Lyric hops off the bed and stalks toward me, removing his clothes as he gets closer. By the time he reaches me, he’s naked, and I’m distracted. He bends to lift me in his arms, and I squeal as I hold onto the photo I’d just picked up.
“I remember that night,” he says casually, catching sight of the image. “It was right after we graduated high school.”
“Rowdy hates having his picture taken. It’s a miracle that Pastor caught this moment.”
“Time is frozen,” he sings, just like he did that night.
“You and your lyrics,” I tease.
Lyric tosses me onto the mattress before shrugging. “Music is universal, and there’s a song that can be linked to pretty much anything and everything.”
“So you’ve said… a million times.” I reach up and grab his hand to yank him down. “I love you and your lyrics.”
I stumble as the memory fades and refocus on the picture on the wall. A tsunami of grief crashes over me, and I drop to my knees as sobs wrack my body.
Hank… I remember him… Pop.
And he’s dead.
12
LYRIC
The room slowly fills with patched brothers, and the persistent ache I’ve had in my chest loosens slightly. Being around them and engaging in somethingnormalsettles me in a way that has been impossible over the last week.
“Sit down, and shut the fuck up!” Zombie shouts once Romeo, the club secretary, arrives.
It takes less than five seconds for my VP’s orders to be followed and silence to ensue. All eyes are on me while my own gaze is homed in on the empty chair Rowdy always occupied at the other end of the table.
“Goddamn weird without him,” Pilot says, echoing my thoughts.
“It is,” Quake confirms.
Boondock, our Treasurer, shakes his head. “He’d be the first to tell us to get our heads outta our asses and focus on business.”
Goose barks out a laugh. “Fuck, yes, he would. Rowdy didn’t appreciate church being wasted on shit not pertaining to the club.”
My control snaps. “If Rowdy’s death doesn’t pertain to the club, I don’t know what fucking does.”
“Didn’t mean anything by it, Pres,” Goose says, hands up in surrender. “Just… commiserating.”
Heaving a sigh, I jerk a nod. “Yeah, okay. Let’s save the commiserating for the funeral tomorrow. Right now, we focus on the accident report.” I look at Quake. “You said it came in.”
“It did,” he confirms, lifting the stack of papers in front of him and passing them to his left. “In a nutshell, it states that the accident wasn’t an accident at all.”
“What?” I snarl, white hot fury slamming into me.
As the papers continue to be passed from brother to brother, Quake explains. “According to the accident reconstruction specialist, there was damage to the club Jeep that’s consistent with being hit by another vehicle.”
“Makes sense,” Whiz quips. “After Rowdy and Mellie hit the semi, I’m sure they were rammed from behind by whoever was back there.”
“True, but the specialist notes that the damage he’s referring to in this section of the report was likely caused by an intentional hit,” Quake says.
“Someone forced them to crash into that semi?” Copper asks.
“Seems like it.”
“What about witnesses?” I ask, not directing the question to anyone in particular.
