HAMMER: Wolves MC (Riding With Wolves Book 1)

by Faith Winslow

  I swallowed my pride, held my head up high, and walked out of the funeral home, to the center of the parking lot, not even glancing at Rachel as I passed. I cleared my voice, looked out over the eager faces of my biker kin, and delivered the bad news.

  I heard my brothers sigh, bitch, and moan, as they shut down their bikes, and I bowed my head again. But I didn’t bow it for them. I bowed it for Terry. That poor kid. He would’ve wanted to go out in style. He would’ve wanted a run. But his sister wouldn’t let him have one—and no matter how good she’d probably look with my dick in my mouth, I couldn’t help but resent her for that.

  I turned and walked back towards Bradley’s, trying to cast the hatred out of my heart. But when I passed Rachel, I felt overwhelmed, and I stared at her in a way I’d never stared at anyone before. If looks could kill, the one I gave her would’ve landed her right there beside her brother in that closed, tightly sealed pine box.

  Chapter 10

  ~ Rachel ~

  Once Sam told the Wolves that there wasn’t going to be a memorial run, everyone who was outside started filing into Bradley’s, and I had to fight the throng to get in there ahead of them. Something big must have just happened inside of the funeral home to make Sam change his mind so quickly, and I needed to find the source before the place got too crowded.

  But as soon as I stepped into Bradley’s, I realized that the place was already crowded and had been long before I entered. There’d been people waiting inside while I was outside dealing with Sam—and as I examined the lot of them, I couldn’t figure out who, if any of them, had managed to talk sense into him.

  I could have asked, but judging from the pissed-off faces around me, I probably wouldn’t have liked whatever answers I got. So instead of talking, I decided to listen.

  I walked around the main room of the funeral home a few times, with my ears alert and at attention. I overheard some whispers and mumbled words about “bikers’ law,” “respecting the family’s wishes,” and an “order” that “came down” from “Crete.” I didn’t really know what any of those things meant, but I was able to surmise that they were all good things.

  From what I pieced together, someone higher up than Sam must have reminded him of the biker code of conduct and told him to respect Terry’s family’s wishes—and that was fine by me. If it was a biker law that was enforced by someone with more power, all those pissed-off faces couldn’t stay pissed off at me for long. And even if they did, it didn’t matter, because I’d get what I wanted without a hassle. There wouldn’t be a run, and Terry could leave this world in a respectable, honorable fashion.

  I did another sweep of the room before I decided to call it quits, and not surprisingly, I didn’t really pick up any more information. People tended to fall silent when I came around. So I took what I had and headed toward the front of the room and gazed out at the assemblage from what would have been Terry’s angle, had he been alive or in-tact enough to have an open casket.

  There were dozens upon dozens of people in the room, and there weren’t nearly enough seats to accommodate all of them. It was a good turnout, I guess you could say—though I wasn’t about to say it.

  Despite the shortage of seats, naturally, there was a spot saved for me in the first row—and after scanning the room one last time, I found my way to it, sat down, and tried to think peaceful thoughts until the service began. I didn’t like having my back to so many Wolves, but I figured whoever was watching out for me before was probably still watching, and that person would surely make a move should any one of them decide to attack me.

  As I sat there, waiting, I kept listening to the chatter. There were a lot of people talking about a lot of different things, but I could clearly hear Hannah’s voice somewhere behind me. She was talking to someone about T.J., telling whoever it was the same line she’d told me yesterday.

  “He’s been kicking like crazy, and rolling around a lot,” she said.

  It sounded so rehearsed, just like everything else she’d said since the day I met her.

  I strained my ears in the other direction. I didn’t hear Sam’s voice, but I heard his name mentioned—several times. Some man said something about feeling sorry for him because he had to deliver such an unfortunate message, and another said something about him organizing an “unofficial” run for Terry at a later time. Two women were talking about how “hot” he looked riding into the lot, and some girl said something about how she planned on making him “feel better” after all was said and done at the cemetery.

  Bullshit. All of it. Bullshit. I didn’t want to hear it, but I couldn’t block it out, and I couldn’t resist listening, no matter how hard I tried… But believe me, I kept trying.

  I closed my eyes and thought of Terry—the Terry I used to know before all this happened—before Hannah, Sam, and the Wolves and before Jake Keller, those thugs in the prison, and anyone else who was involved in this ugly mess in any way.

  I thought of how excited Terry was when we first moved out to L.A. together five years ago. I’d graduated from college a year earlier and finally landed a good job at a marketing firm in the city, and Terry had just finished up his studies at Poly Tri Tech, where he’d earned a dual degree in welding and industrial machine maintenance.

  We both had such big plans, such big dreams. I was gonna climb my way up the corporate ladder and take the advertising world by storm—and Terry was gonna get a job at a plant somewhere where he could work his ass off and earn enough money to go back to school so that, one day, he could become, of all things, a teacher.

  But unfortunately, those things never happened—at least as far as Terry was concerned. He bought a bike a few months after we got into town, and at first, I thought it was a good decision. He wanted a cheap, affordable mode of transportation—and that’s all his bike was, for about a year. But after that year, Terry’s bike became more and more important to him. First, it was a hobby; then a habit; and finally, an obsession.

  He started hanging around with other bike-obsessed guys, and before I knew it, he’d befriended a bunch of bikers. They tested him out for a while—strung him along and pushed his limits—and eventually asked him to join their gang, the Wolves.

  Then, a little over two years later…

  “Good morning, everyone,” the priest said politely in a pleasantly raised voice. “If I can please have your attention, the service is about to begin.”

  I opened my eyes just as the packed room fell silent. The priest was standing in front of Terry’s casket with a Bible in one hand and a set of rosary beads in the other.

  “We’re here today to remember Terrence Michael Cramer,” the priest went on. “He was one of God’s children, and he was taken from us too soon, which reminds me of a story of another one of God’s children who was taken from us too soon—Jesus Christ, our Lord and Savior.

  “I know it may seem strange to compare Terry to Jesus. They lived vastly different lives and died under vastly different circumstances. But it isn’t their lives, or the ways that they died, that make their stories similar. It’s something else—something less obvious—and if you look inside your hearts and at the sad faces of those around you, you’ll see exactly what it is.

  “When Jesus died, his death taught mankind a lesson. It changed the way that people thought about this world and the next and reminded them of their Christian, human values. It united those who had been separated and showed believers and nonbelievers, alike, the error of their ways.

  “It is said that Jesus accomplished more in death than he did in life. His death delivered his message across the globe, throughout time, and to countless people… and it is in this way that our dearly departed Terry can appropriately be compared to our Lord and Savior.

  “Terry wasn’t on this earth for very long, and he may not have made the best decisions, or found himself in the best circumstances while he was here, but now that he has been taken from us—now that he has gone to meet his Heavenly Father—we have an important dec
ision to make, just like the one our ancestors were faced with at Golgotha.

  “We can avert our eyes and minds and ignore the death of an apparent criminal, or we can look carefully at that death… and learn from it.

  “I say, we should let Terry’s death teach us a lesson. We should let it change the way we think about this world and the next, and have it remind us of our values. Let it be something that unites us and shows us the error of our ways.

  “Find the message that Terry’s death delivered—and carry it with you. And through your actions, your words, and your choices, do whatever you can to share that message with other people and spread it as far as you can.

  “Indeed, Terry wasn’t on this earth for very long, and he didn’t have a chance to accomplish much in his lifetime, but he can still accomplish great things in death—though he needs your help to do so. It’s how you live your lives from this day forward that will prove what Terry meant to you, and to mankind at large. Be kind. Be mindful. And love—truly love—one another. This world may have lost one young man, but it can gain so much more if we move forward righteously, grow with God, and teach others what we’ve learned.”

  I didn’t pick the priest. I left that up to the folks at Bradley’s—and obviously, they’d done a good job. I didn’t like everything the guy had to say, but for the most part, I couldn’t have said it better myself. The best thing that could ever come from this tragedy would be the kind of stuff he mentioned. If Terry’s story could teach others something about violence, gang affiliation, or any other bad choice or “vice,” then his short life would have a long-reaching impact, and his death, though disgusting and unfortunate, could help bring about much-needed change.

  And if I found out what I needed to know—if I discovered who actually killed Jake Keller—that’d make the lesson an even more poignant one. If Terry went to prison for a crime he did not commit, if I proved that he confessed and took the fall for someone else out of loyalty or brotherhood, that’d make him a modern martyr of sorts. He’d be even more like Jesus then, and his message would carry more weight, salt, and grit—and maybe then Terry’s dreams from five years ago really could come true, and he’d get to become a “teacher” after all.

  Hmm...

  After his creative comparison between Terry and the Lord Savior Jesus Christ, the priest went on to do a standard service that lasted about twenty minutes. He recited passages from the Bible and led the audience in routine prayers. He blessed Terry from atop his closed casket and blessed all of those who came.

  When he concluded the service, the priest invited everyone to join us at the cemetery, and I was pleased to hear him say it the way that he did.

  “When you get into your car, or join your friends and loved ones in their cars, to follow us to the cemetery, remember what I’ve said to you this morning,” he instructed the audience. “As you drive past people, places, and things and gaze at them from your window, keep in mind what can come from this loss and how you can make those people, places, and things much better than they already are.”

  The priest said a few more words in closing, then dismissed the audience. One by one, in pairs and in clusters, the people assembled slowly but surely left the room. Some dawdled a bit, trying to find rides, and I hung around to watch and, selfishly, make sure that I was the last one to leave the room and the last one to see or touch Terry’s coffin before it was loaded into the Hurst.

  As I sat there, I, again, listened to what others were saying. Many people commented on how powerful, moving, or touching the priest’s words were, and a great number of them—including several rough and tough biker men—were still fighting back tears.

  “That was so beautiful,” I heard a girl say from close behind me.

  “It sure was,” another girl replied. “Especially the stuff about Terry’s death being like Jesus.”

  “Yeah,” the first girl responded. “But what’s Gothika?”

  I rolled my eyes and turned around. I couldn’t resist.

  “‘Gothika’ is a cheesy movie starring Halle Berry and Robert Downey, Jr.,” I said. “It’s a crime thriller about a woman who was set up for her husband’s murder… Golgotha is a hill in ancient Israel. It’s were Jesus was crucified, where he died on the cross.”

  The two women looked back at me with dumbfounded looks on their faces.

  “Oh,” one of them said. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” the other one added. “I don’t know a lot about religion.”

  I bet she didn’t! And, she didn’t know a lot about fashion either. She was wearing a beat-up, old, blue and green flannel over her very little black dress. It didn’t go with her outfit, and it wasn’t an appropriate garment for the occasion or the season.

  Chapter 11

  ~ Rachel ~

  Usually the word “uneventful” is a bad thing, but in this instance, it’s not. When I say that the rest of Terry’s sendoff was “uneventful,” it’s a good thing—actually, a great thing.

  After the funeral service, the Wolves and other mourners loaded into cars and participated in the procession to the cemetery where they stood by in respectful reverence as the priest delivered another speech and the cemetery workers lowered Terry’s coffin into the ground.

  Of course, it was a very emotional, difficult time, but thankfully, no personalities flared. No one gave me any gruff about canceling the memorial run, and no one did anything to make a scene. For all intents and purposes, it was a “normal” cemetery ceremony—and when it was done, I was thoroughly satisfied with how it went down.

  Even Sam was in good form, which was a huge surprise. He didn’t approach me in any way, criticize me, or give me dirty looks. He shrugged off the women who tried to woo him, and he spent the entire time at Hannah’s side.

  The only chaos, if you could call it that, happened at the end of the ceremony, when we all went our separate ways. People were clattering around, trying to figure out if there was a wake. I know that it’s normal protocol to have a wake following a funeral, but I opted not to throw one—for several reasons.

  I knew that, had I elected to have a wake, I’d basically be footing the bill for a Wolves’ party—and I didn’t want to spend my hard-earned money paying for a bunch of bikers to eat, get drunk, and mack on chicks. If they wanted to have a riotous celebration of Terry’s life, they could pay for it… not me. I’d already spent a ton of money for Terry’s final arrangements to begin with, and I’d be damned if I was gonna spend another red cent on them.

  In case you’re unfamiliar with the costs of final arrangements, let me tell you this much—they ain’t cheap. Terry’s “funeral package” set me back eleven grand and some change. I cashed out my entire savings account—around eight thousand dollars—and split the rest between two credit cards to cover it, which meant that I’d be strapped for cash for a while and living off of ramen noodles, tap water, and box-store beauty products for the next few years. But hey, there are some sacrifices that simply must be made.

  Anyway… I may not have been willing to pay for a wake, but apparently, some of the Wolves were. As I stood staring at the hole in the ground that my dead baby brother now filled, I heard some of the guys talking about how they were going to meet up at a bar to “toast Terry.” They were explaining their plans to others, inviting them, and telling them where to go.

  Nobody bothered to invite me, however—not that I would have gone if they did—and the only one who even mentioned it to me turned out to be the priest.

  “I hear that some of Terry’s friends are meeting up at a local bar to celebrate his life,” he said, after I thanked him for his services. “Will you be joining them?”

  “No,” I answered. “Terry’s friends weren’t necessarily my friends. That part of his life was separate from the life he shared with me. We’ll all be happier if I don’t go… I’m just going to head back to the funeral home to get my car and take care of a few things, then go home to celebrate the Terry that I knew.”


  The priest looked at me sympathetically and nodded his head. “Very well,” he replied. I shook his hand, thanked him again, and turned to leave.

  I’d taken a limo to the cemetery. (It was part of the package I’d purchased.) I got back into it and told the driver to take me back to Bradley’s. It was a long, quiet ride, even though we only traveled a short distance, and I spent most of it in reflection… and tears.

  When the driver got near Bradley’s, I noticed a great deal of activity going on in the parking lot. Most of the Wolves had returned to the funeral home to retrieve their motorcycles, so there were dozens of cars and bikes purring and scores of people prattling. I didn’t want to deal with any of it—so I humbly asked the driver to take me for a spin around the neighborhood to bide me some time.

  He willingly obliged and took me on a ten-minute tour of the surrounding area, during which time I gazed out my window and thought about how I could make the people, places, and things I saw much better, just like the priest had said. I’d forgotten to ask him his name, but I remembered his words, and I dedicated myself to them wholeheartedly.

  By the time the driver took me back to Bradley’s, most of the cars, bikes, and people had cleared, and it looked safe enough for me to go about my business. So I exited the limo and headed for Bradley’s entrance. I needed to collect a few things from inside. Some of the mourners had left Mass cards for Terry or put envelopes in the “donation box,” and there was a beautiful silk flower arrangement that Terry’s second grade teacher, Mrs. Leonard, had sent, which I wanted to take home with me to keep as a tribute to him.