Page 8 of Ruger's Rage
The Grim Vultures will see our change in leadership as an opportunity.
There will be challenges to face, territory to defend, respect to earn.
But for now, at this moment, what matters is that she's safe. What matters is breaking the cycle of violence that's been festering in our club for too long.
As I help her to her feet, preparing to take her to the private doctor who handles club business without raising a single question, I make a silent vow to myself and to her: I will be a different kind of President.
I will rebuild this club on a foundation of true brotherhood, of loyalty that goes beyond patches and cuts.
And I will never, ever look the other way again when someone I love is suffering.
CHAPTERONE
Ruger
Present Day…
The leather of my Harley vibrates beneath me as I pull into the gravel parking lot of Backroads Bar & Grill.
It's been three years since I became President, three years since I exiled my uncle Striker, and the weight of the patch on my cut still feels strange sometimes.
But tonight isn't about club business.
The late summer air is thick with humidity, and the neon sign above the door flickers, half the letters burnt out.
This place has been our unofficial neutral territory for years—a shitty little dive where even rival clubs can drink without any blood being shed.
I swing off my bike, Ounce and Bloodhound by my side like they always are.
We can't be too careful these days, not with the rumors we've heard about Striker.
Ounce mutters, nodding toward the bar's window. "You seeing what I'm seein'?"
Through the grimy glass, I catch sight ofher.
The new bartender Aunt Ellie mentioned during Sunday dinner last week.
My eyes lock on the woman behind the bar, and everything else fades to the background.
She's fucking gorgeous.
Curves that would make a grown man weep, and hair like rich chocolate that falls in waves past her shoulders.
But it's the way she moves that captures my attention—quick and efficient, but with a wariness that tells me she's been burned before.
"Tildie," I murmur to myself, remembering the name Ellie had mentioned.
Bloodhound looks up at me from his phone, obviously not paying attention. "What's that, Prez?"
"Nothin'. Let's go."
We push through the door, and the familiar scent of stale beer and fried food hits me.
The place is half empty, which is typical for a Tuesday night.
A few regulars nurse their drinks at the bar, and I spot Decorum playing pool in the back with Krypto.
Ellie looks up from wiping down tables, her face lighting up when she sees me.
