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“What a sad fuckin’ day that was,” a familiar voice sneered. Shrugging out of his leather cut, Deuce pulled his blade from the sheath on his belt and began removing, thread by thread, the PRESIDENT patch that had been sewn onto his cut the day Deuce had become president.

Nodding, Mick crossed the room, the din of celebration growing louder as he exited the office, and quieting again as the doors closed behind him. And a little sadness too.ĭeuce dragged in a breath and slowly released it. “The clock and the sign-I’ll take care of it, Prez.”ĭeuce glanced up, his eyes meeting Mick’s, finding admiration shining in his friend’s dark depths. “Because it’s my goddamn couch, that’s why.” So yeah, there was no way in hell he was leaving his couch behind. He’d slept on it, shared drinks with friends on it, fucked countless women on it, and he was fairly certain at least two of his children had been conceived on it. The couch was nearly as old as Deuce was. “I’ll get some guys to put it in your truck.” He wouldn’t give Cage the chance to toss it-he’d be taking it home with him tonight. And Cage would probably replace it with something new. The finish had worn off nearly everywhere, and it rocked uncontrollably when there wasn’t something shoved beneath both front legs. Still watching the video feed, scanning the happy faces, Deuce began drumming his fingertips atop his desk-an old slab of oak that had seen better days. Figuring that he’d beaten the odds long enough he’d decided to stop testing fate and retire, wanting to spend whatever time he had left with Eva-the love of his sorry-ass life. He was an old man now, and while he felt just fucking fine, he knew that death could come at any time. Because today the gavel had been passed to his son, Cage, and Deuce was no longer President of the Hell’s Horsemen Motorcycle Club. And today would be the last time the men in his club would refer to him as, Prez. Today was the last day Deuce could call this office his.

Today was the last day Deuce would ever sit at the head of the table and lead the club in a vote. The club was celebrating more than just Christmas, though. Strands of pine had been hung across the bar-top and around the pool tables, ribbon covered wreaths decorated the walls, and a nine-foot Christmas tree had been erected in the center of the room, wrapped with garland and overflowing with ornaments.

It was the club’s annual Christmas party, and the main room had been decorated for the event. “No, I’m fuckin’ not,” Deuce snapped and turned back to the video feed where he could see the entirety of the club, more specifically the main room where a party was occurring. His vice president and closest friend stared down at him, brows raised, clearly exasperated. Deuce glanced up to where Mick was towering over him.

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