Page 54 of Seizing Control: Part Two

My eyesight wavers.

My stomach sinks.

Why can’t I align my wants and needs without feeling like a fraud?

Next to me, Toker makes the universal dismount sign to me. I shake my head a second time, making my disagreement clear, but he pretends like he can’t see me. My SAA holds his fist in the air to let our club brothers know that we’re coming to a stop, then he circles his hand for them to dismount as well. The dozen Harleys, with the brothers who have traversed the country for me astride them, rumble loudly as we kick down our stands, and pull off our helmets. Almost in unison, we hit our kill switches.

The silence is deafening.

After nine-hours spent on our machines today, we’re all a little bowed legged as we come together to huddle in the deserted rest area at two in the morning. My club brothers are tired, yawning, dusty and dirty. The looks they shoot my way are filled with annoyance and judgment.

I pretend their covert aggravation doesn’t affect me.

But it does.

I’ve never felt more isolated than I do now.

News of my reaction to my son has filtered through the Shamrocks.

Gossip about my abandonment of my wife during her pregnancy runs rife.

Apart from Toker, Cub, and Meeyal, no one has said a word directly to me about it. Their silence doesn’t mean that I remain ignorant to the undertones of disapproval simmering beneath the surface. My club doesn’t understand my behaviour, and their sympathy for my plight is growing thinner by the day.

During my self-imposed exile, I’ve kept them from their families too. I’ve rotated them as much as I can, but it’s still a big ask. They have old ladies and kids. Businesses. Hobbies. Extended family. I messed with their lives because I didn’t have the balls to face my own.

A month ago, when I decided that it was time to set a date to head home, I kept the current contingent with me. It wasn’t a popular choice—four weeks away from their loved ones. The first real exercise of my power as president. The goading comments from Silver in Brisbane, and then Diablo in Sydney, was part of the reason why I headed to the Adelaide chapter for a couple weeks.

Until it started there as well...

I’m the president of the national chapter, yet somehow a laughingstock at the same time.

“I’mma send you home, brothers.” My declaration is met with muted groans. Gloved hands on my hips, I survey them, one by one. “What’s the problem now? I thought you fuckers wanted to be home...”

“My old lady’ll kill me if I come rollin’ in in the middle of the night,” an enforcer tells me. “Wakin’ up the kids, stirrin’ up the dogs... I’d rather catch a couple hours sleep at the compound, then head home and start breakfast for ’em. Least then, my balls’ll be stroked once the kids are at school instead’a skinned.”

“Fine,” I snap back at him. He shakes his head at me, then stalks over to his bike. “I’ll have Torin open up the clubhouse for the brothers who want it... Cub’ll be in contact to organise a full session of church before the end of the week.”

My compromise appeases them enough to back down.

After exchanging goodbyes, complete with handshakes and back slaps, everyone heads for their Harleys again. As they mount up, Toker approaches me. I brace for his interference, ready to deflect whatever helpful piece of advice he thinks he needs to offer me with anger. I’m nearing the end of my rope and the unnatural stiffness in his shoulders alerts me that I’m unlikely to appreciate his meddling. He buys himself some time to find the right words by shoving a piece of gum into his mouth.

“Prez?”

“Spit it out, Sergeant.” The tall man hits me with a gaze that’s filled with equal parts sympathy and reproach. I take in his screwed-up face and the thin line of his lips, and my frayed temper snaps. “For fuck’s sake. Speak freely, Toker.”

“Aye, aye, president, sir.” Like the smartarse he is, Toker salutes me, then kicks his heels together. “Forgot how easy you are to talk to, sir.”

We stare at each other, sizing the other man up as, one by one, the rest of the club ride past us. They slowly fist bump us both before they speed off to head in the direction of the compound. It appears the idea to sleep at the compound is universally accepted when none of them peel off in a different direction.

I feel Toker’s gaze burning a path over my face. “Would ’preciate if you’d stop bein’ an arsehole.”

He chuckles. “Would ‘preciate if you’d stop bein’ a lovelorn loser, but I figure neither of us is gonna get what they want tonight.”

“I’m headin’ home...” Trailing off, I grab the helmet that’s hanging on my handlebar and jam it over my head. “Not sure what the fuck else ya expect from me.”

“You’re a daddy now,” Toker tells me. With a grimace, he repeats the old timers’ reasoning for not heading straight home. “Might wanna rethink the middle’o the night reappearance... Cherub won’t be so happy to see you if she has to deal with a squawking infant.”

When I don’t reply, Toker stomps over to his bike. I follow him, buckling my helmet I go. My entire body vibrates with rage when I shove his shoulder. “You think you know everythin’.”

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