His response came back immediately:On my way.
While I waited, leaning against my Harley in the parking lot, I made myself a promise. I was going to figure out how to be the man Indira deserved. The man who could get her back. Not the man who’d driven her away by being too stupid to see what he had.
I didn’t know exactly what I’d done wrong—not all of it, anyway. But I knew I needed to be better. Smarter. More careful with what was mine.
Chapter 9
?
— Dutch —
Church the following week was tense from the moment I banged the gavel. I could feel my brothers watching me, weighing every word, every decision. The meeting with our sister chapter had been a disaster—I’d shown up half-drunk and barely coherent.
I stared down at the financial reports in front of me, the numbers blurring together. My head was fucked, had been for weeks, and it was affecting everything. The club deserved better.
I tried to focus on the numbers, tried to make sense of the quarterly projections and expense reports. My mouth opened to address the first item on the agenda, but the words wouldn’t come. I could feel the weight of every gaze on me, waiting for me to pull my shit together and be their president.
I couldn’t do it.
“I need to take a break,” I said suddenly, the words coming out before I’d fully decided to say them.
The room went dead silent. Every head turned toward me, shock written across their faces.
“What?” Holden leaned forward.
“I need to hit the road for a bit. Clear my head.” I looked around the table at my brothers—men who’d trusted me to lead them, who’d watched me fall apart over the past month. “My head’s not in the right place. You all know it.”
More silence. Finally, Colt spoke up. “How long you thinking?”
“Couple weeks, maybe a month. Going to visit my folks in Florida.”
Handful shifted uncomfortably. “Dutch, you don’t have to—”
“Yeah, I do.” I set the gavel down carefully. “I’m no good to this club like this. You need your president sharp, not drunk and chasing ghosts.”
The relief on their faces was obvious, even though they tried to hide it.
“We can handle things,” Colt said. “I’ll take point on day-to-day operations.”
“And if something big comes up, you call me,” I added. “I’m taking a break, not abandoning ship.”
“Course, brother,” Colt nodded. “Whatever you need.” There was something in his tone—not judgment, but recognition. He’d been where I was now, completely fucked up over a woman.
He’d rebuilt himself into someone stronger. I needed to figure out how to do the same thing.
I stood up, suddenly feeling lighter than I had in weeks. “Alright then. Church dismissed.”
As my brothers filed out, I could hear the murmur of relief in their voices.
?
The ride to Florida gave me time to think, which was both a blessing and a curse. My parents had moved there five years ago when my father finally retired from the club, tradingthe president’s house for a modest beach house in a quiet neighborhood where no one knew about their past.
Most retired members stayed local. They’d step back from leadership but stick around, offer advice, show up at family dinners. Not King. When he handed me the gavel, he couldn’t get out of Oregon fast enough. I’d always assumed it was about reinvention, about wanting to be Willem Van Der Berg, respectable retiree, instead of King, former MC president with a past that wouldn’t bear scrutiny.
But now I wondered if it was simpler than that. He couldn’t stand watching someone else run his club. Couldn’t handle being in the building without being in charge. So he’d put three thousand miles between himself and the constant reminder that his reign was over.
I hadn’t visited in over a year. There had always been club business, or some crisis that required my attention, or—if I was being honest—I’d just gotten comfortable in my role as prez and let everything else slide. The club, the women, the constant demands of leadership had consumed my life completely.
