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Coming back to the present, Tiger pulled into the parking area. A forest of bikes was off to the right, polished chrome marked with black ribbons. They’d do a ride to the cemetery after, an honor guard to lay flowers on her grave. If he’d brought his bike, he might have joined them, despite any dagger looks. A piece of his heart would always continue to beat here. The very proximity of the missing piece made the rest pound harder.
It sucked rocks when you had to treat your family like a cancer, cut them out to save what was left of your life. It never went away; it was just forced into remission by goddamn stubborn determination. Fortunately, the memories stayed so present in his cells he never forgot what being poisoned by it had felt like.
A hand rested on his, white-knuckled on the wheel. He turned his gaze to Skye. She probably saw the desperation. He wasn’t going to rabbit, but this was the other reason he wasn’t sure about her being here. He’d already shown her some of his shittier sides. They would pale in comparison to the monster that could come out when he was dealing with family.
“Whatever happens in there, I’m sorry if any of it spills onto you,” he told her. “Just promise you’ll let me drive you home, even if I piss you off or do something stupid. I don’t want you asking anyone else for a ride. Or walking alone the half mile to the gate.” Since they sure as hell weren’t going to let Uber in.
She signed something that felt reassuring, especially combined with her calm expression. She also typed it out on her phone.It’ll be okay.
The universal mantra that surprisingly often worked, even when things were definitely not okay. He’d take it. “Wait there.”
He came around to open her door and help her out. As he closed the door, she put her hand on the logo she’d helped design, gave him a smile as she patted the tiger on the head.
He sent her a look. “Did you do that to him instead of me because I’m too tall? Or because you didn’t want to embarrass me in front of the other kids?”
Her smile deepened and she stepped onto the running board, using his hand at her waist and hers on his shoulder to balance herself before she patted the top of his head, then stroked her fingers through his hair. She liked to trail them through that wave in the back that narrowed down to a point at his nape. He would have shaved it as close as a basic training recruit to get rid of it, but all the Dommes seemed to like it. Particularly her.
Leaning in, she pressed a kiss to his mouth. When she drew back, she gave him a pure Mistress look and formed three words with her pretty mouth. Reassurance and command.
You’ve got this.
The clubhouse was a big barn with a lot of modern conveniences. A well-stocked kitchen, sleeping quarters for single club members, a vast central partying area with flat screens, a pool table and a bar. Further in was the arsenal, plus the meeting room for Colt and his ranking members. An attached garage provided a big, well-equipped area for maintenance and tinkering with bikes or other vehicles.
Today that central area had been cleaned up and decorated with flowers. The less appropriate details, like neon beer signs and naked pinups, had been removed or hidden behind drapes. Chairs had been wiped down and garlanded with flowers, the tables set with candles and wreaths, circling photos of Nicole.
It looked nice. The old ladies and sweet butts had done a good job. No matter Nicole’s problems with Colt, their affection for her was obvious in the care they’d taken.
As Tiger’s gaze passed over those women, seeing the pain in their eyes, the grief that this event had resurrected weeks after the loss, he ached. It should be Nicole here, dressed in black, mourning a fallen member, not a woman.
She would have worn something a little inappropriate, like a short black dress, too tight, high on the thighs. She’d have put it with stiletto heels, probably a pair with a bit of sparkle on them. But her expression would have reflected somber grief as she watched Aubrey play with the other kids, and talked in low tones with the women, helping to set food out and check that everyone had what they needed.
He stopped at an open ice chest near the bar and took a beer. As he gestured to Skye, asking her preference, she pointed to awine cooler. He twisted it open, putting a cocktail napkin with it for the condensation, and handed it to her.
Colt stood in a knot of members across the room. Like Tiger, he was wearing a suit. They’d change into their cuts when they did the honor ride. He was talking to people obviously offering their condolences.
She’s dead because of you, you shithead.
Before he’d come here, Tiger had known what was simmering in his own gut, but he wasn’t prepared for it to go to full boil so fast, mixed with old stuff that never got old enough to be forgotten. When the people moved on toward the ample hors d’oeuvres lined up on the bar, Colt looked his way. As their eyes met, Tiger managed a neutral nod, but that was all the bitterness in him could manage.
He turned away before he could register Colt’s response, instead guiding Skye toward a corner. Avoiding conversation with other members was easy enough, since most acted like they’d rather eat glass than talk to him. The unfriendly looks were accompanied by muttered words.
Joke’s on you, fuckers. I can’t hear you.
When Skye’s concerned gaze turned to him, it reminded him she could. With a squeeze of her arm, he told her it was okay. No reaction needed. He welcomed the shunning over anyone being friendly to him. Even beyond the can’t-hear-shit thing, he was too vulnerable here, too wound up. His chest was so tight he might have a fucking heart attack if he drew too deep a breath.
Goddamn it. He forced himself to take that breath. In four beats, out four beats. A Mistress had taught him that. Abby. Skye used the tactic, too. To help him hold out when they had him riding an edge, whether pain or pleasure, or if he tapped into that dark side of himself and his head tried to take him to a bad place in scene.
He was here for one reason. Thank fuck, that reason had presented herself. Skye touching his forearm gave him the heads up. He saw Aubrey bolting in his direction, evading the hands of the older woman with her.
As Tiger dropped to his heels, Aubrey locked her arms around his neck as if she’d been thrown from a shipwreck into a heaving sea, and had finally found the one piece of wreckage that could keep her afloat. He held her as she clung. Her mouth was moving, but her shaking said she was crying, so he figured what she was saying didn’t matter as much as him holding her and letting her talk.
That was pretty much what most women needed when they were upset, so he now had an advantage most men didn’t. He could respond to the nonverbal cues for comfort and affection while not doing that annoying thing Maryshka told him so many men did. Trying to fix instead of listen.
“She can usually fix it well enough her own damn self. She’s just looking for the emotional support fuel to do it.”
The grim humor didn’t overcome the heart piercing agony of his niece’s grief. He did want to fix the problem. Everything in him ached and raged at her pain. For the millionth time, he wished he could have anticipated better, gotten Nicole out of harm’s way. He wished he’d been their target, the estranged brother who didn’t matter, whose death didn’t signify.
Colt might even have had some kind of memorial observance like this if it had been Tiger dead in that parking lot. The rituals would always be observed, a space for regret, reflection, and then closure, as the living moved to the next chapter of their fucked-up lives.
