Vistas now. A local bar was formerly called The Steph Arms after Marks’ only daughter. We remodeled the fussy bar into our clubhouse and named it after my brother-in-law and one of the men to help me claim Elko.
Rooster’s Tavern draws plenty of locals and people from nearby towns. We even get tourists from that elevated highway passing by. The I-259 looms large over Elko, tempting people with the world outside this small burg. Most of them will never leave Ohio, though.
With a great menu and pretty waitresses, the Tavern is in the black in a way Steph’s old place never could be. The bar has two sections—one for the Executioners and another for the customers. Once a fancy gathering place no one ever gathered in, the renovated back area is where I spend many nights.
Summer and Sidonie are used to their dad heading off in the evenings while their aunts or my VP’s wife watches them. The girls and I eat dinner together. I help with homework. A few nights a week, I stay home and watch a movie with them. Summer isn’t as keen on me these days, but Sidonie still thinks her old dad hangs the moon.
Many of the men in the Executioners are just as fucking fond of me. I’ve done right by them. Made them money, offered opportunities, didn’t bust their balls over small things, and let them speak up when they wanted. I’m usually a nice guy. But then, sometimes, I’m not.
That’s why I get to be president, and they don’t. Well, that and I’ve never lost a fight. As soon as I get a whiff of violence, I switch back to the mean little fucker I was as a young man. Once my temper stirs, there’s no pain I can’t endure, and no line I won’t cross. Hell, I’ll bite a guy’s dick off to win a fight. Young Bronco was a soulless fuck, and he still lives inside me.
That’s why most of the men in the club never even consider challenging me to a fight. Of course, I let anyone who wants a chance at the crown to give it a shot. If they think I’m not up to running shit, they can win the club from me.
Some have tried, but none since my Road Captain lost a testicle. When I’m fighting, I don’t care who the other guy is. Lifelong friend, blood relative, doesn’t mean shit. I turn off everything inside me except rage. The person I’m fighting disappears, and I just see my old man.
My Sergeant at Arms is a giant man that might have a shot at taking me down. His fist is nearly the size of my fucking head. One punch might end me, but Anders doesn’t want my spot. He also views me as his fucking messiah, bringing him out of the darkness. Still, if we ever go at it, I might not be the president of the Executioners for much longer. That thought is always in the back of my mind.
The only man in my club willing to challenge me these days is my nephew, Wyatt. He feels the president’s job is his birthright. His daddy, Rooster, and his mama, Bambi, never could tell him no. My sister and her man didn’t think they’d have any kids. Then they got Wyatt and his sister, Taryn, in quick succession. They wanted more, but two is what they got. I don’t think Wyatt would be as big a shithead if he hadn’t been a miracle baby.
“Didn’t think you still had any bullets left in the chamber,” Wyatt taunts when he enters the back room. My nephew looks a lot like his old man, but he inherited too much of his mama’s soft features. There's something that doesn’t look right in his otherwise handsome face. He tries to hide his soft features with a beard, but it doesn’t work. I’ve always wanted to punch the pretty off his face and see if it improved his look. I never did, of course. Bambi would lose her shit if I fucked up her boy.
But if Wyatt keeps pushing for a battle, he’ll learn the hard way why I don’t lose fights. Nephew or not, I’ll tear that boy apart to win. He can cry and beg, and I’ll just see my dad. I’ve warned him how once I walk down that dark path, turning back isn’t easy. Every single time, he just smiles. Fucking dipshit.
“When will your bullets hit the target?”