Fury reached out and wrapped a hand around the bottle Mason sat on the table between them. “Thanks,” he muttered, not yet certain what his defacto brother-in-law wanted. Mason had shown twenty minutes ago, unannounced, and immediately manufactured a reason for Bethany to leave the apartment. Can’t be good, whatever it is.
“Yeah,” Mason grunted, seating himself across from Fury.
They sat in silence for a minute then Mason sighed heavily and leaned back in his chair. “When Hoss brought you to me, you didn’t tell me who you were. Coulda.” His gaze met Mason’s, and he saw an emotion he couldn’t name working in the man’s eyes. “Didn’t.” Shifting in his chair, Mason’s vest gaped open, the worn leather wrinkling and bending between the patches. “Won my trust, still not comin’ clean.”
“Wasn’t so much a deceit as self-preservation. I earned my name, but how I earned it wouldn’t have gained me any fans back home.” Fury sat forwards, elbows to the table, fingers twirling the bottle. “Knew you—fuck, everyone knew you. Fifteen years after you left the hollers you were one of the biggest employers, making sure you took care of what you left behind. I didn’t have any kind of legacy like that.”
Mason’s eyes bored into him, anger flaring for the first time. “We do what we can in different ways.” Shaking his head, he lifted his bottle and drank. “Won my trust anyway. Every tread along your path was done with others in mind. Loyalty and brotherhood runs deep in you.”
“Brothers are hard to find. Takes work to keep.” Fury shrugged. “Worth everything to hold that close.”
“Truth.” Mason shifted again. “I’m calling for a national vote in four months.”
That statement got Fury’s attention. A national vote for the Rebels generally sat on a five-year cycle. This was not due for at least two years, by his count. “Means folks will be paying attention, and you know why.”
“Oh, yeah. Every fuckin’ member is gonna be glued to their phones, no doubt.” Mason snorted. “Should be. I’m stepping back.”
Fury didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a moment. Mason stepping back was never part of any equation he’d worked in his head about his place in the RWMC organization. Mason stepping back wasn’t part of any world that made sense. “What the fuck you mean?” He finally choked out the question, shocked when Mason laughed.
“Should see your fuckin’ face, man. Jesus.” One corner of Mason’s mouth lifted, but no one would ever say the smile held humor. “Take a breath, brother.”
“Jesus. Warn a man before you drop a bomb like that.” Fury lifted his bottle, draining half of it in one go. “Jesus.”
“Tagging you for national president. This is my official verbal vote.”
This time it felt as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room by Mason’s pronouncement. Time slowed, the clock on the stove taking a year between each second ticking away. Mason’s gaze held steady. There was no disapproval or judgment, just a patient trust.
“No.” Shaking his head, Fury pushed his chair back several inches. “There are a thousand reasons for you to pick any of your inner circle over me, and not a single reason—” He reached out, swiping the bottle off the table and, raising it, drained it as he rose to his feet. There was only one reason he could think of for Mason’s pronouncement, and he was angry at the idea Bethany would factor in this decision. He leaned a fist against the edge of the sink, staring out the window.
Proving once again that he thought his way around all corners of an argument, Mason said the only thing that would reassure Fury. “In spite of who you’re with, not because of it. If you hadn’t bucked me at every turn with Bethy, I would have been talking to you six months ago. You fucked my timing, brother.” That last held a note of humor and Fury twisted, looking over his shoulder to see a true smile on Mason’s face. “Not an easy ask, knowing how she loves you.”
He studied Mason for a moment. Motherfucker’s serious. “Talk to me. If I can’t understand the reasons for this fucked up idea, there’s no chance of convincing anyone else it’s a good idea.” Fury turned, leaning a hip against the counter. “Not that I’m saying this is a good idea, because I want to go on record as it being entirely fucked. This is not a good time for a change in leadership, but if you wanted to step back, then Slate or Bear, fuck…even Tater or Opie would be better picks than me. Slate, for sure.”
“You don’t want the accolades?” Mason barked a laugh. “Good, because there ain’t none.”
“Smart enough to know that’s truth.” Fury shrugged. “Talk to me.”
“Slate or Opie’d be a safe pick, either of ‘em. They’d be good. Stable officers, well-liked brothers, firmly entrenched in the life and the club.” Mason shrugged. “No bad bets there. But this is a club that’s got a good history of growing. I’ve made some bold leaps over the years.”
“Some folks would say a few of those big jumps weren’t your smartest moments.”
“Yeah, but those folks couldn’t see the end game for the moves. I did.” Mason leveled a finger, pointing at Fury’s chest. “You do, too. You see the big picture better than anyone I know. Not quite as good as me, but you got time to hone those skills.” His hand angled towards the refrigerator. “Gimme another beer, be a good host.”
Fury settled back into his chair, sliding one of the bottles he’d retrieved across to Mason. “So you want the club to keep growing? What’s next, international?”
“Fuck, yeah. We got seats at those tables already. The connection with the Hawks in Australia is a big step. Germany is a lock. We got a dozen guys in the service stationed there now and they’ve hooked up with a local club. I’m ready to pass out support patches to their friends, and we both know that’s the first step to rolling a chapter. Italy is the same. We’re already international, just not singing about it yet.” He looked at Fury from under his brows, eyes dancing. “That’ll be your first announcement. I’ve padded your first few months with a wealth of things like that.”
“I agree growing is key, but holding territory here isn’t guaranteed. Still think it’s a bad time for a change, Mason. We’ve not solved the Diamante threat, yet.” Fury leaned back, throwing an arm over the back of his chair. “We don’t want to fight internally, too.”
“Won’t be a fight. Past president stays active for two years. You and me, we’ll be yoked tight together.”
“Two years? Since when?” Fury shook his head. “Never heard that bylaw.”
“First time we’ve had a change in national leadership since I handpicked my team. My rules. You saying you don’t like my rules? What—” Mason grinned and Fury saw an echo of Bethy’s smile. “—you can’t stomach having to deal with me for a couple of years? Fuck, man. You’re my brother in so many ways now, you’re fuckin’ stuck with me for life.”
Bending his head to hide his smile, Fury told Mason, “Talk to me.”
For the next several minutes, Mason outlined his hopes and plans for the Rebels, and as he spoke, Fury grasped the edges of the vision, seeing where a change in strategy would strengthen an idea, and where there hadn’t been enough consideration given to local political climates for another. Their back and forth was lively, a meeting of equals in a way Fury hadn’t experienced with Mason before. It was heady and exciting, and at the end of the conversation, he had a glimpse of the depth and intellectual scope of the man seated across from him.
They were on their next beers when the talk turned somber again. Mason led the way with a quiet statement that sent a chill down Fury’s spine. “You put on that patch, it stops being about you.”
“I know that.”
“I know, you know. But I want to make sure you understand. A member puts on a patch and every decision he makes while wearing that patch reflects on him and his local chapter. Reflects on the club. For each member, it’s about the brotherhood and holding the trust passed to him with the awarding of his center. Brotherhood is all. The bones behind the phrase that rolls so easily off every member’s lips, Rebels forever,”—Fury finished with him, their voices overlapping on the final two words—“forever Rebels.”
“Accountability is a good thing, and every member knows they’re held to the wall by their choices.” Fury nodded.
“You put on that national president’s patch, it stops being about your choices. It stops being about you. From that point onwards, you are the office. The office doesn’t take a vacation, it doesn’t sleep, doesn’t rest, and never goes away. It stops being about the individual, and becomes about the collective membership. Every word that falls from your mouth is measured and weighed, prodded for hidden agendas and favoritism. Every decision is life and death, because you’re a general behind the lines calling for an advance or retreat.” Mason pinned him with a stare. “It is a burden that doesn't shift from your shoulders, ever.”
“Not painting a picture that makes me want to say yes.”
“But, you will.”
Fury heard the rattle of Bethy’s keys in the front door and climbed to his feet. Without a word he walked out, met her in the middle of the living room and wrapped his arms around her, forcing her to lift her bag-laden hands to the sides. “Well, hello to you, too,” she chirped, and he smiled against her neck to hear that sassy tone.
“Missed you, baby.” He pulled back and stared down into her face, smiling.
“Aww.” She pursed her lips and made a clucking noise. “Kiss me already, then take these bags. There are more in the car.”
He leaned in, kissing her deeply as he ran his hands down her arms, unburdening her at the same time. “Go sit with your brother. I’ll get the rest.” He walked her in and pushed her towards his empty seat, knowing from the tilt of her head she was mentally counting the number of empties and that he’d be answering questions later. “Be right back, boss.” Fury walked out, hearing her laugh and already arguing with Mason over who the “boss” was in that scenario.