Cole
We gathered back at the Black Reapers’ clubhouse in Springsville, and not a soul in the Gray Reapers said a word.
In fact, none of the Gray Reapers seemed to express any concern. They all understood what I tried to establish through example—we were not here to judge, negotiate, or even reach a compromise. We had gathered to mourn the loss of Father Marcellus, and it just so happened this was taking place at the old clubhouse; it would have made no difference if we had convened at the Gray Reapers’ clubhouse, Bottle Revolution, or even the charred ashes of Brewskis.
But it made me realize how, in just the span of a year and a half, so much had changed for members of the club that I had once considered brothers.
For starters, at the risk of stating the obvious, everyone just looked older under the brightness of the afternoon. Butch had far more gray hairs in his beard than before. Patriot looked like he had aged five years in the last one. Axle, somehow, actually looked lighter and more relaxed than usual, but that was only relative to how he was before.
And, of course, there were two officers who were no longer alive.
The Black Reapers’ demeanors had changed, too. I knew Lane had changed, but Patriot seemed quieter. Butch was still Butch, but his silence seemed more natural, not like he was trying to play a role. Axle’s behavior matched his changed appearance.
And most of all, the thing that I could not have expected, was how all of them seemed to have women—and not just de facto trophy wives, but actual women they cared about.
I knew about Lane’s girlfriend, Angela, though she had left right after the funeral, perhaps on account of the fact that a public official dating the President of the Black Reapers was not the greatest look to give to the public. Patriot was dating a cute nurse, although she did not look like she wanted to be around the rest of the club members at all. Axle and his girlfriend looked like they had been together for decades, not months. And Butch…
I will never make sense of Butch having a girlfriend, let alone a former club bunny.
But really, the biggest surprise was just how much the club had grown up in the last few months. Maybe we still had our skirmishes, and maybe we had our alliances that fell apart, but the expectation I had of the club dissolving into nothingness or becoming a rage-filled party once Lane took over had not come to pass. The complete opposite had, actually.
And there I was, having struck out on my own in the past year and a half, having made my father proud—I hoped—and having started a new club entirely from scratch with a handful of old Black Reapers, and I was single.
But the honest truth was that this was no time to be looking for love. Yes, there was something about being the guy who always got “last pickings” in comparison to Lane, but death had a way of putting petty grievances in their place. Love was nice, if you had the space to get it; when you didn’t, it didn’t fucking matter.
Lane came over to me as I stood at the front door, quietly sipping on some champagne. I couldn’t tell from his approach what he had to say, but there was always a certain level of guardedness I had with Lane.
“How you doing, brother?” he said.
“Fine,” I said. “Just sort of reflecting.”
“Yeah? On how much more your facial hair makes you look like an adult?”
Two years ago, I would have retreated from that remark, quickly deferring and agreeing with him.
Two months ago, I probably would have smacked him with some trash talk.
Now, I just shrugged.
“Would you have me shave at a time like this?”
“Probably not,” Lane admitted. “Probably wouldn’t have anyone in these clubs do anything other than focus on the Fallen Saints.”
He was right, but I wasn’t sure that he was hitting the point home hard enough.
“We’re not doing things the right way,” I said.
Lane looked at me askance. In his mind, he probably thought things were going great. If they were, we wouldn’t have gotten dressed up and placed one of his officers—and one of our closest confidants—six feet under.
“We keep trying to come together, hash out our differences; we quibble over something, we split, and then we wind up getting attacked by the Fallen Saints. We can’t be having this anymore.”
“I know,” Lane admitted.
In a strange way, I almost wondered if he and I were the reason that the Fallen Saints were landing such devastating blows on us. Everyone in the room besides us seemed to mostly get along; you could pick out individual quarrels here and there, but that was true in any club. Was this whole split really because the two of us couldn’t put our egos aside?
“Old habits die hard,” he quipped.
“Yeah, well, either the habits die, or we do.”
