Angels and Ashes (Heaven's Rejects MC Book 2) (2 page)

Raze shakes his head at my blunt response and shifts uncomfortably next to me before standing up in complete and utter silence. He stalks toward the door, and just as I open my mouth to berate him further, he stops abruptly and pivots back toward me with his eyes locked intensely onto mine. “I know you’re hurting, darlin’, but getting pissed at me isn’t going to bring him back, as much as I wish it fucking could. He died on his fucking bike, and that’s all you need to know.”

“You son-of-a-
bitch
,” I screech, leaping from the couch with such force that I reach him in just a few broad steps. My hand again flies toward his already-red cheek when he catches it tightly within his large hands. His eyes narrow when he roughly throws my hand down as his left hand grabs me by the chin, forcing me to look at him once more.

“I let you hit me the first time because I knew you were in pain, but I can’t let you do that again. Darcy, I know you loved the old bastard and he loved you back, but he wouldn’t want you acting like this. You need to focus on your boys right now and how the fuck you’re going to handle telling them. Once the funeral’s over, if you want to hate me or any of the guys for the rest of your life, that’s your prerogative, but for the next few days, you need to put on a brave face for Brent. He wouldn’t want you at odds with us while we all mourn since you and those boys are the only piece of him we have left.”

“I don’t give a shit about your club or your
feelings
,” I spit back at him. “As soon as my husband is buried, I never want to see you or that fucking club anywhere near my family again.”

A grim and anger-laced expression briefly crosses Raze’s face before his calm, but stern, everyday grimace settles. His face is usually unreadable, untouched by emotion-driven gestures, but even in my grief, I can tell that he’s seething at me now. I don’t care about any of the feelings he may have.

“If that’s what you want, so fucking be it, Darcy. But until that man is buried, you will let us take care of his family. Morton’s already has his body and he’s waiting for your call to set up arrangements. The club will be handling the procession to the cemetery along with me as his president officiating the graveside service. You can have your religious shit or whatever you want at the funeral home, but the cemetery is ours.”

“How dare you—” I reply before he’s hushing me with his thumb pressing tightly against my lips.

“Tell the boys, and call the funeral home, Darcy. I’ll have Maj come by later to get the information from you. If you need anything, contact me directly,” Raze replies as he coldly releases his grip and stalks out of the house, slamming the door behind him. The shuffling footsteps of Wesson and Colt grow louder in the hallway as the sounds of his bike grow quieter. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I watch as my two young sons walk into the room.

“What's wrong, Mama?” Wesson asks. “Why did Uncle ‘aze make you cry? Was he mean to my mama?”

Holding out my arms to them, I watch as they both rush toward me and encompass their little arms around my neck and torso. The tears begin to heavily flow again as I work up the courage to tell them. I know I’m only delaying the inevitable by stalling their questions with a hug, but I can’t help it; I need to feel them and the piece of their father that lies inside of their little bodies. As soon as I tell them, their worlds will shatter, and I’m not ready to see their hearts break. Wesson begins to wiggle to break free of my grasp, forcing me to pull away from their little bodies. I look at their beautiful faces while I wait for the right words to form on my lips.
How did we get so lucky to have such handsome boys?
As Wesson’s cold little hand caresses my face, I am snapped back to reality.

“Mama, what’s wrong?” Colt questions.

“Mama’s got some bad news, boys. Daddy had an accident.”

Colt remains silent as Wesson’s confusion sets in. “Is Daddy at the ‘ospital with the pretty nurses?” Holding up his bandaged finger, he looks at me with hope. “Daddy can have one of my batman bandy-aids, but only if he doesn’t cry when you put the magic meddy on, Mama. Big boys don’t cry.”

Wesson’s sweet words shatter my heart even more.

“No, baby, Daddy doesn’t need a bandy-aid where he is.”

Colt’s face instantly reflects in recognition that he knows what I am about to say isn’t good news. He grabs for his brother, and I pull them both into my embrace once more. “Daddy’s with the angels now, isn’t he, Mama?” Colt’s tiny voice asks with just a whisper against my chest.

It’s all I can do to stop from wailing as I simply reply, “Yes, baby. Daddy’s with the angels now.”

The boys sob in my arms for what seems like hours before their bodies succumb to their grief-stricken exhaustion. Carrying each boy one by one, I settle them down into their rooms before making the necessary phone calls to my parents and to the funeral home. Morton’s continuous barrage of questions cut me down further and further until I have nothing left inside of me. The last few minutes of the call blurs through time as my soul shatters away, knowing that the only person who can fix my broken heart is the one who I will be burying in a few short days. This isn’t fair to me and especially not to the boys to lose their dad so early in their life.

Hours later, I sit in complete darkness in the room I once shared with my husband and remember our time together as a family. The sadness begins to formulate not only in rage, but in a revengeful plea to the Heavens to bring him back to me no matter the costs. They say that there are five stages to grief, but to me there is only one.
Revenge
. I silently swear on my unborn child’s life to find out what really happened to his or her father. I may be just a former biker’s bitch, but they’ll pay for what they took from me with every drop of blood that falls from their bodies as I crush their heart in my hands. I just have to bide my time to bring this little one in the world and make sure the boys will be safe from the backlash that might come from what I am planning to do. My husband may have been a Heaven’s Reject, but I will be the right hand of the devil. All that will be left after I scour the Earth for the person whose hands are stained with my husband’s blood will be angels and ashes.

I knew from the moment I saw the blood dripping from his veins that the darkness that I’ve kept at bay for so long would soon be unleashed. Watching Jagger’s lifeless body swing from the rafters of my own shed on fucking clubhouse property fueled the rage inside of me. No one comes onto our property, murders one of my brothers in cold blood, and lives to old age. Even days later, I still feel the demon inside of me screaming for fucking vengeance just like the rest of the club. As much as I want to light the fire under these motherfuckers, I know it’s not the right time. We don’t have a plan or even know where their hidey-hole of a clubhouse is at the moment. I’ve got the feelers out there trying to track them down, but they’ve come up with jack shit so far. The time for revenge will come soon enough for those Tribe bastards.

While the planning and slow action of avenging Jagger is causing tension with my brothers, today is the day we lay our brother to rest and mourn alongside his wife and sons. Just thinking about his funeral today puts knots in my stomach. His boys are too fucking young to lose their old man, and it eats me alive knowing that Jagger will miss out on their entire lives. I had twenty years’ worth of memories with my own father before his lifestyle finally claimed his life, but Wesson and Colt will only have a few short memories, if they can even remember him at all as the years go on.

Some people might say that he is watching down on them, but guys like us don’t get the pearly fucking gates. Nah, guys like us end up in Hell’s furnace paying for each and every last sin we’ve ever committed. Just thinking about the shit I’ve dealt with over the years with Jagger by my side just cements the idea in my head that there’s no fucking Heaven for a Heaven’s Reject. His family needs to think that they’ll see him again someday in the afterlife. And that’s what I am going to tell them in his eulogy today. Their old man was a good man, and that’s the only side of him they need to know about.

I couldn’t sleep last night knowing that I would have to say goodbye to Jagger today. I tossed and turned for hours until I finally dragged my ass into my office to think about what the fuck I’m going to say to those attending the funeral in a few hours. Even as I tried to find the right words, all I could picture was Darcy’s face as I told her the news. I’ve gotta admit that watching the smile fall from Darcy’s face when I pulled up in her drive felt like a forty-five caliber shot to the heart. Just looking at me she had to have known that it wasn’t good news I was delivering, and I sure as hell wasn’t Publisher’s Clearing House bringing her a check for a million dollars.

Jagger was a damn lucky guy to have a woman like her in his life. I never could figure out how the old bastard landed a chick like her even years after the fact. She was so young when he brought her to the clubhouse the first time that I actually remember asking him if she was legal. The bastard just smiled at me as he pulled her into his lap and staked his claim. Her voice sang sweetly with each word that spilled from her lips. Her sexy little southern drawl damn nearly killing me each time her beautiful mouth opened. It wasn’t long after that he announced to the club he was going to marry Darcy. I was happy for him, and hell, I was jealous. She’s the kind of woman that any of us would be lucky to have. My wife is a looker, but she isn’t the full package like Darcy was for Jagger.

There were so many nights that Jagger came home hours late, covered in blood from beating the ever-loving fuck out of some punk hassling one of our clients or from some rival club stirring shit up, and she just walked away without a word. But, there were a few times I saw that southern sass in her roar to life as she fucking laid into him in front of the entire club after missing something for the boys, but Jagger always said that she would forgive him as soon as they got home. He always said that he could solve every problem they ever had in the bedroom, but there were times I thought even a good fucking wouldn’t get him out of the dog house. I’ll admit, Jagger wasn’t exactly the best guy on the planet, but for her and the kids, he’d paint the fucking moon purple if it made them happy.

Drumming my fingers on the hardwood top of my desk, I decide to just wing his eulogy. I’m absolutely fucking kidding myself if I think that I can come up with the right words to say. The mess of crumpled up papers littering the floor is evidence enough that I’m not cut out for writing some bullshit speech. Just as I toss the last of my incoherent scribbles toward the overflowing trash can in the corner, a knock comes from the door.

“Yeah?” I call out. The knob slowly turns, and in walks Hero and Ratchet. Hero looks ragged from lack of sleep, and Ratchet doesn’t look any better.

“Hey, Prez,” Ratchet mutters as he and Hero slide into the chairs in front of my desk. Hero looks to the scattered mess on the floor and laughs.

“I see your speech is going well,” Hero quips with a cocky ass smile. “Better be careful; one of those tree huggers will start picketing in your office.”

Running my fingers over my buzz cut, I let out a sigh. “Yeah, writing something pretty isn’t exactly highlighted on my resume. I bet popping a nun’s cherry on a Sunday wouldn’t be this damn hard.”

Both men laugh at the visual I just gave them.

“Not sure waving your dick around would make a nun break her vows from what I’ve heard, Raze,” Hero jokes. I know he’s trying to lighten the mood, but the fucker doesn’t know when he’s crossing the line. When I shoot him a glare, Hero raises his hands up in defeat. “Jesus, I was just kidding. Don’t get your panties in a wad, Prez.”

“You keep this shit up, Hero, and Ratchet might just get a promotion to VP,” I joke in return.

“Nah,” Ratchet mutters. “You know I’m not the leading by example kinda guy, Prez. Well, unless you want me to teach the prospects to be a pain your ass.”

“Yeah,” Hero chimes in, “don’t you remember what happened the last time you let Ratchet out of his cage? He burned down an entire mansion-filled neighborhood.”

“Who would have thought that the finer things in life would burn just as fast as the shitty stuff?” Ratchet recalls with a shrug of his shoulders.

Shaking my head, I can’t help but laugh. Just thinking about some of the shit Ratchet has pulled makes me reconsider the idea. He seems unaffected by the fact that he torched ten-million-dollars’ worth of a rich neighborhood to the ground after we had to handle some club business last fall. The fucker is crazy as shit, but he’s loyal. We just make sure that he’s monitored when he has to clean up from now on. Some people say that I’m crazy for keeping him around, but he’s seen too damn much of our dark shit to just let him walk away still breathing. When shit goes dark, we need him around, no matter the risk it could cost.

“And that right there is the case and fucking point why we don’t let you play with matches anymore, Ratch.” All three of us laugh harder until an awkward silence builds in the room. “So, what the fuck do you two need?”