“Visiting my father’s grave was as normal as you can get,” I said. “But when I was at Shannon’s grave, some woman there was watching me, waiting for me to finish so she could go visit.”
“Family member?”
“Didn’t look like her,” I said. “Didn’t recognize her. Even if I had, though, I don’t think she would have given me two seconds of conversation.”
Patriot smirked at me but didn’t give a full-on laugh.
“Are you worried about her?” he asked.
Was I?
I hadn’t thought about the question much. I’d been too consumed by Reaper personal business today. And truthfully, even if I hadn’t, it didn’t seem like the kind of question worth pondering.
But no one had stared at me like that since Cole a year ago. The hatred, the passion, the disgust…
“We should find out more about her,” I said. “She had no fear looking at me. In fact, she seemed to be making a point staring at me.”
“Hmm,” Patriot said. “Our reputation isn’t the greatest with Shannon’s family. Could just be a pissed off cousin.”
“Could be,” I said, finishing my beer.But I don’t think it’s “just” that.
“Look, I gotta get back to the shop. But you wanna do us a favor?”
“Yeah?”
Patriot chugged the rest of his beer and put it down. At the entrance, two Fallen Saints walked in. They gave us scowls, but Jess grabbed their attention immediately, preventing any sort of blood from spilling onto the bar floor— not that it ever had.Or hopefully ever would.
“Come swing by the clubhouse,” Patriot said. “Most of the socializing at the club takes place in the evening. I know it’s when you go home, but the club would see it as a start. Not gonna heal all wounds, man, but it might just start something, you know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah,” I said, although it didn’t fully register with me. They were concerned about my commitment and courage for battle, not for playing games of poker or having a shot of whiskey. But, fuck it, it wasn’t like anything bad would happen. Probably. “Let’s do it.”
Patriot smiled, gave me a fist bump, and encouraged me by saying it was about time I spent a weekday night with the boys. I tried to deflect the understated harshness of that statement and followed him out to my bike, which, despite the presence of the Saints, had not been touched. They knew better, and they knew we had heat if shit got wild.
Heat I needed some prodding to use if the time came.
I kickstarted my bike, revved it, and gunned it back toward my father’s shop. Patriot gave me a thumbs up on the ride home before falling to my rear right, letting me take the lead.
All seemed normal on the ride home as I left the sunset behind me in favor of an evening of some drinks, some gambling, and who knows what else.
And then I got to the shop.
The same woman from the graveyard was waiting out front for me.
Angela
This is stupid.
You don’t have a warrant. You don’t have anything that will legally let you examine them. You could get your ass kicked.
You really want to be the woman that got in a fight with the Black Reapers her first week back in Springsville? You really want that distinction?
I do. If it’s for Shannon.
When I first parked my Civic about a block away from the shop that housed the Black Reapers, Carter’s Auto Repairs, I had parked it far away in case any of them got the smartass idea of slashing my tires or causing any other sort of property damage. I walked up to the shop, where a big, beefy man who looked like a cross between Hulk Hogan and Shaq stopped me with one arm forward.
“Shop’s closed,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”
“I’m here to see Lane Carter,” I said.
