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ONE
CALLIE
I couldn’t recallthe air feeling so thick or sticky when I was last here, but then again, I had never chosen to stand in the middle of Rose Ridge cemetery in the height of an August heatwave.
Sweat trickled down my back as the humidity curled around me while I watched the spectacle unfolding below. It was pure stubbornness that had me anchored near the tree, along with a healthy dose of resentment.
Neither the heat nor occasion had stopped the crowd around my father’s casket from wearing their typical attire of black leather and denim. I was a little surprised they were listening to the preacher droning on about peace and heaven. My daddy didn’t know a thing about either, and if he were alive, he’d laugh at the words and roar off into the sunset on his Harley. He probably would have preferred his body burned, tossed into an empty bottle of Jack, and placed on the mantel in his beloved club house.
He’d have wanted a huge party thrown, with naked women, loud music, and all other forms of debauchery. But because I was his only living relative, this funeral wasn’t up to him. It was up to me. I chose an outdoor ceremony, with a preacher, a six-foot hole in the ground, and a gaudy headstone that boasted of his accomplishments in the war and the few years he was a husband. I left out the fact that he was a father, because in the end, he wasn’t. Not to me, at least.
The only person who knew I was in attendance today was Killian, whom I had messaged regarding the funeral plans. I knew he’d share it with Red and the word would spread. However, he knew better than to look back here or tell anyone else. As it was, I wore a pair of oversized sunglasses to conceal my hazel eyes, which were the mirror image of my father’s and a dead giveaway that his only living relative was in attendance. My lips were coated with my favorite shade of pink, which seemed to be the only pop of color among the ocean of black before me. My dark dress was itchy, my heels were too tight on my feet, and all I really wanted to do was walk away from the murmur of mourners, the sea of leather, and the heat.
Goddamn it, Ireallywanted to get out of this fucking heat.
“Amen,” the crowd rumbled in front of me, and suddenly heads lifted, and I realized I had skipped another prayer. Being on the edge of the ceremony meant I missed nearly every word the preacher said, but I refused to stand any closer. My father’sfamilystood around his casket. The people he put above all else in his life, including his only daughter.
The men and women of the Stone Riders Motorcycle Club.
I knew if I looked closely, tears would cloud nearly every eye and a sorrow would hang around their necks, driving their faces downward. I also knew I’d recognize nearly all of them. My father’s club bred loyalty, and the Stone Riders were as steadfast as they came, so the mere notion that the initial members wouldn’t be in attendance was unthinkable. Which meant half the men and women responsible for raising me were in that group. I didn’t want to pity them, nor did I want to mourn my father, and most of all, I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself.
So, I stood behind the line. Nearby, to oversee that my money was spent properly, and well, to be honest, I wanted one last moment with my father before he was given back to the earth.
The men near the front moved, bent down to grab a handful of dirt, and then tossed it on the casket. I watched as a few women, wearing leather skirts and tight tops, did the same. My eyes locked on Red, Hamish, Killian, and Brooks. My heart was a jagged rock, hammering against my ribs.
Once upon a time they were my family, the people who helped teach me to tie my shoes and ride a bike. Red had taught me what to do when I got my period, and how to apply mascara. Hamish taught me how to cheat in poker and the importance of keeping my thumb over my knuckles when throwing a punch. Killian was the closest thing I’d ever had to a sibling, and I knew he was hurting today like I was. All I wanted to do was be with him and mourn the man who’d raised us. He was about as much as my dad as he was Kill’s, and yet I was back here, and he was down there.
My lips parted the slightest bit as my toes pressed into the tips of my shoes. The little girl inside of me wanted them today. Seven years had passed since I’d spoken with any of them, including my father. Yet, that brokenhearted little girl wished so badly that they’d look up and turn around. That they’d search for me and pull me into their arms. I gripped the tree behind me just to hold off the overwhelming urge to slip out of my shoes and run down there.
Instead, I watched as more attendees repeated the process of tossing in dirt, over and over, until there was just one person left standing in front of my father’s coffin. I imagined what the warm dirt might feel like under their fingers. I pictured the discoloration now under their nails, carrying a tiny piece of my father’s resting place with them. It took me back to being ten and camping on the back of the property with my dad, his smile as he took store-bought colored sand and poured it into a jar, telling me it was treasure.
That was before I was old enough to understand that the only treasure he valued was the club.
The group had all departed, gathering near their chrome-laden bikes parked in the grass along the small asphalt path cutting through the cemetery.
The remaining man near my father’s casket didn’t move. His jeans looked freshly washed, and there weren’t any holes in them from what I could tell. His white T-shirt still had the crisp look of a brand-new one pulled from a bundle pack.
The back of his leather cut readStone Ridersright above the insignia of their club—a skull with roses blooming from the eye sockets. Below the skull, sewn into the leather, was a name that caught my eye. It shouldn’t have made my heart thump as drastically as it did. Still, my eyes narrowed and could have burned a hole in the back of this man’s shoulders as I finally processed who he was and what he’d become.
Wes.
President.
Shock had my eyes widening, and my lips parting on a silent breath.
My stomach churned as thoughts flitted through my mind at a rapid pace—questions I had no right asking and confusion all swirled in my chest like a storm cloud. My nose burned, which was usually the only warning I got before the tears started. So, I dropped the rose I had intended to place as an act of peace upon my father’s grave, stepped on the petals, crushing them under my heel, and left. With every stride away from the funeral, I felt pieces of my heart tumble around, as frail as the petals crushed beneath my feet.
I wasn’t supposed to mourn my father.
I wasn’t supposed to be affected at all. And I certainly wasn’t supposed to see that Wesley Ryan had decided to stay with the clubandhad succeeded my father as president.
I blinked, pushing the hurt back. My glasses would hide my tears if they did fall, but I had promised myself I wouldn’t shed a single tear today. Not one. I was headed right back up to DC. I just had to get back in the car and ignore the sensation that I was bleeding out every ounce of hope I’d ever had of the possibility of reconciliation with my father—or Wes.
“Miss Stone?”
I turned quickly on my heel, a tiny yelp escaping my lungs.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just wasn’t sure if that was you or not.” A small, thin man held his hands up with a wince.
