Chapter 21: The Cut

Rafe's POV

Nobody in that hall moved for the length of a breath.

Dutch stood at the head of the table with his hands loose and his cut still on his shoulders.

I had known him as a prospect with a hungry grin who carried my saddlebags without being asked.

I knew exactly what he was going to do.

"You want it, Norman?" he said. "Then you take it off me yourself."

Norman didn't move. He was an old man, and he knew better.

The gray-goateed rider by the door stood up first.

"I'll do it," he said.

Two more patches came away from the wall.

The sergeant at arms drew a folding knife from his belt and opened it.

Dutch backed up a step, and his eyes found me.

"You," he said. "You did this."

"You did it ten years ago."

He came across the room in three strides and swung.

I saw it coming. I could have caught his wrist or stepped inside it.

I let the fist land on my jaw instead.

It rocked my head. The taste of blood filled my mouth.

I stood there.

"Hit me again," I said. "Go on. They're all watching."

Dutch stared at me, breathing hard, his hand still raised.

For the first time I saw him see the room.

Forty men, and not one of them was coming to help him.

"Get him out," Norman said quietly.

They took him by both arms and walked him out through the steel door.

The rest of us followed into the gray morning lot.

Fifty bikes stood in the frost.

Dutch stood in the middle of the gravel.

The gray-goateed rider held one arm, and the sergeant at arms held the other.

The sergeant cut the leather at the shoulder seam.

The rocker came away in a strip, and the club's name went down into the dirt.

Keep reading free with an account. Start I Caught Him in the President's Office, So I Painted My Own Name from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.