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“You know your grampa. Once it gets dark, he wants quiet. He’s in the clubhouse with Eight. We’re going to be heading home soon.” She gave him a squeeze. “Well, you certainly turned a party into a celebration tonight.”
“I hope that’s a good thing.” Phoebe was the only one who’d expressed any reservation whatsoever, everybody else thought it was a great idea the instant they’d heard it, but Duncan realized they’d never actually asked Grampa or Grammo if it was okay—and they were the guests of honor for the anniversary. They’d started the club.
“It’s the best possible thing,” Grammo reassured him, smiling up at him. “It feels a bit like the passing of a torch.”
“What do you mean?”
She looked around the street—the sweeping strings of colored lights, the tents still churning out food and drink, the music and dancing, the laughter, the friendship, the love. “Well, when Grampa and I came here to Tulsa, we started something new. A business, but also a family. A life, full of all this.” She swept an arm out to encompass the whole neighborhood. “That was a long time ago, and it’s not really ours anymore, but it’s still strong. We left it in good hands.”
“It’ll always be yours, Grammo,” Duncan protested. “We wouldn’t be here if not for you.”
“Hush, love. I’m not feeling sorry for myself. But Brian retired a long time ago, and the club is different from how he made it. It’s different from how Becker made it, too. And the station as well—and that’s as should be. Everything must change and grow, or it dies. The club is strong because it’s not exactly as Brian made it. The Bulls have moved on from us, as you should. You and Phoebe, what you did tonight, here, this weekend—that is a move toward the future. Now the anniversary of the club will always be your anniversary as well. And Tildy’s birthday, too. We started the day with balloons and toys, and we ended it with a wedding. All new things. Things looking forward, and to look forward to.”
He got it. She was saying what he’d been thinking earlier in the day: Change was on the horizon.
Duncan bent down and wrapped his grandmother up in his arms. “I love you, Grammo.”
She hugged him back just as snugly. “And I love you. That, my love, will never change, and never die.”
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~oOo~
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“You let me know if you need me to pull over. Don’t try to be brave about it, okay? I’d rather pull over than get puke running down my back.”
Phoebe groaned and socked him lightly in the gut. “Don’t say that word.”
“You know what? We can wait. We can hold off and leave after you’re feeling better. We’ll catch up to them by lunch.”
She groaned again. “Don’t say that word, either. And I don’t want to wait. Part of the excitement is riding off in this huge scary mass of metal. I’ll be fine.”
On the bike to their right, Sam signed and said, “Morning sickness can’t be fun on a bike. We can wait with you.”
Sitting behind him, Athena signed, and Duncan interpreted for her. “It’s not fun—and we will wait with you. But it would also suck not to go out with everybody. Can we get them all to wait?”
“There’s more than a hundred bikes here, Frosie,” Sam signed.
A few people were staying back—Vin and Margot, obviously, and Sage and the prospects, and those club kids who were old enough to go but not as interested in a five-thousand-mile round trip motorcycle ride. Most kids who grew up in the Bulls family loved all things motorcycle, but not all of them. Some actually disliked bikes. Duncan did not understand that.
They, with some trusted hangarounds and club girls, would oversee the tearing down of the carnival and the returning of the street to its normal state, and the care and feeding of the younger club kids, for the two weeks the Bulls would be away. But otherwise, the whole club and virtually all of their MC friends were riding out. Tulsa would shake from north to south and east to west when they rolled out.
“I really am fine,” Phoebe said, and Duncan signed for her. “We’ll pull over if I need to, but I’m excited for this. I want to ride out with everybody.”
She was trying to learn ASL but it wasn’t coming easily. After months of study, she could only use or understand a handful of signs reliably. She’d picked up a lot more Arabic much more quickly in the Army, so she suspected her brain injury had something to do with her struggles now.
“We good over here?” Dad asked, strolling over from his bike. “Eight’s calling for everybody to form up.”
“Phoebe’s feeling sick this morning,” Sam said.
“Sam, shut up!” Phoebe snapped. “I’m fine, Mav.”
Dad gave her his patented paternal frown—the one that said, I got you, and you should listen to me. “You sure, hon? Dunc, if you want to hold off until she’s—”
“HEY!” Phoebe yelled, and Dad shut up. “I’m pregnant, and I’m nauseated, and now I’m pissed the fuck off! I don’t want to wait! I will handle my puke myself!”
Dad laughed and held his hands up in surrender. “My bad. Okay, then, quit yer yakkin’ and form the fuck up!” He slapped Duncan’s shoulder and spun on his boot, headed back to his woman and his ride.
