Sour Cherry(33)

And nothing in the world sounded better than curling up in bed.

****

I’d been given exactly one week to get my affairs in order before confronting my club with my side of the story. Cooper had taken care of Treja and Blondie while Ryder and his old lady had been shipped off to separate holding locations. Conspiracy to commit murder would buy them seven years apiece when they were officially sentenced and I couldn’t imagine it’d been worth it. While Ryder hadn’t killed my father, he deserved every minute behind bars for plotting his murder.

I sat at the oak table, surrounded by the men who’d turned against me under orders, while the acting president opened the meeting. Silence engulfed the room, all eyes on the empty chair at the head of the table. The president’s chair.

The weight of their stares pressed against my chest like an anvil. I’d never been good at public speaking, but this time, my membership and life were on the line. Either they’d condemn me as a traitor or recognize me as a hero. Only giving them all the information would decide my fate.

I told them almost everything.

The exchange. The man with the tattoo who turned out to be my father’s murderer on Ryder’s orders. His involvement with the cartel. Blondie. Everything except that Cooper was a CIA agent. That was his story to tell.

By the end of it, the tension in my chest had tripled. I met my brothers’ gazes head on, ten pairs of eyes, trying to decipher their thoughts. I wasn’t in the wrong. I’d done what I had to in order to survive and I wouldn’t apologize. I wouldn’t let them take off my tattoos with a blowtorch either, but taking the day one step at a time was the only thing keeping me sane.

When nobody spoke, I continued, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Whatever your decision is today, just know Ryder and Amelia warped this club for their own purposes. They got us into some pretty deep shit and I don’t think it was entirely fair to us. We took an oath to ride to the death, but I know we all want to leave this world on our own terms, not with a bullet in our head and blow in our pocket. Continuing the path Ryder laid out for us will make that journey a hell of a lot shorter. But please understand I don’t blame any of you for what happened or for what this club has become.”

I sat back in my chair, snapping my mouth shut before I made things worse.

Juarez, the acting president, stood then and my gaze followed his movements. The gavel in his hand would decide my fate, the old wood responsible for the lives and deaths of many. Club votes were irrefutable and my throat tightened with anxiety.

“We’ve all heard Cherry’s account of matters over the last week—some of us have even witnessed them,” Juarez said. His gaze settled on me, a sad and remorseful expression lingering on his features. “Now we vote.”

All nine of my seated brethren exhaled simultaneously.

“All in favor of electing Cherish Williams as President of the Outriggers Motorcycle Club of Las Vegas, NV, raise your hand.”

I straightened. “Wait. What?”

Every member in the room raised their right hand. Except me.

Shock coursed through my veins as I stood. “You want me to be president?” I asked Juarez.

He sat, setting the gavel on its block, then smiled. “Well, you are Vice President, Cherry. You’re next in line for the chair. We just wanted to know what you had in mind for this club’s future.”

My gaze darted toward the president’s chair and the buzzing sensation in my ears directed my body to follow. Sidestepping behind the seat, I let my fingertips trace the worn leather slowly. Ryder was gone. I’d been called as president. My brethren would vote on and carry out my orders.

I pulled the chair out and carefully planted myself within its comfort. It had nothing to do with the chair and everything to do with feeling of belonging at the head of the Outriggers table. I belonged in this seat. It felt right.

No more running. No guns. No drugs. No blood.

I lifted my chin parallel to the table, placing my hands on its polished surface as I confronted the ten members staring back at me. I inhaled slowly, taking in the scent of wood polish, leather, and motor oil. There was only one thing left to do. “I accept.”





Chapter Thirteen

The election party rocked the entire property. Bikers from all over the city, along with their groupies, drank free beer, made barrel fires throughout the parking lot and danced the night away in celebration. They came up to me in packs, slapping me on the back, shaking my hand.

I even got a nickname from the other clubs, including Satan’s Army.

Sour Cherry.

Sweet like a cherry, but a true sour puss when it came to accepting congratulations. I didn’t so much mind the congrats as I did the attention. This entire party had been thrown on my behalf and I’d been bludgeoned out of my comfort zone upon my acceptance of the post. They said I had to get used to it. Being the first female president broke a lot of barriers between the clubs and surprisingly, they were excited to see what I could do.