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A hand lands on the back of my neck, not gripping, just… there. It’s warm, the fingers slightly abrasive. Pleasant. And strong.
The fingers start to move, just a little, back and forth across the nape of my neck. I focus on the faint scrape, the tingling sensation that spreads out like a starburst.
And I breathe. In and then out. In and then out.
It isn’t my father’s hand. Or Grease’s or Razor’s. It’s not even Cade’s.
It’s Nico’s hand.
He didn’t wrap a ‘comforting’ arm around me, hug me close, or whisper stupid platitudes in my ear. He put his hand on the top of my spine, lending me his strength. And I do feel stronger. Like I can breathe, like I can stand, like I can make it through this without collapsing into a pathetic pile of tears. He understands my guilt, because he feels it too.
And that is freaking crazy.
I stand up straighter and take a step away, just enough to dislodge his hand.
“Thank you, but I’m fine,” I whisper, lying through my teeth with a tight smile on my face.
What happens next is a blur. The drive to the cemetery—Nico behind the wheel. The hole in the ground. The casket and the red roses on the smooth, dark wood—which is ridiculous. Rafe wouldn’t have given a damn about roses.
I look around, searching for what he would have wanted, but deep down, I know. I know what I have to give him—what I owe him.
“Reaper Druids until the Reaper takes us to hell,” we’d vowed in blood—Rafe, Cade, and me—one stupid night a lifetime ago. Rafe and I were eighteen then, and Cade was twenty-two.
I shouldn’t have made that vow with them, being a woman and all, but they thought I would one day be Rafe’s Old lady. Cade would be Prez and Rafe VP. Or was it the other way around? It doesn’t matter. I’d broken that vow. So had Cade.
I step up to the casket as I retrieve my knife from the sheath I’ve attached to the loophole of my jeans. My fingers shake more than I would have liked as I lay the blade against the palm of my hand and slide it along my flesh, making a line of blood well up in its wake. Just like it had that stupid night. Unlike then, now I barely feel the sting.
No one gasps. No one tries to stop me. We’ve all done some pretty odd things at funerals.
I can feel Nico’s gaze on me, perfectly still and unwavering. For some reason, it feels like he understands what I’m doing more than most of the people here, which doesn’t make sense at all because he’s an outsider in my world.
Cade comes up next to me, withdraws his knife, and makes a slice across his palm, just like mine. Then we lay our hands on the casket, the blood of our broken promise the only restitution we can offer.
And that’s it, at least for the somber part of the funeral.
The bikers go on a memorial run for Rafe while the rest of us return to the clubhouse. The club’s prospects already have a bonfire crackling at the center of the massive yard and enough booze to intoxicate the whole town of Harmony.
Phoenix, of course, had declared Mud Night, in other words, a sex orgy. Mud Night is the club’s quirky way of celebrating life, death, and every significant event in between. All the club rules about sex are relaxed on Mud Nights, meaning that just about any woman is allowed to wander into the club and get her fill of bikers—as long as she’s happy to be taken right outside by the bonfire.
As soon as we return, Nico leaves me so I can catch up with Mags, Razor’s old lady, while he hangs out with my dad. I shouldn’t have bothered thinking he’d stick out like a sore thumb because seeing them from across the rowdy yard, their heads pressed together and lips barely moving, I know they’re talking, and it’s not about the decadence going on around us.
“Hmm,” Mags, one of the very few friends I’ve kept in touch with over the years, takes a deep drink of her beer, then runs her fingers through her long blonde hair, which is shaved on one side to add an edgy vibe. “You know, given his frosty welcome, I was half expecting Grease to try and slit your man’s throat before morning. But look,” she raises her beautifully arched eyebrows at a scene no doubt unfolding behind me.
I subtly glance back to catch sight of my father, Nico, and Grease, of all people, now gathered on the clubhouse porch. They’re deep in conversation, seemingly unfazed by the wild party unfolding around them.
“Haven’t seen that happen before, Soph, not with an outsider and in plain view of everyone.”
“Nico’s a businessman,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. I’m sure the Reaper’s Garage could use some investment.”
Mags’s eyes bug out as realization dawns on her. “Fucking hell, Soph!”
“What? Calm down, Mags. It’s nothing, believe me.” I already know what she’s thinking. One of the club's less savory business activities is arms dealing and acting as a meeting point for out-of-state deals. Usually, those sorts of meetings happen on nights of activity, such as today'sMud Night.
“Like hell it’s nothing. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they’re striking up deals—”
Before Mags can say more, a half-drunk Razor appears and throws an arm around her shoulders, his shaggy red hair illuminated by the bonfire’s glow. He plants a passionate kiss on Mags, who initially playfully pushes him away but soon returns his ardor as her laughter quickly morphs into a moan. Abruptly, she stands, leaps into Razor's arms, and wraps her arms and legs around him.
“Don’t wander off too far, Sparrow. Our chat’s not over,” Mags warns me lightheartedly as Razor carries her off into the night.
