Free In Dark Woods (Signal Bend Series #4.5) by Susan Fanetti Page A

From before that. Big Ike was shit at the head by the end, and you know it. You started leading from the seat I’m in right now.”
    Isaac sat now in the President’s seat because there was no option. He wouldn’t take a brother’s chair, even when only he and Show were in the Keep. “Everything that’s gone down for the past three years is on me, Show. Worst run of trouble in the club’s history, and it’s on me. The Horde needs a change. And I still can’t ride. Can’t be Horde if I’m not on the road. The head of the table can’t go empty forever.”
    “You know why you’re good at the head? Because you don’t act on your own. You bring everybody in, give us all the information you’ve got, and tell us what you think. We trust you because we’re all in it together. So you didn’t drag us into our trouble. We rode in with you. At your side.”
    Show leaned back. “And you’ll ride. You got your legs back. Get ‘em strong again, and you’ll ride.”
    Isaac swiveled the President’s chair and looked up at the pristine black kutte, with its bright white patches, hanging on the wall. The kutte C.J. had destroyed had been on Isaac’s back for twenty years. For all the tender care he’d paid it over those decades, it had clearly shown the ravages of the life he’d lived in it. The leather had been soft, the pebbled texture worn mostly smooth. The patches had been discolored and stained, foxed around the edges, the embroidery thread plucked and frayed.
    It seemed an absurdity, even an abomination, for a President to wear an unused, unsoiled kutte.
    But maybe what it really was…was a second chance.
    He turned back to Show. “I won’t wear it until I can ride. You know the rules. Don’t bend ‘em for me. I’m not at the table until I can ride.”
    “And then you’re at the head?”
    Isaac paused and thought. For ten months, he’d been certain that he was no longer fit to lead—if he ever had been at all. For ten months, he’d pushed away any thought of being able to stay in the club at all.
    “I want it put to a vote. But the club wants me there, then yeah. At the head.”
    Show stood and slapped Isaac on the shoulder. “Good man. Your bike’s in the bays. Boys cleaned it up for you.”
     
    ~oOo~
     
    His legs already feeling tired and shaky, Isaac leaned a little heavier on the horse-head stick as he walked back to the bays.
    He laughed when he w ent through the doors. His bike, a 2009 Dyna Fat Bob, all matte black and badass, was dead center, with a spot shining down on it. Like it was Excalibur or something. He expected angels to sing and harps to play. He wondered whose idea the pomp was. Probably Omen. He could definitely see Omen doing something so lame. And awesome.
    He fucking loved this bike. It wasn’t flashy. Just big and mean. Raw power. It felt like part of his body when he rode. He ha dn’t been on it in ten months—fuck, he’d barely laid eyes on it in ten months. Just a fleeting glimpse the day he’d told Show to get rid of it.
    Stroking the handlebars, the gas tank, the saddle, he almost sat astride it. But then he pulled back.
    No. Not yet.
    Ride or die.
    He would fucking ride.
     
    ~oOo~
     
    Isaac had wanted to wait outside the Keep, but Show wouldn’t hear of it. So he stood back by the door, his heart in his mouth, while the Horde voted.
    The club was different now. The last time he’d been in this room when the whole club was at the table, Bart, C.J., and Vic had seats. Since then, Vic had been sent to meet his Maker as a traitor. C.J. had nearly brought the whole club down. He’d nearly brought Isaac down, too. And Lilli had killed him for it.
    And Bart had given up his patch to save the Horde.
    Now, Omen and Dom were patched in, and they had three new Prospects Isaac barely knew . He’d have to get to know them, though, because the vote had circled the table to Show, who’d elected to vote last.
    Sitting in the VP’s chair, before he said anything,