PROLOGUE
Frost
“We now commit the body of Cynthia Stone to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
Murmurs of ‘Amen’ surround me as my dad and sister slowly approach the grave in front of us. I don’t even remember picking up the handful of dirt. One second, my fingers are trembling at my sides, and the next, they’re clawing into the dirt mound beside the vast hole. My mom’s name echoes in my head. She was too young, too full of life to succumb to breast cancer.
Fisting the soil in my palm, I toss it onto the mahogany casket. It hits the top with a dull thud—so quiet, so final. I want it to sound louder, to split the air open, to make the world understand what has been taken from me, my family…ourfamily. But it doesn’t. The sound vanishes immediately, like it never even happened. Not being able to stand the finality of it all, I grab another handful, then another, until my hands arefilthy, until the dark stains on my skin match the ground that will swallow her whole.
A hand squeezes my shoulder as the priest speaks softly about peace and rest, but his words aren’t registering through the haze. Right now, words are meaningless to me. I want to scream until I wake up from this nightmare. My gaze swings to the left, where my best friend, Chase ‘Chaos’ Bennett, silently lends his support along with his father, Eagle, who hasn’t moved from my dad’s side.
My mom’s death took a toll on everyone in my club, Death’s Gambit MC. The club is about brotherhood, belonging to something, but Mom made it a family. She treated everyone like they were her children. Not only me and Paige, her biological children, but everyone in the MC. Now the one member we all turned to for comfort is gone.
Paige’s sobs knock me out of my reverie, and I pull her into my arms. “Sshh, it’ll be okay,” I soothe.
She grips my cut in her fists. “H-h-how can you say that, Deacon?” she wails. “Mom’s dead. She’s gone.”
“Frost,” I gently chastise.
“You’ll always be Deacon to me,” she argues.
Even with death surrounding us, my lip curves up slightly because I’m thankful she hasn’t lost all her sass. I tug her into my chest and let her tears soak my shirt as the last piece of my icy heart shatters. All I can do is stand here and offer her comfort, which I desperately need as well.
My sister pulls away and wraps her arms around herself, mascara streaking her cheeks. She looks so small standing in front of me. All I can see is the little girl who would cry out for Mom when she was sick or having a bad day.
“We’ll be okay. Mom would want that,” I say, not truly believing the words as they flow from my mouth.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she whispers.
“Neither do I,” I admit.
Dad hovers beside us, letting us take a moment for ourselves. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he rocks back on his heels. He hasn’t cried, at least, we’ve not seen him shed a tear today, but his face is hollow, devoid of all emotion. He catches my eye and gives a small nod. Time to go.
How do we keep on living when the woman holding us together is gone?
There are no words left to say. Placing my hand on my sister’s shoulder, we walk together toward the caravan heading back to the clubhouse. Each step pulls us farther from the grave, from the last place we’ll ever see her. I don’t look back. I can’t.
Eagle, the President of Death’s Gambit, opens the car door for Paige as one of the prospects gets in behind the wheel. Once she’s settled, we all mount our bikes and fire up our engines, giving one last final salute to the queen.
“We ride for Cynthia!” Eagle shouts over the thunderous noise from the tailpipes.
“For Cynthia,” we all echo in unison.
The ride back is somber. My mind continually drifts to thoughts about tomorrow. How am I supposed to wake up knowing that she won’t be here anymore?
The town stepped up for us in our time of need, and they’re throwing a remembrance celebration in honor of my mom. The clubhouse is full of people by the time we make it back. The smell of coffee and casseroles floats through the room, making my stomach churn. Every few seconds, another person murmurs “I’m so sorry,” as they drift past me, as if that somehow makes it all better.
I stand near the corner of the room and watch as people mingle and share stories about my mom. Someone found a photo of her from Sturgis last year and blew it up for everyone tosee. Her head is thrown back in laughter, her eyes shining with mischief. My chest aches just looking at it.
My sister sits on the couch beside Colt, one of my best friends, holding a glass of wine that she hasn’t touched. I locate Dad at the bar, nodding absently at the mayor of our town, Truth or Consequences. Dad keeps turning his wedding ring around and around on his finger, as if it’s grounding him.
I glance toward the kitchen doorway, expecting Mom to walk through, wiping her hands on a dish towel, pretending to scold us for entering her domain to sneak some food before she’s ready to serve. The thought hits me so suddenly, it knocks the air from my lungs.
I slip outside for some fresh air as laughter filters out from inside. It’s almost as if people are afraid to be silent when all I want to do is welcome it. A few minutes later, Chaos leans against the side of the building with me. For a few moments, we stand there and listen to the murmur of voices.
“I’m so fucking sorry, Frost,” he says.
I shrug. “We all knew it was gonna happen.”
