Page 37 of Beautifully Shattered
It sounded like good advice at the time, but now I’m wondering if maybe I took it a little too far…
Did I really just tell her I’d lick up her leaking milk?
Fuck.
I did.
And fuck.
I don’t exactly hate the thought of it.
Fuck… now my cock is like stone.
Pretending like I’m still that cocky fucker she met weeks ago, I shoot her a wink, and the corner of her mouth twitches, a slight grin tugging at her lips like muscle memory. But then, like she realises she was about to smile, it’s gone. Her face drops, and she ducks her head, pretending to double-check her helmet.
Andrea told me that might happen too. And fuck, I get it. I remember that feeling all too well.
At first, I couldn’t fucking fathom how anyone could laugh or joke or even enjoy a single fucking thing after Hope died. Thencame the moments where I laughed or made a joke. Fuck, the guilt hit like a sledgehammer. How the fuck could I feel happy?
So I understand that part, and I hate that my Angel has to suffer through that as well.
We mount up, our hogs roaring to life before we follow two of the SUVs, JD’s hog next to mine with Jols on the back like that’s exactly where she belongs.
Trailing behind us are Vender, Trigger, Brody, Trunk, Murf and Stocky, with the last two SUVs coming up the rear.
It’s a twenty-minute ride from Redfield Lake to the new compound on the fringe of Fox Pines. We have a smooth run, not encountering any issues like rival clubs, cops, or fucking pandemic roadblocks.
The fucking urge to just keep riding is a huge fucking pull. What I’d give to be done with the bullshit of life and just hit the open road with my Angel’s arms wrapped around me.
Fuck, we probably wouldn’t get far if she was dressed like she is now in all that leather.
But today isn’t about me.
Hell, it’s not even about her.
Today is for the Southern Sadists MC, and our fallen brothers.
The Marx escort pulls up outside the compound gates, where they’ll hold position for the day, clearing the road for us to enter.
Abbey’s fingers dig into my cut as she stiffens behind me, and I can tell she’s taking everything in as we ride down the long driveway in a silent procession. A low rumble of grief and honour.
The space in front of the barn, which we now call the yard, is packed. Club brothers are everywhere, all in their cuts, theirbikes in a line on the far side, settled under the huge trees, out of the sun.
But it’s the eight bikes parked in a row in the centre of the yard that hits the hardest.
Seeing them… remembering who we are here to farewell… puts a huge lump in my throat.
Fuck.
Pulling up, we park our rides with the others, our engines falling silent, one by one.
Dozens of eyes land on us as we dismount, and I see Abbey tense, her shoulders stiff the second she feels the weight of the crowd.
Lifting the visor, her tear-glazed eyes lock with mine.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she whispers, and I step in close, making sure I’m the only thing she sees right now.
“Angel, you don’t have to. If at any stage it gets too much, you can bow out. No one will question it. You can go inside the barn if you prefer.”
