Page 6 of Property of Shotgun
Reaching him, my gaze falls to his leather kutte, and I’m shocked to find the patch that once labeled my husband as the vice president, is sewn to it. The urge to trace my finger over it tugs at me, but I keep my hand firmly at my side.
My eyes fly up to meet his. “When did that happen?
“This morning.”
I know things move quickly around here, especially with the club in such a volatile state, but it still feels like another punch to the gut.
“Uncle Shotty it’s time to say goodbye to Daddy,” Raiden says, and once again our stare off is broken. He looks up at me. “We go in the car now?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“Guido left to go get Irene from the home, and Skid brought your truck around,” Shotgun says, diverting my gaze back to him. That’s when I notice he’s holding my key fob. I’m about to ask him if he plans on driving, but my eyes lock on the bandages circling his wrists, and I lose my train of thought. It doesn’t take long for him to bring me back to focus, though. “If you’re ready, I’ll tell Biggie to round up the bikes, and we’ll roll out.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready,” I whisper, my voice catching slightly.
Irish could’ve lived a full life, and I could’ve buried him when we were old and gray and I still wouldn’t be ready to say goodbye. It doesn’t help that I didn’t even get to have a proper wake for him. No one would let me see him, and the morning after I learned of his death, Biggie told me he was sending his body to the crematory.
I raged at the audacity.
He was my husband. It should’ve been my decision to make.
But I suppose I should be grateful he asked if I wanted to keep his ashes.
I considered it too—but what happens when I die? I haven’t given death much thought, but I do not want to be cremated, and it doesn’t seem fair leaving our kids to deal with the responsibility of Irish’s ashes.
I can’t have him in life, but I can have him for eternity, and so with that in mind, I demanded the club by a double plot. Irish’s ashes will be buried there today, and when it’s my time, I’ll be buried with them. Our boys won’t have to fight over an urn. They’ll be able to visit us whenever they want.
The baby decides to kick at that moment, and I press my hand to my bump. Tears brim in my eyes as I feel the life Irish and I created move inside of me.
At least I have them.
My sweet boys.
“Is everything okay?” Shotgun asks. “The baby?”
“He’s kicking.” His eyes zero in on my stomach but he doesn’t say anything. I blow out a breath, internally pulling myself together. “I’m ready.”
He stares at me for a moment, then jerks his head toward where Biggie sits at the bar. With a tip of his chin, he signals its time. Biggie alerts the crowd, and as Shotgun and I get the boys situated in my truck, the Kings of Anarchy straddle their Harleys. I stare out the windshield at all the bikes, and my heart hammers away when they roar to life, the sound deafening.
Biggie leads the convoy of New York Kings past the compound gates, and the hearse carrying Irish follows. Shotgun pulls my Escalade behind it, and the members from all the neighboring charters trail behind us. It’s a sight I’ll never forget.
A send off fit for a King.
Irish would proud.
THREE
SHOTGUN
I feellike I’m suffocating, and while I want to blame it on the fact I’m driving Jade’s truck and I don’t remember the last time I was behind the wheel of anything, I can’t be too sure. I sneak a glance in the rearview mirror, eyeing Legend as he stares mindlessly out the window. I’m worried about him. Raiden doesn’t get what has happened, but being a little older, Legend understands more, and I get the sense he has questions he’s too afraid to ask.
Questions I’ll be tasked to answer when he’s older.
Until then, I’m not sure how to proceed, and I don’t feel comfortable discussing it with Jade. At least not yet. She only just started speaking to me after avoiding me like the plague. I get it, though. She wishes it were me being buried today and looking at my mug only stands as a reminder that she’s not.
I probably should’ve given her the space she desires by letting one of the prospects drive her and the kids to the cemetery, but I selfishly wanted them close to me.
“Is this it?” she asks as the hearse rolls to a stop in front of us. I turn to her, watching as her fingers twist the hem of dress. It’s a nervous habit of hers. If she weren’t wearing a dress, she’d be tugging the sleeves of her shirt over her hands and twisting them. I used to tease her about it when we were younger.
