“I’m not nervous,” I tell her. “I’m just trying to figure out how my life became so unconventional.”
They laugh and chatter with me pleasantly. I look at these women in the mirror. Every single one of them chose this lifestyle, whereas I was born into it. I couldn’t get away from it if I wanted to. We’re nothing like each other. Still, I like them much better than their husbands, who have made my life miserable.
When my makeup and hair are done, the women help me into the extravagant ballgown-style wedding dress. If I’m being honest, I feel like a princess wearing it. My grandfather never would have approved of a dress like this. He would have called it impractical. I never got to go to prom because I twisted my ankle, and getting out was too painful. So, this dress being over the top is satisfying in a strange way.
I stand up straight and the train pools on the floor behind me in a sweep of fabric that would look absurd anywhere outside of a wedding and looks, I have to admit, exactly right for this one. I look at myself for a long moment in the full-length mirror they brought, and I like what I see. I’d always wanted my grandfather to walk me down the aisle, so today is bittersweet.
I don’t look like a woman who spends her mornings in a delivery yard arguing with drivers about routes, or who crams in online courses while she eats lunch. I look like someone important. For the first time, I understand what Queenie means by appearances being reality for a lot of people. In this dress, I’m the granddaughter of Vulture, standing at the intersection of two clubs, and the dress drives home the importance of this moment in the biker world.
Always dress like you mean business, Vulture once told me.
There is a knock. Queenie opens the door, and then she turns back to address the other women in the room. “Ladies,” she says, “let’s give them a minute.”
They file out, and Mica comes in. He’s wearing his cut over a dark shirt and dark pants. He’s still disgustingly handsome, and I hate that I always notice that fact.
He stops just inside the door, and his eyes roam over me in the wedding gown. His eyes linger on my curves.
I snap my fingers. “My eyes are up here. Why did you come?”
His eyes flash up to mine and he holds my gaze as he answers. “Every club in that room today will be watching,” he says. “Allied clubs, neutral clubs, a few that are still deciding which way to lean. I want you to wear my property cut over your gown today. When they see you walk out in my cut, they’ll understand immediately that this is an old-fashioned marriage alliance, between two clubs.”
“My grandfather’s former club brothers are out there,” I tell him sternly. “Men who worked for him for twenty years are going to see this as me choosing a side.”
“You have chosen a side,” Mica shoots back without hesitation. “You chose it when you signed our marital agreement. Wearing my property cut is simply a visible reminder.” He pauses and then adds thoughtfully, “Wearing my cut doesn’t erase him. It tells everyone in that room that hisgranddaughter is protected and his legacy is protected. That’s not any kind of betrayal I recognize.”
He picks up the cut from across the room and walks it over to me.
I think about three clubs allying with Viper and the fear in his eyes that night his clubhouse was burned to the ground. I think about rival clubs circling his territory for the last three months while I try to hold his trucking company together all on my own. Then I put the cut on because what choice do I have?
Mica looks at me for a moment. Something in his expression flickers to life.
“How does it look?” I ask.
“Like you were meant to be mine,” he replies.
I look at myself in the mirror one more time. He’s right, I’m Vulture’s granddaughter and Mica’s wife.
Yet more of my grandfather’s words come to mind.You’re gonna be surrounded by people who want to make you feel small, he told me once.Don’t let them.
“Are you ready?” Mica asks.
I look at his reflection in the mirror beside mine and reply, “Yes. Let’s go.”
Mac is in the third row in a clean shirt that I suspect is the same one he wore to his daughter’s graduation two years ago. He has his hands on his knees and his jaw is set. I hear him say under his breath, so low that I almost don’t catch it, “Old man wouldn’t have fuckin’ liked this.”
Rigs is the preacher from the Savage Legion MC that Mica’s family got to officiate our wedding. He’s not what I expect. He’s tall and thin, somewhere in his fifties, with long dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He’s wearing his cut over a dark shirt and a large cross around his neck.
Rigs opens the book. “I’m going to keep this short,” he announces to the room, “because I know what you’re all waiting for is the kiss.” The brothers chuckle. He looks at Mica. “I think you said that you want to say something to your wife before I make it official?”
Mica turns to face me fully.
“I promise to protect what’s yours,” he says. “Your business, your freedom and your grandfather’s legacy. I promise to be straight with you even when it’s inconvenient. And I promise that whatever this is, I’ll take it seriously.” He pauses and slips the wedding band onto my ring finger. “That’s what I wanted to say.”
I take a deep breath and follow his good example. “I promise to be honest with you even when it’s uncomfortable,” I say. “I promise to hold up my end of the alliance. And I promise to figure out the rest as we go.” I pause and slip the wedding band on his finger.
Rigs looks between us and says, “Good enough.”
“By the power vested in me by the State of California,” he announces, “I pronounce you married.”
