.

“You can’t expect the boy to send his woman out there alone,” Tex drawled while his fingers smoothed down his dark Fu Manchu mustache peppered with gray hairs. “Especially with the history in Ohio.” His thick southern accent often made him sound drunk, at least to Dash. That, and the ever-present tequila in his hand.

Monty seemed to physically chew on his words with the way his jaw moved. His dark eyes scanned each of the officers at the table. It made sense to appoint Romeo to Dash’s spot—they worked almost identically. It’d be a seamless transition. While the responsibilities were different, Enforcer and Sergeant at Arms, Romeo grew up in the club. He knew what to do.

“Mittens,” Monty said.

Dash couldn’t help but snort a laugh at the most ridiculous road name he’d ever heard, though the thick necked Eastern Bloc former MMA fighter turned biker wasn’t a laughing matter—kooky road name or not.

“You’re temporary SAA until Dash comes back.” Monty looked around the table. Their club fighter dipped his chin in agreement with the assignment. “Anyone object?” he asked his officers.

When no one made a sound, Monty brought the gavel down.

“I’m still not convinced everyone in Ohio has bought in,” Rooster, the potbellied road captain of Odin’s Fury, Montana Chapter chirped.

He hadn’t even gone along for the patch over, yet he knew everything. The ginger mohawked biker gossiped more than the club whores and Ol’ Ladies combined. Dash swore he held weekly kaffeeklatsch.

Teller, the club secretary, hummed. “I ain’t been in a while, but from what I saw, there are a few I would trim.”

“You trim too much, and a nice fat T-bone steak dinner becomes nothing more than a skimpy appetizer, and we go hungry,” Tex warned.

“Ohio is an uphill battle,” Monty agreed in his gruff tone. “Bring Whiskey.” All eyes went to the newly patched biker. “No one knows him. He can pose as a potential hang around, and maybe get the gossip the rest of us won’t hear,” he suggested.

This would mean the new guy, who had just earned his colors, would have to leave them behind. Internally, Dash felt for the guy. The stitching was still sparkling white. He bet the newbie slept in his cut. Dash had. To leave it behind would be like being skinned.

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