Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“And if that’s God's plan, I’ll be glad to play my part,” Grayson says, but he's sweating. I can see it.
Dad backs up, waving the ushers forward. They look nervous. They’re just business people who volunteer because it looks good to the community and is a great way to network. Dealing with three dangerous bikers isn't what they signed up for.
“What's the call, Crash?” the guy with the red leather yells. His jacket is still open, exposing the gun grip. He looks ready for action, but he can't possibly mean to—
“No,” says Crash, holding a hand up to him. “Not here. This guy's a fuckhead, but there’s only one person going into the ground today.”
Instead of calming the situation down, that seems to terrify everyone even more. Like they haven’t even considered that they were in more danger than getting punched and roughed up a bit. These are men whose greatest exposure to danger is mowing the lawn a week overdue in their HOA.
Even Dad seems unsure, keeping his distance with Grayson and the ushers between him and Crash. He jerks his head to show that I should come over, but I ignore it. Despite everything, I can't imagine Crash would hurt me, not physically.
“Say your goodbyes, if that's really what you're here for,” Dad says, puffing himself up like he’s not cowering behind other people.
Crash's other friend shakes his head as he looks around. “Fuck this place. I know you told me it was bad, but this is some next level scamming.”
Crash nods and looks back at the casket. “Just a minute.”
His jacket falls open as he turns, and a brief flash of metal makes it obvious that his friend isn't the only one who's armed. He bows his head and puts a hand on Vivian’s casket, and with his back fully towards me, I can't hold in the gasp.
Screaming Eagles MC.
On a big patch sewn into the back of his jacket, the club name curves in big, gold letters over a logo. Underneath, his name is stitched in smaller text. There's a kind of star around part of it, like a cartoon depiction of his name crashing into something. And underneath that, curving in the opposite direction of the club logo, Fallen Angels.
I knew he'd gone wild, but I'd never imagined he'd join one of the most notorious biker gangs in the country. Not a year goes by that they don’t make the paper for something or other. Kidnapping, drugs, shootings… There are even rumors they’re mixed up with the mob.
But as horrified as I am, I'm probably the only one who sees the way his expression softens for a moment. “Fuck,” he whispers.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quietly, taking a step closer without thinking about it. Everything about him shouts bravado and danger, wrapped up in sexy eyes and dirty promises, but despite his size, tattoos and shaved head, all I see is a lost boy who’s mourning the same person I am.
“I shouldn't have come,” he whispers, like he's trying to push his feelings away, but there's no conviction in it. “Funerals are fucking creepy.”
“If there's anything that I can—
“What are you going to do? Bring her back? Turn back time?” he snaps, then shakes his head. When he continues, some of his aggression slips. “Nah. This is probably for the best. She deserved better than your asshole father. Now she's free.”
His words resonate more than I want to admit. Free. I've never been free. Crash, on the other hand, is the definition of freedom. I can't imagine that anyone tells him what to do. Dad could never do it, even when Crash was a kid, never mind now.
He finally turns back, his eyes zeroing in on me like I'm the only thing in the world. Immediately, my breath comes faster. I knew I'd feel something if he came back, but I never realized exactly how strong it would be.
“How are you still here? With him?” He nods his head towards Dad, who's fuming.
Every moment Crash spends up on this stage only embarrasses him further in front of everyone, but what kind of man would refuse someone the chance to say farewell to his mother, no matter how fallen of a soul he is? Not that I think Dad cares about that, but appearances matter.
“Where would I go? This is all I have.”
“Fuck, he's got you brainwashed.” Crash shakes his head.
“I’m not like you, Jacob.”
He snorts. “You’re a good little girl who does what she's told. But that’s not all of you. Maybe they don’t see it, but I do. I did. And you fucking know it.”
My face flushes hot. Even under the thick layers of stage makeup I hate with a passion, it probably shines right through. I keep the memory of what he’s talking about closed up in a little box in my mind, only allowed out when I’m alone in my room. Now that I know how Crash turned out, it’s going to be a lot harder to keep that box shut tight.