Nick snorts, and goes into a story where Storm was shooting into the dark, certain an evil ghost was going to get him.
“To be fair, it was creepy as fuck in the middle of nowhere,” Nick laughs. “The club is in a different location now, and Devon does a good job of keeping things up.”
“Lore talked me down that night,” Storm says. “He turned the spotlight on, showed me there was nothing to be afraid of, and then admitted the woods surrounding the club were sketchy as fuck. We ended up clearing some so it was harder to sneak up on the clubhouse the next day. This was when we all belonged to Callous’ club. I was a prospect for a year before I patched in.”
“Five days later, we were attacked,” Arsenal says. “The evil spirit may have saved our lives.”
“Dramatic much?” Burner snorts. “Granted, this was before I joined Lore and the Knotted Anarchy, but I’ve heard this story. We’re also a superstitious bunch, so I’ll accept a spirit having fun scaring the piss out of Storm.”
I want to ask what their superstitions are, but I don’t want to hijack the conversation. I need more stories about Lore, so I settle in my corner of the couch and take a sip of my whiskey.
My mouth doesn’t sneer at the taste, and I’m impassive as I swallow it down. It’s not shitty whiskey. It’s just what I need for a makeshift wake for my alpha.
Arsenal appears impressed as he watches me, and he raises his own glass to me before speaking.
“Lore was full of tough love moments,” he says. “Yet, he’d never ask us to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself.It’s why he took meetings we knew were sketchy, and we’ve unfortunately walked into more than one trap over the years.”
“Our president always felt invincible,” Burner sighs. “I’ve watched him go into a room with a hammer in his back pocket and a smirk. That’s how he forced people to pay attention to him.”
“He also refused to take the old guard who were loyal to his father with him,” Storm says. “They’re lucky he wasn’t the one who stayed tethered to a clubhouse.”
“He’d have killed them all and moved on without batting an eye,” Arsenal grunts.
“None of that,” Wilder says, re-entering the house. “Devon is coming for the funeral. Let’s not make him think he can’t handle his affairs.”
“Yes, Prez,” Burner says.
My eyes slide closed at how easily he said that, and my heart cramps painfully. This isn’t a heart attack, it just feels that way.
“Marie?” Arsenal says. “Hey.”
“I’m good,” I croak, hating the tear that escapes as I open my eyes again. “Tell me another story about Lore, please.”
“Where did we leave off?” Wilder asks, licking his bottom lip as he watches me carefully.
I’m not made of glass, even if I feel as if I’m about to explode into a million pieces.
“Lore’s hammer,” Burner grunts. “Did I say something wrong? I feel awkward as fuck, and I need to know if I did.”
“It’s me,” I promise. “I’m probably going to be skittish for a while. Talking about Lore helps.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Wilder says. “I forgot the fucking hammer. He transitioned to knives with his guns after a while. His weapons were an extension of himself. Lore knew how to keep people alive for as long as necessary to extract information, and how to make shit hurt. His hammer became legendary, andpeople still talk about it. He needed to make the people sit up and pay attention at a meeting with the Ghost Syndicate. This was before we went to one working with our own people. Back then we were broke and Callous, Lore and Devon’s father, had recently died. They didn’t want to take us seriously.”
“Swear to God, he said, the first fuckhead who shows his ass is getting a taste of my hammer,” Storm mutters. “He bought it specifically to break fingers and bust heads. Crazy fucker.”
“So he used it?” I ask, sipping my whiskey. The warmth from the drink is spreading through my body, and wrapping me up in a false cocoon.
It separates me just enough from the bubbling, curdled anger and sadness of grief. I refuse to fight it, if only for long enough to enjoy these moments frozen in time. I know they’re making food outside, but I doubt I’ll be able to eat any of it. My stomach is unhappy with me.
“You betcha. One of the guys said he didn’t want to do business with a punk who didn’t know his head from his asshole,” Storm says. “So, he got the business end of the hammer across his dominant hand. Lore’s signature move became that fucking hammer.”
I huff out a laugh as I think about how that must have looked for others. Lore’s big body, self assured smirk, dropping a hammer on the table would have commanded attention.
“It’s effective,” I admit. “I bet people changed their minds quickly after a few meetings with his hammer.”
“They did,” Arsenal chuckles. “Lore dealt with other people’s bullshit for just long enough until he could pivot and only take care of our people. It’s been calmer up until recently with the change.”
“Traitors suck,” I rasp, finishing my whiskey. It’s refilled quickly, and I continue to listen to the men talk until the food is ready.
