Page 67 of Unmasked Rivalry
Literally.
The women gather, almost instinctively, around the casket. I find myself holding hands with Sable and Mera, our fingers tangled so tightly it almost hurts. Nia joins us, her cheeks already raw from crying. We stand just behind the men, but not invisible. Not anymore.
“Club’s not going to be the same,” Mera says, voice hoarse.
I’ve only known them for a little while, but I feel closer to these women, right now, than anyone in my whole goddamn life. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be part of something bigger. To have people who would burn the world down if you asked them, and then build it back up, stronger, just because they could.
The men start their sendoff. There’s no hearse, no black limousines. The casket is loaded onto the sidecar of Wolfe’s Harley, and he guns the engine until the pipes are shrieking. Knox and the rest fall in behind, peeling out slow, every bike rolling in perfect, synchronized formation.
We watch them pull away, the noise making the windows rattle. The girls and I stand there, motionless, feeling the wind catch in our hair. The line of bikes snakes all the way down the street, and I can see heads poking out of windows, peoplelining the curbs, even a few flashes of phone cameras. None of that matters. Zane gets his last ride, and everything else is just background noise.
When it’s over, and the last echo fades, I turn to Mera. “Tell me this is going to get easier?”
“Probably not,” she whispers, “but I just know he would be smiling big right now.”
I believe that.
We turn and make our way back inside, the clubhouse weirdly quiet. Mera gets us all coffee, and we just sit, taking it all in. In the stretch of silence, I realize I never actually thanked Zane. For giving me this. For not going quietly.
The story that started with me, alone and angry, hating this shitty town, ends here, surrounded by people who don’t know how to give up. I wish I could tell him that. I guess, maybe, I just did.
Later, when the sun is barely up and the world is soft and new again, Knox finds me on the porch, arms wrapped around my knees. He brings an old, battered patch in his hand—Zane’s, the one they pulled off his jacket. He presses it into my palm, closes my fingers around it. “Wolfe wanted you to have this.”
I turn it over, feel the rough texture of the stitching, the sharp edges of the lettering. “What do I do with it?”
“Whatever you want.” Knox leans back, stretches. “Hang it on your wall. Sleep with it under your pillow.” He grins, and for a second, I see the man I fell in love with. “Might scare away nightmares.”
I try, really try, to smile back, and this time it almost works.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask, so quietly I’m sure only the ghosts can hear.
Knox’s eyes stay on the horizon. “He’s better than okay. He’s free and with his daughter, that’s all he ever wanted.”
The sun keeps rising. The sky goes gold, then blue, then the world just keeps on turning, like it always does. One foot forward, then another. Freedom doesn’t have to mean running away. Sometimes it’s just standing still, arms open, letting grief and love crash through you until you don’t have to hold on so tight. Sometimes it’s the family you pick, and the mess you make out of surviving.
I walk back inside, patch clutched in my hand, and know this: Zane would have loved this ending just as much as the ride.
Maybe more.
EPILOGUE
Six months later, the sun is back, painting everything in that mean, raw-boned yellow that makes it impossible to nap. Especially here at the club, where there is always something happening. The picture of Zane that hangs on the wall seems to be always smiling when I walk past. Sometimes, it’s like the ghost of him is what’s holding the walls up. His cut still hangs in the main room, framed in old barnwood and already collecting dust. I think he’d like that.
The world’s a softer, gentler place, which is weird because the only thing gentler about us is the way we bruise now. Mera and Nia have turned into DIY queens, hanging embarrassing motivational posters in every hallway. “Live Laugh Love” makes an appearance, right next to the “NO DRUG TRANSACTIONS BY FRONT BAR” sign. I am quite certain they’re doing it to stir the members, and it works, because they’re always taking them down and tossing them in the bin.
Today, Sable is slumped over at the counter, her stomach so swollen she has to get help when she gets up. She doesn’t sleep anymore, just kind of dozes in thirty-minute intervals and yells at anyone who breathes too loud. She’s had Braxton Hicks contractions for a week, swears every cramp is the real deal, and every time it’s not, she threatens to kill someone, mostly Kael. I try not to laugh every time she does it, but it’s actually pretty funny.
Today, though, they have been regular and are slowly getting worse.
I think it’s baby time.
So we have spent the entire day here, counting every contraction and timing them.
Mera licks whipped cream off her thumb, then points the can at Sable. “Maybe if you just let Gage watch, it’d scare the baby out.”
Sable flips her off. “If I see Gage within a hundred feet of my vagina before six weeks postpartum, I’m putting him in the ground. It’s his damn fault I’m here.”
I am setting the table, lips twisting not to grin. “Pretty sure that’s called a hate crime, Sable.”
