I understood that I needed to do that.
I understood that it would not just benefit the clubs on a high level, but all of us on a personal level.
Maybe it could even extend...
Maybe I could get back with more than just the club.
But for now, I just needed sleep.
* * *
When I woke up, it was only four hours later. Cole and Owen each had left me two voicemails, all of them making sure I was OK and politely asking that I go to the clubhouse. There was just one problem.
I had never wanted so little in my life to go to the clubhouse.
What was the fucking point?
Every time I did anything related to a motorcycle club, any time that I stepped foot into a clubhouse, any moment that was spent with a fellow biker was a moment that would invariably lead to tragedy. All of the great men that I knew had met a grisly, gruesome end. It may have been a glorious life, but there was no going out in a blaze of glory—just a blaze of bullets, blood, and tragedy.
Who would die next? Cole? Owen?
Me?
If fate had any fucking sense of justice, it would be Lucius, but he was like a fucking parasite that we could not get rid of; even when the two Reapers had come together to attack the Saints, we’d only injured him.
Meanwhile, we died.
Unless you unite the clubs. As you did last night.
The only thing that got me out of bed, the only thing that pushed me to go to the Gray Reapers’ clubhouse, were those final words from Father Marcellus. It felt like I would be dishonoring his memory if I didn’t drag my ass out of bed, get over there, and work to bring us together. That was the only hope we had of ending this.
And then, and only then, once every Fallen Saint was exterminated, once all life had been exhausted from those shitheads, then the real healing could begin. But just as soldiers couldn’t take mental breaks while a war was still going on, I had to limit my own pity parties to be as short and infrequent as possible.
I skipped breakfast, completely lacking an appetite, and drove slowly, almost like I was leading a funeral procession, to the Gray Reapers’ clubhouse. When I got there, I found the place in an appropriate mourning state; conversations were muted, and Cole was already waiting for me inside.
“Hey,” he said in a soft voice.
I nodded at him.
“Cole, I need to get right to it,” I said as I stopped about a foot in front of him. “I suffered a second loss that I wasn’t prepared for last night. And both losses have come because of the Fallen Saints. At this point, it’s unity or death. We are facing an evil unlike anything we have ever faced before, and to overcome it, we have to do something that I don’t think either of us ever anticipated having to do.”
I took a breath. Cole was listening with rapt attention.
“Butch and I have apologized to each other.”
Somehow, the room got even quieter.
“While we will never be friends, we both know what we’re up against. This can’t be Gray versus Black. We just have to be the Reapers. And Cole...”
Just charge through and say it.
“You and Lane have got to get your shit worked out. I don’t care how. The long-term ramifications of peace between you two don’t mean shit if there isn’t a long-term to think about. When the gun that’s pointed at our collective heads gets taken away, then we can move forward. But you and your brother have got to end your petty shit. Understood?”
It was only then that I understood why Father Marcellus said he had told me everything that he had to. Through my example of making peace with Butch, with the man that had ended my father’s life, I could show the two Carter brothers that they, too, could put their arguments aside and find common ground. Maybe it wouldn’t last. I knew Butch and I would never be friends and would probably still have loathing for each other.
But maybe, just maybe, Father Marcellus, through his death, had shown us what we needed to pull our shit together.
“Understood,” Cole said.
I didn’t know what else to say. I didn’t want to stay with Cole. I had nothing against him at that moment, but I needed to give him space to figure out how to deal with this shit. I walked out of the clubhouse, got back on my bike, and paused.
The only thing left I needed to get back...
Well, I didn’t have her number. I didn’t have her contact info. I could only remember faintly what she smelled like.
Maybe this was all a bad idea. Maybe this wouldn’t lead to anything. Maybe I was putting too much stock in what one person could do for me right now.
But if I was in the process of making peace with those I had a gripe with, that had to extend to Jess. Even if the feelings weren’t there anymore—and most assuredly, they still were for me—I had to apologize. I had to face her and admit my shortcomings.
And though I lacked a phone number, I knew of the one place she’d be, the one spot where I could make my last attempt at making things good with her.
