Cole
Although we were subdued as we left Lucius’ house, by the time I got back to the Black Reapers’ clubhouse, an all-out party had erupted.
People that never smiled, like Axle and Butch, were laughing like they were in college all over again. Club members were downing shots. Girls were streaming in, some of them looking like they had just woken up, but all of them gradually getting more and more festive. Even some of the girlfriends, the ones who usually avoided the parties, had stuck around and started celebrating.
Music blared loudly, and multiple chants of “Fuck the Saints! Fuck the Saints! Fuck the Saints!” erupted as people cheered. Club members who, when sober, wouldn’t so much as clap at something they liked danced like they were at Oktoberfest. For a place that, just hours before, had served as a bunker for loved ones of the Reapers, it had now become as rowdy as a Las Vegas nightclub.
But I couldn’t find it in myself to muster any sort of energy, any sort of celebration, any sort of enthusiasm for what was happening. Yeah, we’d won. We’d won our freedom, we’d won the town some safety, and we’d won our future. That was absolutely worth appreciation. But celebration?
Maybe Lane had reason to worry about me being involved with Lilly. It hadn’t stopped me from fighting her father to the death, but it stopped me from enjoying this moment. I recognized all too well that the fallout of everything did not begin and end with the man we killed, but was more like a ripple in a lake from a rock being thrown; it could extend to places that we could not even begin to think about.
And so, aside from one shot that I did with all of the officers, I found myself mostly standing against the wall, arms folded, watching the scene unfold with a sort of odd detachment. It felt wrong to celebrate what we had been fighting for over the span years. How fucked was that?
Some of the officers could tell I was feeling conflicted and kept their distance. A few of the newer club members tried to tell me to take a shot or do some drugs with them, but Phoenix pushed them away quickly. Eventually, and rightfully so, everyone stopped paying attention to me and kept their focus on those enjoying the moment.
Everyone but one person, that was.
Eventually, when I felt that the party had become enough of a shitshow that they would not notice my absence, I slipped out the front door. I didn’t know where I was going; I had no home right now. I supposed I would just get a motel room and figure out the rest, but—
“Cole.”
I stopped at my brother’s voice. I looked back and saw him walking to me, hands in his pockets.
“Cole, I—”
“I can’t right now, Lane,” I said. I bit my lip. “I’ll talk. But I can’t tonight. It’s too raw. Too exhausted. Too hurt.”
Lane opened his mouth, stopped himself, and exhaled.
“Where will you go?” he said. “Do you want to crash at my place? I’ll go to Angela’s.”
I shook my head.
“I need to be on my own,” I said. “I’ll just get a room at a motel.”
“Are you coming back?”
I nodded.
“I’ll open the shop for you all,” I said. “Nine in the morning, right?”
Lane nodded. That was all I needed, and I kept walking right to my bike, hopped on, and headed for the nearest motel. I paid thirty bucks for a dusty room that had bugs crawling around it, an old box television, and the smell of cigarette smoke.
But I was so exhausted, so worn down, so tired from everything that happened that I did not care. I fell asleep in my clothes, the smell of firearms, oil, and blood still all over me.
* * *
I woke up well before I normally would, around seven in the morning. I tried desperately to go back to sleep, but the minute that I woke up, my mind started sprinting.
Where was Lilly? Would she still be at her father’s house? Would she want to see me if so? Were there any Fallen Saints left? What would the fallout of last night be? How hard had the Black Reapers partied? What was the future of our clubs? How was Lane? What was the deal with his engagement talk with Angela? What, what... would, were, maybe, could…
The questions blurred together, and I knew that for as long as my mind was on a rush like this, there was no even trying to sleep, let alone actually falling asleep. I thought about showering, but I would just be putting back on my blood-stained, oil-stenched clothes all over again. I just decided to suck it up, head to Mama Sue’s for breakfast, and then go to the clubhouse.
I kept to myself at Mama Sue’s, eating in the corner of a restaurant. The experience was an all-too-familiar one thanks to my year in isolation away from society. I’d spent that year in exile spending nights and days alone, eating in restaurants without company, and thinking about everything. Little had I known that what I needed to do was the opposite—to get more involved, be more in touch with the local community, the better so that I would learn through experience, not through meditation.
But this morning, I wasn’t thinking. I was just killing time until I could get to Carter’s Auto Repair, open it on behalf of the Black Reapers, and try and keep operations going until some of the more robust members awoke from their alcoholic slumbers and could let me figure out what to do with my life.
What that would look like, though, I couldn’t really say.
