Chapter 13
WHIZ
“Rain’s not letting up.”
Quake’s voice comes through my earbuds as we head toward Death’s Door for Undertaker’s funeral.
“Good,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the handlebars. “Wouldn’t feel right if it did.”
A low rumble of agreement carries through the formation as engines rev, then nothing but the sound of the storm dumping on Tacoma is heard as we ride.
The roads are slick, and the wet, gleaming asphalt is reminiscent of black ice. It’s a stark reminder that riding in this weather is dangerous, but today, the level of danger isn’t slowing us down.
We didn’t have to ride today. Undertaker would’ve understood, but not climbing onto our Harleys wasn’t an option. Not when we’re riding, and he can’t. Not when we’re heading to celebrate his life.
My mind flashes with memories of our fallen brother even as water sprays up from the tires, blurring the edges of everything around us.
If only it could blur the pain.
Despite the less than ideal conditions, our formation remains tight, and at the tail end is the hearse. It’s moving with us, carrying Undertaker on his last ride with the club.
It all feels wrong, yet right somehow.
By the time we pull into Death’s Door, the rain has only gotten so heavy that each drop is like a slap, sharp and biting. Bikes line the parking lot in several rows, and one by one, we cut our engines, but no one rushes to head inside.
Slowly, bikers dismount and trickle toward the door, but I hesitate, not wanting to face what comes next.
“Let’s not make this harder than it already is,” Lyric says quietly as he walks past me.
I nod once, unable to speak for the lump in my throat and boulder crushing my chest. As soon as I’m sure my emotions are in check, I walk inside.
The building is full of mourners but not loud. Conversations are hushed, and the grief is palpable. Everyone’s here. Brothers, old ladies, other chapters, community members, and several of Kings of Anarchy’s business associates. Even she’s here.
Of course, she is. She runs the place now.
I don’t consciously look for her, but I spot her anyway.
Zoey moves through the room, seemingly blending into the crowd and not drawing attention to herself. The perfect funeral director and… an outsider. Her presence lights a spark of annoyance in me, but I shove it down. Today isn’t about me or her or anything other than Undertaker.
I watch her for a few minutes, the way people move around her as if she’s not even there while others take directions from her if she gives them.
She’s confident and professional and so damn beautiful I could scream.
I do my best to avoid her, but we cross paths in the hallway just outside the kitchen.
“Everything ready?” I ask, trying to inject authority into my tone.
She meets my gaze just long enough to answer. “Yes.”
I nod once and move past her to get a drink.
The hair on my neck stands on end, making me think she’s watching me, but I refuse to turn around and check.
Instead, I open the cabinet where I left a few bottles of whiskey.
I grab one and twist off the cap before gulping down a healthy swig.
Just as I’m about to take another sip, music starts flowing through the speakers.
I take a fortifying breath, set the open bottle on the counter, and head out to the main room.
The service begins, and I forget all about Zoey and the alcohol.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with my brothers, I stare straight ahead, my eyes glued to the casket holding Undertaker.
Pastor speaks about life and loss, about love and loyalty, and not a single word sticks with me.
What I do hold onto is the words that aren’t said outloud: Undertaker should be here. If not for me, he would be.
When the service ends, no one rushes out of the room. Instead, we all slowly make our way to the door, cautious and careful because we know that walking outside just means we’re one step closer to having no other choice but to say goodbye. Unfortunately, there’s no other option.
It takes ten of us to load the casket into the back of the hearse, and once it’s secure we go to our respective Harleys and fire up the engines. The rain is still coming down, and it’s heavier than before, but, again, it’s not going to stop us from doing things right for our brother.
The ride to the cemetery, which sits at the far north end of the club’s property, is solemn. There’s no revving of engines, no spoken words through our coms, just a quiet acceptance of the inevitable.
The cemetery isn’t large, but it’s marked by years of loyalty and loss.
Headstones dot the space, and two Harleys sit on either side of the entrance so that no one ever forgets just who’s buried here.
The ground is muddy, and our boots sink slightly into the wet soil as Undertaker’s casket is brought to his plot.
Nobody speaks, nor do they look away.
We stay through it all: the lowering of his casket, the symbolic throwing of dirt on top, and the finality of shoveling more dirt into the hole until the casket is no longer visible.
Pastor stands off to the side, silently praying for Undertaker’s soul despite the strict instructions he left about not wanting anything done at the graveside because, according to Undertaker, that would only prolong everything that’s hard about burying a loved one.
Part of me is grateful that we’re required to write down our final wishes when we’re patched into KOAMC because it takes the guesswork out of things, and the other part of me hates it because it feels like we’re tempting fate somehow.
Eventually, the group starts to break apart. Some head inside while others linger in the rain. I do neither. Instead, I circle the clubhouse, needing space from everyone and everything.
When I’m certain I’m alone, I pull out the joint I stashed in an old pill bottle in my pocket and a lighter. I light it and inhale deeply. I’m halfway through it when movement and faint voices reach my ears.
“I’ll meet you there,” Lyric says, his voice low. “Just give it a little time.”
I’m surprised when it’s Zoey’s voice I hear next.
“That’s fine. I was heading back anyway.”
There’s a brief pause, then Lyric asks, “Cabin good?”
“Yeah, that works.”
“I’ll check in later.”
“Okay.”
They’re footsteps are faint as they walk away.
I don’t move, don’t make a sound as I stay out of sight and wait for silence to return. When it does, I wish like hell it hadn’t because it’s accompanied by an unwelcome stab of emotion I refuse to name.
After a moment, I push off the wall and head inside. As hard as the grief has been, as much as I’m not in any frame of mind to deal with people, I also don’t trust myself alone with the weight of what just hit me.
Jealousy.