Chapter 5
Chapter Five
MALICE
The crunch of my combat boots on gravel hits my ears as I step off my bike in front of the funeral home.
The sun is out, and I squint my eyes against the bright onslaught.
I’d much rather it be cloudy and overcast. Hell, I’ll take rain over this bright sunshine bullshit.
I’ll never understand the people who prefer the sun to moody clouds.
The sun makes too many things visible in the light when I’d prefer they stay hidden in the darkness.
This is the last thing I want to be doing today.
Wrath and Sin both offered to come with me, but I know it’s something I need to do alone.
Being a member of Hell’s Heathens Motorcycle Club comes with its risks.
We’ve lost patch brothers, siblings, parents, and it’s one of those things that just comes with the territory .
. . literally. I’ve seen the people around me in pain, I’ve seen them lose themselves completely to the dark side that is always simmering right under our skin, but I’ve never truly felt it until now.
Losing Rolo has left a chasm I don’t know what to do with. I shove my hands into my pockets, cracking my neck side to side as I walk up the front steps to the Amberwood Mortuary. Not sure what the difference between a mortuary and a funeral home is, but here we are.
A gaunt, elderly man meets me at the front of the building.
My head rears back slightly at the look of him, and if I wasn’t easily spooked, he’d have done it.
His eyes are sunken in, his cheeks hollowed out, with dark spots mottling his face.
What’s left of his hair is white and wispy, with bushy, unkept eyebrows that look like fat, fluffy caterpillars.
He looks more suited to be in a casket than selling one.
I make a mental note to start eating more green vegetables and fruits.
I’ve never cared about my physical appearance, but I’d like to age better than this.
He’s got one foot in the ground already, the poor guy.
I wonder if anyone’s told him he doesn’t have much time left.
I open my mouth to let him know he should start making his arrangements, but then I remember I’m actually here for a reason.
A fucked-up reason that never should have happened.
“I’m here to meet with George,” I say, hoping like hell this isn’t George and his name is Chester, or Clarence, even a Barney would suit him. But, no, luck doesn’t ever seem to be on my side, and the skeleton man in front of me is George.
“I’m George. You must be here on behalf of Hell’s Heathens.
We’re happy to take care of you all.” Happy?
That our brother was murdered and we’ve lost one of our own?
I arch a brow at him, giving him an opportunity to try again before I nail him to the cross in front of us and burn his establishment to the ground.
“I misspoke. We’re very sorry for your loss, and we will make sure we do our very best for you and your loved one. ”
Better. Still not great.
I follow Ebenezer through the small lobby, the potent scent of floral arrangements assaulting my nose. I sneeze once, then another time, my eyes filling with tears.
“God bless you.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter under my breath as I roll my eyes into the back of my head.
The lobby opens up to a large showroom, with several rooms off of it. We walk farther into the space, passing by what looks to be a chapel and an office. The room has vaulted ceilings with natural light spilling in from the skylights above us. We’re surrounded by caskets. Or are they coffins?
“As you can see, you have many different options. Are you wanting him buried or crem—”
“Are these boxes caskets or coffins?” I ask as I knock the back of my knuckles against the closest one, staring at my reflection in the shiny wood.
“Uhh, well, it, uh, depends entirely on the shape. Caskets have hinges and are what’s common in the US, where coffins are found in other parts of the world. I’m sorry, do you want a coffin?”
Would Rolo want a coffin? I probably should have asked Morgan.
She’d know. But she asked us to handle it, which is customary anyway for him being a ranked member.
Granted, we just do normal boxes, and they go six feet under on our property.
I close my eyes for a brief moment, the pain lancing right through my chest. Fuck, I can’t believe he’s gone.
Everything I have is because he gave me my second chance at life. He’s the reason I’m here.
I scan the room, counting the doors and caskets, tapping each count with my middle finger against my leg.
Old Man Winter continues to talk, but his voice is drowned out when I see a flash of baby pink from the room off in the distance behind him.
I lean to the side, trying to track what I saw.
Was that a woman? The pain fades, replaced with morbid curiosity and something stronger than I’ve ever felt before.
A pull. Like something inside me just snapped taut.
“All of that sounds great, Georgie. Let’s make it happen. Send the final bill to the Hell’s Heathens MC. I trust you can find the address?” I cut him off mid-sentence, wanting to be done with this conversation.
“Ye-yes, Mr. Lawson. Tell Mr. Young we’re sorry for his loss and grateful for his trust and business. We’ll take care of everything expertly as we’ve been doing for many years.”
When he hobbles toward his office, mumbling something under his breath, I know he’s expecting me to leave. Our business has concluded, but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Keeping my steps silent, I walk to the back of the building, passing the rows of caskets, flower arrangements, and easels, feeling a pull from the center of my chest leading me.
The carpet ends at the edge of a large, open, heavy door, turning into sealed concrete that seems to slope toward a drain in the center of the room.
Very similar to the one we have in a hidden basement under one of our garages.
This must be where they drain the bodies.
My eyes turn up from the floor, only to have the breath stolen from my lungs.
Lit up under the bright lights of the room is the most ethereal creature I’ve ever seen.
I’m bewitched. Mesmerized. A tiny wisp of a woman floats around the room, utterly clueless that a predator lurks just outside her doorway, that danger is hovering, entranced, captivated by the bright energy radiating off of her. It’s nearly blinding.
She’s light.
Hair the color of rose gold sits above her shoulders.
She’s wearing a flowy, dark green dress with daisies all over it.
My eyes squint at the rain boots on her feet, and I wonder if that’s intentional because of her job or a style choice.
She leans forward, dusting something over the eyelids of a dead body laid out on the table below her.
I’m no stranger to death; it’s been my constant companion since I was a child.
A dark cloud shrouds me, follows me everywhere I go.
But her? This mystical little pixie, fluttering around the dead like a butterfly, she’s no stranger to death either, yet sunshine hovers over her like it’s an honor to bathe her in its rays.
I watch hidden from the doorway, my head cocked to the side as I admire her while she works. She must have headphones in her ears or a song playing in her head as she slowly dances to a beat only she can hear. I wonder what it is.
I wait, hoping for a glimpse of this pixie’s face. My fingers dig into my palms, wanting to go to her, wanting to spin her around to finally get the vision I need to tame the demanding beast inside me. She works silently, peacefully, completely homed in on decorating this man’s face.
I’ve never given thought to why a dead body would need makeup, but then an image of the dead bodies I’ve seen flashes before my eyes, and it makes sense.
No one wants to say goodbye to the ones I’ve seen.
But usually, they’re quite mangled everywhere by the time the light burns out behind their eyes.
The pixie in front of me continues to sway her hips side to side, bobbing her head slightly as she dips a small brush into some powder, and goes back to work.
My cock hardens rapidly behind my tight denim jeans, the zipper digging painfully into my length.
Downside of never wearing underwear. A hazard of the decision, for sure.
Unable to control the urge a moment longer, I take a step forward into the room just as she’s reaching for a new tool, her eyes catching me out of the corner.
“Cheese and crackers! You scared me!” Well, shit, that wasn’t my intention.
I walk further into her space, my head cocked to the side, enraptured.
She doesn’t run, or balk, or scream, or cry.
Someone like her seems like she would run in the face of danger, of a predator.
I know what I look like, and I know I don’t look friendly. I would run if I saw myself, too.
She’s all bright colors, sunshine, and happiness. As if all the good in the world has been bundled up in this tiny little human. I catch a glimpse of our reflection in the stainless-steel appliances around us. We’re starkly opposite. I’m darkness and death. She’s light and life.
My eyes roam over her face, quickly trying to count all the freckles that dust the tops of her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are the color of the sky, blue and endless, her pink hair framing her petite face around her chin.
“Stunning,” I breathe roughly as I take her in, trying to commit every one of her features to memory.
Her cheeks bloom a pretty pink that matches her hair.
She’s adorable. I lift my tattooed finger, the black nail polish chipped and peeling, reaching out slowly to run it down the length of her nose, feeling the slight bump in the center, before running my finger across my own and then dropping it back to my side.
Malice lurches forward, and an overwhelming emotion takes over that I can’t hold back. It’s more than protectiveness; it’s obsession, complete and utter loss of control.
Her eyes squint, her delicate lips turning up in a half-smile that jump-starts my heart. It’s . . . beating.
“Who hurt you?” I demand, my voice coming out harsher than I mean to.
Her eyes flash with something I can’t read, too quick for me to study it. “Hurt me? No one hurt me.”
“The bump, it’s from a break?”
“I was born with it, silly.”
Her voice is silk, wrapping around my heart and squeezing as gently as a freshly spun spider’s web.
Could this be the one? My queen? A weird sensation blooms inside my stomach, swirling and mixing, my heartbeat starting to race behind my ribs.
There’s a knot lodged in my throat, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with .
. . nerves? I don’t get nervous. Not since .
. . then. Back when I was scared. Back when I was alone and cold.
I shake my head. This is different. She isn’t them. She is all that’s good.
“You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. What’s your name?”
She smiles so brightly I feel it in the marrow of my bones. So soft, and kind, and genuine. So warm.
“Monroe. What’s yours?”
“Monroe.” The prettiest name for the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.
“That’s my name, what’s yours?” she laughs. A melody that I want to hear over and over again for the rest of my life.
“Crew.”
“Hi, Crew.”
“Hi, Monroe.”
We stare at each other for moments, minutes, maybe longer. Until my phone vibrates in my pocket, pulling me back down to Earth. It’s a call I can’t ignore.
“Until next time, Monroe.”
Without another word, I turn and leave. I’m not a man who restrains or denies himself.
Of anything. If I want something, I find a way to get it.
Walking away from Monroe feels like I’m being gagged and beaten, shoved in the cage from my childhood, and kept from what I need most. Before today, that was food, shelter, sex, and blood. Now, all that exists is Monroe.
I will make her mine. I need to.