Page 46 of Beautifully Shattered
I don’t know if he’s reminding me or himself.
Maybe both. But either way, it doesn’t matter. I believe him, even if the idea of life being a gift makes me feel sick.
Mylife doesn’t feel like a gift.
But those few minutes of Bobbi’s life, when I held her to my chest, felt her tiny warmth, the soft squirm of her little body, and heard the faintest sound slip from her lips… well, that was surely the greatest gift ofmylife. Even if it was only a moment.
Instead of speaking, I just hold Ringo tighter, gripping him like I can transfer everything I feel through that squeeze. I can only hope it’s enough to show him that I care.
When he pulls back, threading his fingers through mine, our eyes lock, and we just look at each other.
He’s still hurting. I see it in the dullness of his eyes. The way they aren’t lit up with his usual fire.
Lifting our joined hands, I bring his to my lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.
“Fuck, I love you.” His voice is low, but sure, and for a split second, that fire flickers back to life in his eyes.
I can’t say the words back right now. It’s not that I don’tfeelthem. God, I do. But they get stuck in my throat. So instead, I lower his hand and press it to my chest, right over my heart.
It’s been cold there since Bobbi was lifted off me. Since I lost her. But last night, when I did this with Ringo as we cuddled in bed together, something shifted. That warmth returned, and it’s back now, the empty ache slipping away.
Like he senses it, Ringo pulls me into his arms again, crushing me to him. He buries his nose in my hair like he’s trying to breathe me in. Memorising me.
I do the same, pressing my face into his chest and inhaling that sharp, masculine scent of his. Spice and sweat and safety.
It grounds me. Makes me feel at home. Making it feel likeheis my home.
We stay in each other’s arms as Smitty says a few more words, his voice carrying over the crowd. Then, one by one, the club brothers climb onto the motorbikes that belonged to the fallen.
With my cheek pressed to Ringo’s chest, I watch the men start up the bikes and steer them off to the side.
A moment later, the engines roar to life, a thunderous growl that tears through the silence, and in perfect unison, they take off, kicking up a cloud of dirt and smoke.
It’s a send-off. A tribute. A final burnout in honour of their dead.
Exhaust smoke fills the air, choking the sky like the grief swelling in their chests.
Inmychest.
“Southern Sadists!” Smitty bellows as the engines shut down a moment later. “We chant!”
I straighten in Ringo’s arms, but he keeps his arms locked around me, holding me still as his voice rumbles against my cheek, through the wall of his chest.
“May the road rise up to meet us.
May the wind be always at our backs.
May the sunshine be warm upon our faces.
May the rain clouds never be black.
We are the Southern Sadists MC.
Ride ‘em high.
Ride or die.”
God… these men and their club… it’s so beautiful. So poetic.
