Page 27 of Tyrant

They boys belong to Preacher. Justice is eleven and Stone is nine. They’re about as rough as they come, but one look from me and they smile back like angels. They stop punching each other and shoving each other around the yard and instead stoop to pick blades of grass and walk the yard with Penny, clearly watching over her and proud as can be of their newfound roles as heroes.

Most of our club names reflect a personality trait, our past, or were born of lifelong nicknames. Often, a man takes a name because it was once an insult and he’s proud to own not just the parts of himself that he likes, but the parts he doesn’t like. In the club, those parts are welcome. We take all of a person, not the parceled-out bits that society deems viable.

Preacher used to be a legit minister. Born a preacher’s kid, he did the whole seminary bit and everything. He prefers the company of us lost souls to those already saved. Ironicallyenough, he says he was always the most lost when everyone was looking to him for guidance. His old lady, Rita, runs one of our clubs right here in Hart. The boys are actually hers from two previous marriages, but Preacher loves them like his own.

Raiden starts giving orders, delegating tasks and dividing men up on the porch. Lark and Henry still look shell-shocked. Raiden’s a natural born leader, not that he’d ever believe me. I’ve wanted to make him club VP since I became prez.

There are six separate areas in the yard that need attention and Raiden divides everyone accordingly. The smaller groups are already moving off, eager to work, when Lark turns to her brother in panic.

“Oh my god, Ray. How are we supposed to feed everyone?”

“Take Jodie and go to the store.” Jodie is Atlas’ old lady. She’s fairly new to the club. They’re both young. He’s Hart born and raised, but he met her in Seattle one night, put her on the back of his bike and rode her off into the sunset.

Of course, I think that’s fucking romantic.

Bikers are all heart when it comes right down to it.

“She’ll help you get burgers, hot dogs, buns—the whole lot.”

Jodie nods eagerly. She has a full head of natural blonde hair. She’s model tall and thin. It would be ungentlemanly of me to comment on the authenticity of her assets, or where Atlas might have met her, but it’s easy for most men to see why he fell head over heels in love. More like head over cock with the heart coming later, but it’s all the same in the end.

“I can work the grill. Don’t worry about Penny. She’ll be happy and safe here with us.”

Lark narrows her eyes, but when they sweep over the yard, I see only gratitude. “Okay. If you think that’s enough.”

“Grab about thirty boxes of ice cream sandwiches and you’re golden,” Raiden responds.

“Picnic?” One of the kids shouts from the yard.

“Cookout?” Another asks.

They’re used to the club hosting events for the community, and there’s palpable excitement. Though those events usually devolve into hard kid-free partying at the clubhouse after.

“I wasn’t thinking. Let me go see if I can round up another grill.” I planned on getting my hands dirty, but food is equally important.

“Need help?” Raiden asks.

“Nope. I’ll take my bike and bring your truck back with it.” Lifting our beast of a stainless-steel grill into the back of the truck by myself is no biggie. My manly pride will suffer a blow if I bring the thing here dented to shit.

Raiden grins, reading my mind. He tosses me his keys. “See you soon, Prez.” He claps his hands and shoots down the porch steps, making suggestions about which plants should go where. They’re all in the trucks, cars, and vans so far, overflowing the vehicles like we’re getting ready to put together a parade float, but Raiden doesn’t even need to see what we brought to start planning. He’s got his phone out and apparently there are apps that tell a person where to put shit, so it thrives.

Lark is just as surprised as I am, at least about the flowers. We both know her brother is brilliant, but if he has a passion for gardening, he’s kept it close to his chest.

We share a guarded expression with each other that reeks of guilt. This is the same man who we are going to put another knife into sure as that bastard did in prison.

I give her a nod and turn, spinning away to get down to business no matter how much I long to stand there with her. I’m half sick with guilt and longing and it’s a near lethal combination.

I zip back to the clubhouse on my bike, enjoying the way hot, sticky air always turns refreshing on a bike. No wonder people feel like they can breathe out here.

I wrestle our huge grill onto the back of Raiden’s truck without much trouble at all. It’s heavy, but the truck box is low and shifting one end up onto the tailgate and getting up to pull it all the way in isn’t a challenge. We have a gym in our compound. I’ve hit it hard and consistently since I was a teenager, but it finally took after Lark left. Probably because I was going at it twice as hard in an effort to forget. After becoming prez, it’s one of those things that helps you forget about the stress of the job.

We have all sorts of tools lying around our auto repair shop across the street from the clubhouse and it doesn’t take me long to find a strap to secure the chrome beast of a grill in place.

Driving Raiden’s bitchy truck back through town is another matter. I can handle anything with an engine, but Christ. I think this particular truck was made just to irritate the hell out of a guy. I have no idea how Raiden gets it to cooperate. I remember him grinding gears when he drove me to Archer’s, but I thought that was just distraction.

Archer did a bunch of tests which were mostly just annoying, took a whole lot of blood, tested it right in front of us, and went through it. The shot of it is that I’m fine. He gave me some pills to help with the migraines, and a whole bunch of advice that I didn’t listen to. I can use the fucking internet just as well as the next person.

Pulling back up to Raiden’s, I leave the truck parked in the middle of the street. Most people are going to take a look at all these bikes and take a detour anyway.

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