ONE
THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN
STEEL
The table is full, but the room feels empty. You would think after six months, I’d be used to not having my father around, but each day does not get easier. Tonight we have Church. I sit at the head of the table, Tama’s gavel in my hand, the patch on my back is heavy enough to strangle me.
My father’s seat used to own this space, his voice, his presence, his shadow. Now all that’s left is me and the echo of him in every pair of eyes watching.
To my right, Rock, our Sergeant-at-Arms, sits straight-backed and silent. His eyes are always scanning, always guarding. The kind of brother who measures twice and strikes once.
To my left, Crusher, Vice President, and my oldest friend, leans forward on his elbows. He doesn’t say a word, but I can feel the question in him by the raise of an eyebrow.You good, brother?The one I keep ignoring.
Next down the right is City, our Secretary. He has a stack of neat notes in front of him. His gaze and sharp mind are steady. He’s always calculating. He doesn’t speak unless it matters, andwhen he does, it’s usually a problem I didn’t see coming. He’s the type to clock every word in this room, file it, and use it when the moment’s right. Keeps the books, the records, the truth. Everything that could burn us if it ever landed in the wrong hands.
Beside him, Draft, our Treasurer, adjusts his glasses, pen tapping in quiet rhythm. He’s calm and meticulous. He tracks numbers the way Rock tracks threats, down to the last decimal, no mistakes, no excuses.
Across from him, Rampage, our Road Captain, sprawls in his chair, tattoos catching the dim light, boot tapping like he’s counting seconds until we ride again. His hot temper and loyal heart are a dangerous mix.
Throttle, our Enforcer, leans forward with both arms on the table. He’s sporting a big grin masking a mean streak. He’s the kind of man who fights because it’s the only time he feels calm. I trust him with my life, just not with my patience.
Hurricane, our Tail Gunner, sits near the end, quiet and steady. His laughter’s easy, but his loyalty’s steel. If something goes sideways on the road, he’s the one who pulls us home.
Honor, our Chaplain, closes his eyes and murmurs something under his breath, probably a prayer, maybe a curse. Hard to tell these days.
The rest of the patched members, August and Collateral, round out the table, both focused, both deadly in their own way. Behind them, the prospects line the wall. Niko, Killian, Nova, Caine, Will, and James. Six hungry faces, silent and watchful, waiting their turn to bleed for the patch.
They are my brothers. My family. My burden.
I clear my throat. “Club business stands as usual. Prospect rotations stay on schedule. Any retaliation talk ends here. Dog, the traitor that he is, will get what’s coming to him sooner or later. Saints don’t hit blind.”
No one argues. No one agrees. Just that thick silence swallowing the room. The gavel feels foreign in my hand. I bring it down once, sharp.
“Meeting adjourned.”
Chairs scrape. Boots thud. One by one, they file out, voices low, relief almost audible.
Crusher lingers, palm flat on the table, eyes on me. “You did fine, Prez.”
“Fine’s not good enough.”
He smirks. “It never is with you.” Then he’s gone.
Rock pauses on his way out, giving me a steady nod, a silent promise. I can feel the trust there, solid as iron.
Rampage catches my eye at the door, smirks. “You sound just like him.” He means it as a dig, but it lands like a wound.
When the door shuts, I’m alone with the ghosts again.
Dad used to tell me,‘Don’t let love make you weak.’
He said it like gospel. Back then, I thought he meant women. Now I know he meant everything.
The clubhouse hums behind the office door. Boots scuffing tile, low laughter, the clink of bottles, trying too hard to sound normal.
In here, it’s just me.
The silence.
