Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141464 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 707(@200wpm)___ 566(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
“Not at all,” I say. “It’s what I’m here for.”
She gives me a watery smile that slips almost as fast as it appears. Her gaze flicks up and scans the room. Every direction. Not at anyone in particular. Just...the crowd.
And then the smile dies altogether. “Never get involved with a biker, Margot.”
Pain squeezes my throat. “I’m sorry?”
She laughs, bitter and sharp. “The club always comes first. No matter what.”
Now we’re treading into awkward territory. I have dozens of responses memorized for grieving loved ones. For this, I have nothing. It hits too close to home. Is that where Jigsaw’s been, doing something for his club? Wrath didn’t say that when I spoke to him, but why would he? I’m just the girlfriend of one of his brothers, not someone he’d share club matters with.
Unless they’re asking me to cremate someone for the club.
No. I push that thought away. The club’s business arrangement with my father and my relationship with Jigsaw have nothing to do with each other.
“I’m sorry it must’ve felt that way at times,” I finally say, then wince. That sounded patronizing.
“Oh, trust me.” Her eyes narrow, meeting mine. “It is.”
“It must be hard having so many people from the club here, then,” I whisper, feeling like a traitor since Ulfric paid all the bills but not wanting to ignore Abby’s feelings.
“Yes and no.” Her gaze darts around the room, and lands on Ulfric standing in a group of men—one I recognize as Rock, the president of the upstate Lost Kings, his son Teller, and a wiry, craggy-looking older man who looks like he rode through a tornado without stopping to be here.
“Ulfric was like an uncle to me when I was little. He was always nice. My father’s responsible for his own choices.” A faint smile ghosts her lips. “He and my dad owned a drive-in theater when I was a kid. It was one of my favorite places to be in the summers. I have a lot of happy memories there.” The smile slides off her face. “But when my mom had enough of his cheating and divorced him, she moved us across the country, and I never really saw him much after that. She didn’t want my brother joining the MC too, so she got us as far away as she could.”
“Did your brother join them?” I don’t even think her brother showed up for the funeral.
“God, no.” She sighs and sits up straighter. “My dad could’ve had visitation with us in the summers, but he only bothered once. Having us around during ‘riding season’ was an inconvenience, you know?”
So much of Abby’s bitterness makes sense now.
“He moved to be closer to me, recently. He wanted to get to know my kids but never wanted to really discuss the past. Own up to it. Apologize. Nothing.” She lets out a strained laugh. “Like, how dare I harbor some resentment about him abandoning me for all those years.”
This isn’t our first client or even the hundredth whose grief rubs against their unprocessed abandonment issues. It’s still hard to think of an appropriate response.
“It’s hard for some people to own up to their mistakes.” That seems like the safest thing to say. “They’d rather pretend it didn’t happen and move on. That doesn’t mean you’re required to do the same.”
She frowns as if she’s working through my words. I hope I didn’t offend her.
“Wow,” she breathes out. “Thank you for saying that, Margot.”
Her voice is softer now. Less bitter.
I squeeze her hand gently, then stand.
“You sure you don’t need anything?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I’m okay. He really wanted this,” she says, gesturing toward the casket and the room full of men in leather. “Thank you for working so hard to make it all come together.”
“Of course.” There’s still so much left to do but at least we got this part right.
I step away from Abby and circulate through the room. Different leather vests with various states stitched into the bottom of the back patches—Montana, Idaho, Nomad. Huh, that’s different. The scent of leather, oil, cologne, smoke, and flowers fills the air—a little grittier than the normal funeral scents.
In the hallway, I bump into my father. “Everything’s going well,” he says in a low voice, his gaze flicking around. “All the permits are in the glove box.”
“Got it.” I flick my pen over the checklist on my small clipboard. “We have our escorts and the route ready.” I lower my voice. “Ulfric says his men will take care of the few road closures we need but Slater PD said they want to handle Main Street.”
He nods once. “I’ll speak to Ulfric about that one.”
“Thanks.”
“Wrath says they’ll assist with a perimeter at the cemetery. It seems like overkill but,” he shrugs, “I’m not about to argue with him.”