Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 105803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I take the beer. “Come on, let’s get the official bullshit out of the way and then let's party.”
A calmness settles over the room as I walk down a long, carpeted aisle and take my place in an enormous wing-backed chair sitting at the far end of the room. It’s a massive chair, leather bound and gilded.
Priest, one of the seven legacy members, appears in front of me holding the medieval longsword affectionally nicknamed the Sabre Tooth.
Usually the antique sword lies on hooks in the old stone chapel on the property where we hold Church. It's as old as the castle and was found by one of the original members of the club when they moved into the ruins decades ago. Ever since then, it has been used to knight every brother into the club and announce every president as the reining sovereign.
“Adam Vale, first born to Dodger Vale, do you accept your role as president of the Knights of St. Boniface motorcycle club?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Do you vow to serve your club as a good and wise president? Who will take no bullshit and protect and serve those in the club and of the town of St Boniface?”
“I do,” I say.
“Then with the power that is the religious pillar of this motorcycle club, I officially proclaim you as president.”
The room erupts with celebratory cheers and wolf whistles as my brothers celebrate their new prez.
“Now let's fucking party!” Priest cries.
Music bursts into the room as my brothers start the party that will rage well into the morning. The club girls come into the room, followed by the old ladies and girlfriends piling in behind them.
Lars hooks his arm around my neck. “Come on, Mr. President, let’s get fucked up.”
An hour later, I take a break from the festivities to sit at one of the tables. Viking joins me, bringing me another beer.
“So now that you're officially president, you know what comes next,” he says, taking a seat next to me.
“Not this again,” I groan. “Can't I enjoy my night before worrying about it?”
One of the many problems of becoming president isn’t the weight of responsibility that comes with ruling over a club. I’ve got big enough shoulders to carry them.
No, the biggest fucking problem is the tradition of every president having to be married. From the beginning, the Knights have known the value of a good old lady. She can make or break a president. And it is a rule that all unwed presidents must wed within the first six months of their inauguration. Which doesn’t bode well for me since I haven’t indulged in a woman in years, let alone wanted one as my old lady.
But it’s tradition. And we uphold tradition like it’s written in the bible in this club.
“No time like the present, as they say. Take a look around the room. Do any of the beauties here tonight tickle your fancy?”
“I don’t need to find a wife tonight, Viking,” I remind him.
“No, but do I need to remind you that you’ve only got six months to get it done.”
I want to tell him I want a wife as much as I want a hole in my head.
But he’s got a point. The clock is ticking rapidly toward the deadline for me to find a bride.
“I'm aware of my responsibilities,” I mutter, taking a pull on my beer.
“You talk like a man who finds the idea of a wife a vile thing. I'll tell you now, son, there's nothing quite like a warm set of open arms waiting for you at the end of the day. Especially for men like us. After the shit we see and the fucked up shit we have to do. Take yourself a wife. Fulfill your commitments. Reign ruthlessly during the day and refill the well by fucking your wife long and hard into the night. It’s the only way to keep sane.”
“I’d rather keep myself sane by sleeping alone and not having a woman to worry about.”
But Viking ignores me. Just like he has all the other times he’s brought it up.
“My wife has a niece, a lovely lass—”
“No!” I say firmly. “No blind dates, no setups. I'll figure it out myself.”
“Well, you'd better do it soon, son. If you don't fulfil your commitments, your position in the club could be challenged.”
I don’t bother hiding my irritation. I’m well aware of my responsibility. I know I need a wife. But here’s the fucking kicker. It has to be a genuine union. A president cannot enter a marriage of convenience. It has to be a true connection. One that shows unity and strength. Or, you guessed it, my presidency could be challenged.
It's like a fucking curse.
Lars falls into the chair beside me. So far tonight he’s celebrated with a lot of wine, and his eyes are gleaming with trouble. He pats the front of my cut with the back of his hand. “Sophia has brought her cousins tonight. Two very excitable girls who would like to spend the night with the new president and his best friend.”