Page 8 of Property of Shotgun
I’m not saying my new rank makes me more of a target, but the club is in a bad place. More blood will be shed—there’s no way around it. I don’t want to make a promise to the kid that I can’t keep.
I stare into his wide, expectant eyes, and against my better judgement, I wrap my pinky around his.
“Promise,” I rasp.
“Legend,” Jade calls. “Come hold Mommy’s hand.”
He gives my pinky a final tug, then releases it.
“Duty calls, kid,” I say as I straighten to my full height. He salutes me, then turns and rushes for his mom. I stare at the three of them for a beat. Jade in those ridiculous heels that are already sinking into the wet Earth, and the two boys—one dressed like a mini rapper going to an awards show, and the other in jeans, and his daddy’s kutte that is impossibly too big for him, the Kings Of Anarchy patch on his back. Then I turn my head and watch as my brothers lift the casket from the hearse.
Part of me wants to join them, but a bigger part knows my place is with his family.
Two steps behind, standing in the shadows.
Waiting to catch them if they fall.
The procession makes it way up the hill, pausing to give the guys a moment to situate the casket. As we all stand there waiting, Jade’s heels sink into the grass. If I wasn’t worried my wrists would split open entirely, I’d carry her the rest of the few feet.
Jersey pushes Irish’s mother’s wheelchair up to the grave site, and Jade goes to follow but her shoes get stuck as she tries to take a step. I’m about to bend down and pull the heels out of the mud when she releases Legend’s hand and takes the shoes off her feet. She doesn’t even bother to pick them up, she just takes her boys’ hands and marches the rest of the way up the hill barefoot.
“That woman is a force,” Guido says lowly from beside me. “Barefoot in a cemetery, burying her ol’ man. Makes me wish I had an ol’ lady that loved me half as much as she loved him.”
“Loves,” I correct, my jaw clenching.
He turns to face me, his brows drawn tight. “Huh?”
“Just because he’s dead don’t mean her love for him died with him.”
I grab her shoes and proceed to follow her up the hill. Guido parks Irene’s chair next to Jade, and I stand close behind as the traditional Catholic service begins—a nod to Irish’s mom, and the religion she tried so hard to instill in her son.
I try to follow along, but my eyes keep darting to Jade’s bare feet, all covered in dirt and grass clippings. Foolishly, I glance around the cemetery like a pair of women’s flats are going to miraculously drop from the fucking sky. Grinding my molars, my gaze lands on one of the prospects who looks to be playing with his fucking hands instead of paying attention to the priest.
“Skid,” I growl.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, so I call him again, this time a little louder which effectively causes Jade to turn and glare at me. Ignoring her, I stalk over to Skid, smacking my hand against his chest. He startles, lifting his hand to pull out an ear bud.
What a disrespectful little shit.
“Take off your shirt.”
“Come again?”
Gritting my teeth, I pluck at the cotton under his leather vest. “Your shirt. Take it the fuck off.”
“Brother, we’re at a funeral.”
“And you’ve got fucking Air Pods in your ears. Lose the shirt.”
He stares at me wide-eyed for a beat, then shrugs off his kutte. I grab it from him, waiting as he pulls the shirt over his head.
“Now what?”
I hand him back the kutte and take the shirt before I turn back to where Jade is standing, glaring at me.
“Are you done causing a scene?” she hisses.
Guido hit the nail on the head when he said she’s a force.
