Page 41 of Beautifully Shattered
We all slam back the foul tequila, the burn cutting through the lump of grief clogging my throat.
Fuck, that shot is harsh. Fucking fitting for today, if you ask me.
The Doxies return, offering another round. We swap our empties for full glasses as Spud steps forward, this time, sharing a story about Tucker that has us snickering at the old guy’s antics, before we fall silent and Spud raises his glass.
“Tucker’s drink of choice. Jimmy,” Spud calls. “We toast.”
Again, we all chant. “One for the road, brother.”
Since I’m not much of a drinker these days, the bourbon burns, but it’s fucking welcome, warming my chest as it settles.
Next, Mex steps up, shot already in hand, his story darker and violent about Mule, our silent predator. The man who kept to the shadows, suffered in silence, but fucking always had your back.
These stories aren’t sugar-coated. They’re not about painting saints.
They’re about honour. Truth.
About the men who lived and bled beside us. Who died protecting what we stand for.
Their sacrifice will never be forgotten.
As Helina passes with the tray, I swap out my glass, and Abbey grabs one too, her tear-filled eyes flicking up to meet mine, her cheeks flushed and wet.
It’s like she’s silently asking if it’s okay for her to take a shot. Asking for permission.
Right now, her submissive side is present. It’s probably the closest she’s been to the old Abbey as she stares up with those big doe eyes, seeking approval.
She doesn’t need my permission to have a drink, but fuck, if she needs it, I’ll give it, so I nod, watching her submissive gaze lower as she bows her head, her shoulders relaxing before turning her attention back to Mex.
“Mule’s drink of choice. Bundy,” he announces, and we all raise our glasses as he finishes. “We toast.”
“One for the road, brother,” we chant, then down the rum.
Fuck. That shit is like rocket fuel.
Naturally, my gaze drops to my Angel to see how she’s faring after the rancid shot.
She hasn’t touched a drop since I’ve known her, given she’s nothing like Kylie, and would never risk harming her baby. But she’s not pregnant anymore.
She shudders, her pretty face twisting as the Bundy hits her, trying to shake off the strong molasses burn, coughing a little as her watery eyes dart up to mine.
I offer her a small smile, taking her empty glass just as the next tray makes its rounds. Clearing her throat, she hooks her arm through mine, holding on like she’s scared I’ll vanish into thin fucking air. And fuck, it grounds me feeling her tight grip.
Things between us have been tense up until the late hours of last night, when I thought we had somewhat figured ourselves out… but her coldness this morning has had me on edge again.
I need to remember what Andrea said and give her the space to go through each emotion that hits her and be there ready with open arms when she needs me.
Like right now.
Fuck, it feels good to be wanted by her.
We go through the ritual for each of our fallen, shot after shot, memory after memory.
It’s brutal. Crushing. A stark reminder of how precious life is.
Once all the empties have been set aside, Vender opens each urn, scooping a small portion of ashes from each one and places them into a single stone bowl, mixing them together.
Eight lives.
