Page 12 of Bones and Ashes

Brothers.

Lazarus.

A dead man who came back.

Not a host of demons like me.

Which sounds like a step up at first glance. But there ain't nothin' right about a man who comes back. Not even when it's the Savior Himself who commands it.

This feels like an ending for me. Like we just cut to black and open up somewhere else. But that's not how life works. Life isn't a script made up of scenes.

Life is continuous. There ain't no breaks. There isn't no fade to black. You live every fucking millisecond of it.

So there's nothing on the other end of 'brothers' but… silence.

Diesel takes over. "So what brings ya here today, June? Because I gotta say, rollin' up heavy with fifty-seven patched members of SOD isn't what I call a friendly visit."

June sucks in a breath and lets it out just as fast. A sigh. Resignation. "Well, Diesel. Aside from the fact that you two assholes owe me a fuckin' drink for not showin' up after Havoc…" She sucks in another breath.

And this is when I know it's all gonna be OK.

I don't know anything else, but I do know that.

This isn't an ambush. I don't know why this club is here. Why their president, who calls himself my brother and appears to be my age, chose this time to make himself known.

But I do know why June came.

She wants to be sad. And she wants to do that with us.

I walk up to her bike with my arms out and pull her in tight. June isn't the kind of woman who collapses. She's not stiff either. She leans in and hugs me back just fine.

And when she does this, I feel the grief leave her.

Not all of it.

Just the part that I can take. Because I was his friend. I was his brother. And we were in this together.

I lean down and whisper, "Why don't you and your boys come inside. I'll get you that drink."

Steeling herself with another inhale, she pulls back. Then she slides her sunglasses down her nose a bit. Just enough for me to see her bloodshot eyes. I don't know what I'm expecting. I don't know what's on her mind other than grief.

And she doesn't grant me access. Doesn't say anything to me at all. Just turns her head to Bruiser and nods.

I miss the signal that must come from Laz because I'm still lookin' at Bruiser. Clocking the pain in his eyes too, as he studies his grown daughter.

But that signal comes with or without the three of us because every bike screams to life in the same moment.

The sound of thunder bounces off the canyon walls on either side of our gate as I turn and walk back up the driveway as a rumble of bikes crawls behind me like a cape of demons straight out of hell itself.

As the men slot their bikes into empty spaces next to ours, I catch sight of women climbin' off the back, smooth and practiced. Old ladies. Not many—five, maybe six—but enough to shift the whole fuckin' picture.

My shoulders tighten, radar prickin' at the back of my neck.

This lineup tells me three distinct things.

One. They're not here to cause trouble. Sons don't bring their women to bloodbaths. That's a rule older than the clubs themselves.

Two. This is gonna be a party. Some kind of peace offerin' or celebration. The kind where cups get filled, and stories get told, and alliances get forged in whiskey and smoke.