I’m sitting at the official Black Fist Long Island Motorcycle Club bar, which right now is just this shitty plank of wood across some concrete blocks. But hey, we’ve only been a club for a week. A custom-made bar with a 1974 Harley Davidson carved into the front of it will be arriving next week, and until then…I look down at my forearms. I guess until then I just live with the splinters. Or start wearing long-sleeve shirts.

I take another swig of my whiskey, feeling the burn all the way down. God, that tasted good. Maybe I should just make a date with the whiskey bottle tonight. It’s making me feel better than anything else has in a…

Well, in a week.

I push the whys of that away. I'm not going to dwell on that tonight.

“Hey boss,” one of the new initiates says, slapping me hard on the shoulder, “what do you think about taking me into the ring in the back? I’d like some hand-to-hand combat training.” I stare at him, trying to even remember his name. 

I can’t.

With a growl, I turn back to the bar and throw back another shot of whiskey. There’s a part of me that knows I should slow down, but I’m ignoring it for now.

I know I should also be spending time with the initiates, training them, bonding with them, not just sitting around and drinking. Basically, I’m making one fucked up leader at the moment, but I also don’t seem to be able to make myself care. Maybe tomorrow I’ll care.

“C’mon man, don’t you know? He’s got girl problems.” Hammer sneers the word “girl,” and I tense up. I want to come out swinging, beat the motherfucker into the ground, but it just seems like too much work.

I slump further onto my barstool, too beaten to even stand up. 

Goddammit, they’re right – I do have girl problems.

More specifically, I have Becca problems. For the last week, I’ve done nothing but moon over her. It’s so pathetic, I want to go out and kick my own ass.

I haven’t mooned over a girl like this since junior high. What was it about Becca that got under my skin so deeply?

Her smile...

Her sense of humor...

Her intelligence...

Not her taste in decorating…

That last one makes me smile. I guess no woman is perfect, and Becca and her obsession with pink, fluffy shit sure keeps her from being perfect.

But does that really matter? In the long run, would it matter if I had a black blanket or a pink one on my bed, as long as Becca is the one who's in that bed with me?

I slosh some more whiskey into my glass, ignoring the ongoing jabs from my brothers, letting them fade into the background. What they think doesn’t matter. I’m the head of this MC; they aren’t. They can give me shit if they want, but no one will question my supremacy.

But I don’t drink the newly-poured tumbler of whiskey. I just swirl it around and around, as if staring into its amber depths will reveal some sort of magical information that I didn’t know before. 

Like...

When Becca was escaping into the clubhouse, hiding from the world within our walls, she was choosing to escape and be with me. That’s what she wanted – to be with me. 

I could come with you…

She’d offered that day. She’d begged me that day. And I was too stubborn and bullheaded and stupid to say yes to her generous offer. Why? Because that’s who I am? What a load of bullshit. Well, Mr. I-Always-Tell-The-Truth, here’s some truth:

I was scared. I was scared of feeling something for her. I was scared to fall in love. 

Except, I already had.

I stand up from the bar and wobble around on my legs like a sailor just getting back to dry land, the world swimming in front of my eyes. Goddammit, I’m too drunk to drive myself to the Manhattan clubhouse.

“Come on, Butch, let’s go,” I say, picking him out of the crowd because he owns a truck. He can drive. 

Also, I can get coffee on the way from Starbucks or whatever. I needed to be sober for this one. 

It’s time to stop feeling sorry for myself.

It’s time to start reaching for what I want.

For who I want.