Page 39 of Beautifully Shattered
“They’re dead because of me,” she says, voice flat. “The least I can do is farewell them, too.”
I want to correcther. They aren’t dead because of her. I hate that she’s blaming herself, so really, she doesn’t have to farewell them out of obligation. But I’m a selfish fucker and reminding her that there’s something bigger going on might talk her out of joining me for the service, meaning I’d be alone.
I never used to be bothered by that, but since meeting her… since marrying her, I realise I want her by my side for everything from now on.
I don’t have to do things alone anymore.
So, instead of talking her out of it, I reach out and take her hand before leading her into the yard.
Joining my club, I feel Abbey’s grip tighten in mine as Doxies offer her warm but sad smiles, and my brothers bow their heads, like she’s royalty.
She’s not the queen of our club, but she’s my fucking queen, and they all know it.
They all respect it.
And they’d all bleed for her, because she’s part of the Southern Sadists family now. And that fucking means something in this found family of ours.
Up the front, Smitty stands with his wife, Jols’ mum, Maureen, and next to them, Spud has his arm wrapped around his old lady, as the two women quietly cry.
As we approach, Jols steps up and hugs her mum, her eyes finding us as she pulls back before doing a quick, quiet introduction.
“Mum, this is Abbey.”
My Angel offers a nod. The kind that holds warmth and sympathy and a helluva lot of respect.
How she manages it given her own grief, I have no fucking clue.
Smitty and Spud each offer their condolences to my wife, pressing respectful kisses to her cheek.
Her palm is sweaty in mine, her grip tight, and there’s a slight tremble running through it.
I can feel how on edge she is. I bet she’s thinking about fleeing.
I wouldn’t blame her. Her fucking daughter died a week ago today. The fact that she’s even here says everything about how fucking strong she is.
Behind us, the eight motorbikes roar to life, and Abbey flinches, glancing over her shoulder, confusion pinching her brow.
She has no clue what will happen at a Southern Sadists funeral, but she doesn’t ask any questions. She simply shifts a little closer and takes it all in.
Another engine fires up in front of us, and we glance past Smitty to see the hearse bike.
There are no coffins in it, only boxes. Eight of them. Holding the ashes of our fallen brothers.
Abbey’s trembling grows stronger as the reality of today’s events sink in, so I tug her closer, keeping her hand in mine as her other hand reaches across her body, clinging to my arm.
This is exactly where she should be. Right here next to me.
Always.
The hearse bike slowly idles forward, and we trail behind on foot, rounding the pool area until we reach the oak tree, and the new wall, freshly built from stone.
The eight bikes of our fallen idle behind us in a tight formation, ridden by their closest brothers, breaking off as they reachthe tree, and parking them at either end of the memorial wall, before draping the cuts of our lost over the handlebars.
Abbey is sniffing, clutching onto me as she trembles from the wave of emotion that flows through the crowd.
Jols steps up on my Angel’s other side, offering a tissue before running her hand up and down Abbey’s back in comfort, and we watch on silently as the riders who brought the fallen’s bikes move over to the hearse, each one retrieving a metal box.
Each urn is stamped with the Southern Sadists MC death head, road dust worked into the design like scars around their names.
