Phoenix

by Trent Jordan

  So much so that this hug was not about a reunion of two Reapers, or a chance for one of us to recruit the other. It was just about one man providing support for the other.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” he said, and I knew that he was sincere. “I know that what you are going through is unfathomable.”

  “It’s OK. I appreciate it, Marc,” I said, patting his arm. “I will get through this.”

  He nodded at me and took a step back.

  “If you don’t want me to be here for any reason—”

  “No, please, stay,” I said. “You are the bridge that...”

  Keeps hope alive? For what?

  There’s no hope left. No chance of a reunion. Not as long as Cole and Lane act like they do to each other.

  Not as long as Butch lives.

  “You are a good man. You should stay. I know you were close to my father.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll stay in the back, then.”

  I nodded, hugged him one more time, and took my seat again. If the rest of the club just operated like Father Marcellus—respectful of everyone, pressuring no one, and judgmental of nothing—then maybe we wouldn’t have gotten to this fucking spot. Maybe the club wouldn’t have killed my father.

  Or maybe, maybe, your father wouldn’t have betrayed—

  I shook my head.

  “You OK?” Cole said.

  “Fine.”

  I didn’t turn to face Cole. I was a little afraid of what would happen if I did.

  The church started to fill with more and more Gray Reapers, distant relatives, and friends of the family. By the time the service actually began, there were maybe fifty people in the crowd—not a huge amount, but certainly not a funeral for someone that had acted like Judas.

  Admittedly, we didn’t have a ton of distant relatives—I had two aunts, and neither of them approved of the MC lifestyle. But in any case, their presence and the presence of their kids didn’t matter at all. The club was my family.

  The Gray Reapers. Not the Black Reapers. Not those conniving, lying, backstabbing assholes.

  After the priest had read a few Bible verses, he invited me to deliver my speech. I had actually gone to bed the night before having not written anything, preferring to speak from the heart. I figured that that would be the best way to honor my father. Not by reading in a dry monotone from a piece of paper, but with emotion.

  Two hours before, though, I realized that would just lead to me speaking in circles in a boring, sad speech, so I wrote down on a note three things to talk about: honor, father, and perseverance.

  Part of me really wanted to take the chance to attack the Black Reapers. But given that Father Marcellus was the only one present and given that he was the only remaining friend I had in that world, I didn’t think it was the place.

  And besides, the Black Reapers had taken enough. They didn’t need to take a moment of mourning and remembrance from my father.

  I rose, cleared my throat, and tried to keep my posture upright as I approached the lectern. I looked out over the crowd as all eyes settled on me or gazed to the ground. I couldn’t ever recall commanding a room in a solemn situation like this. Fortunately, thanks to my father, I had the ability to handle it.

  “Thank you all for coming this afternoon,” I said. “Many of you knew my father by his codename in his club: Red Raven. He received this name because, like a bird, he could see all. He was one of the wisest people that any of us knew, and whenever someone in the club needed guidance, they would go to him or the club founder.”

  I tried not to say the name “Carter.” Even if it was in reference to Roger Carter, a man that I admired and liked, saying that name would also bring to mind Lane—and that was a guest who would be less welcome than Satan himself.

  At least I knew Satan had malicious intentions.

  “But I knew him by a different name. Dad.”

  It was the first moment in the speech in which I had to pause to collect myself.

  “Dad... Dad was a man who would just as soon whup my ass if I misbehaved as he would give me a high five and a hug for catching a nice fish.”

  The audience gave a gentle laugh. It was enough to soothe me and make speaking about him a little easier.

  “Dad was a man of honor and perseverance.” Well, just shot everything in one sentence. Guess I’m going to be making up the rest of this. “Dad... he raised me on his own. It would have been very easy for him to take a detached approach, to raise me like pet to fend for myself. But Dad... he didn’t do that. He...”

  The doors to the back opened.

  And I saw a sight that felt so mocking and so condescending that I could scarcely believe what I was seeing.

  Butch, Lane, and Axle all walked in.

  “He... umm... he did a lot.”

  The audience had their eyes on me, not on the back. The door hadn’t made a lot of noise when it opened, and in any case, the three Black Reapers silently stood at the back, barely moving past the door.

  But my God...

  “He was a good man,” I said. “A good man... and...”

  To the audience, it probably looked like I was just losing my emotional control and needed a second. They weren’t wrong; they just weren’t right in the way they thought they were.

  Seeing the three of them... I could have had them killed if I wanted. There were enough Gray Reapers present that the three of them would get overwhelmed and crushed. I could have ended it. Maybe I’d put a bullet through their skulls, one by one, saving Butch for last.

  The only reason I didn’t was because I refused to be goaded into causing violence at an actual church. That was a line that none of us Gray Reapers were willing to cross, even if we weren’t necessarily religious. To do so would be to stoop to their level, perhaps even to the level of the Fallen Saints.

  God, no. I was not going to do that. Besides, if it got Father Marcellus in the line of fire, that wasn’t something I wanted to do.

  But that sure as shit didn’t mean I was going to just smile and let this moment go by that easily. They wanted to come? Fine. They would come to their own damning.

  “And he was a good man consumed by a dark, dark culture.”

  Whatever possibility there was of me crying had disappeared. I didn’t feel sad at this point. I just felt utter determination and rage to see the Black Reapers wiped out.

  And this moment? This would be the moment when I honored my father’s passing by beginning the crusade to end the Black Reapers, my father’s killers.

  “He joined a club that, at the time, stood for something meaningful,” I said. “It stood for loyalty. It stood for brotherhood. It stood for freedom. But over time, despite his best efforts, that club became poisoned by the weak and the selfish. See, that’s the awful thing about darkness and evil. Because it is aggressive and unflinching in its efforts, it usually gets its way, even when good stands up to it.”

  I didn’t look at Butch when I spoke. But he damn well knew that everything I said was directed at him.

  “The darkness came to a head in the last couple of years as the club founder fell ill and eventually died. New leadership came in, leadership that corroded the club culture, ruined it, and mutated it. My father...”

  I had to step away from the podium to avoid swearing too harshly.

  “My father tried his damndest to keep the club as it was,” I said, my voice shaky once more. “But against the combined forces of selfishness, malevolence, and corruption, he stood no chance. However, now, standing here before you all, with the support of a club that has a strong, morally virtuous culture, I know that my father’s legacy lives on through us. I know that we will fight against evil. There are enough people in this room who looked at the darkness of their old culture, said that it was enough, and walked away to a better one.”

  I didn’t stare at him, but I could see in my peripheral vision how intently Cole watched me. I didn’t think that I had ever seen him look at me with such... intensity. I
wasn’t sure if it was fire or concern, but his eyes weren’t going to stop me here.

  Not when my father’s murderers were in gunshot range.

  “And now, my friends in the Gray Reapers, it is time to ask yourself—are we going to let this evil spread like cancer? Or are we going to stomp it out wherever we see it?”

  “Austin,” the priest whispered in a low voice.

  I need to tone it down? Fine.

  But I’m not done yet.

  “Let me close with this command to all of us,” I said. “My father fought for what he thought was right. Unfortunately, evil emerged triumphant over him, and his life was lost. But it’s up to us to punish the evil that pretends to be right. You know what that evil is. We must not let my father’s death be in vain.”

  I stepped aside from the lectern and blankly stared out over the first five rows, the ones occupied with people who deserved to be at this funeral. The shock spread across their faces was a stark contrast to the emotion that was shown right at the beginning of my speech.

  Good.

  They needed to be aware—and if they weren’t Gray Reapers, they needed to know what kind of a reputation the Black Reapers actually had.

  As far as the Black Reapers in the back went, I didn’t look at them. They knew how I felt about them. If they had an issue, they could come to us—unarmed.

  I took a seat next to Cole. Cole kept glancing at me, but I didn’t look at him. I stared ahead, trying to corral some measure of my anger before I went to the back and started a fistfight in a cathedral.

  Fortunately, the priest wasted no time continuing the rest of the funeral. We went through the various rites and readings, and all went well for the next twenty minutes or so. I never indulged the temptation to turn around and look at what the Black Reapers were up to, though they stayed on my mind an awful lot.

  Just what the hell were they thinking, coming to here? If they wanted to lay him to rest, couldn’t they have visited after the funeral, when none of us were around? Why the hell did they think it would be a good idea to come to the actual funeral?

  Especially Butch.

  My God. He murdered my father himself! I said the Black Reapers killed my father, but Butch pulled the trigger. And he was showing up now?

  Un-fucking-believable.

  The anger didn’t subside. It only grew. And when the priest invited me to begin carrying the casket to the grave, I bit my lip to avoid screaming upon seeing the Black Reapers.

  But when I turned toward the back, Lane, Axle, and Butch weren’t there. They had wisely left.

  The priest gave his final prayers to my father. I kissed his forehead one more time, wiping the few tears that had formed before anyone else could see them. A couple of people laid his body down into the grave.

  And just like that, my father was gone forever.

  It was just me in this world. I had no immediate family members left. I had no siblings. I didn’t give a shit about my aunts and their kids, most especially since I hadn’t talked to any of them in at least ten years, maybe longer—and they hadn’t talked to me at this funeral.

  I also had no love interests. Oh, sure, I could get laid easily, being a biker all but guaranteed that was an option. But in times like these, it sure as hell would have been nice to have a woman by my side.

  It sure would have been nice to know that I wasn’t alone.

  I turned around to see that only Gray Reapers remained. I walked over to them, my head held high, my breaths slow and steady.

  “Well,” I said. “We’ve done enough mourning of my father. Let’s go celebrate him.”

  A few gentle nods and murmurs of approval came. Cole cleared his throat and stepped forward.

  “I already spoke with the owner of Tom’s Billiards,” he said. “He said that we can have the place to ourselves this evening. We’ll have one round of free drinks, and then it’s normal prices.”

  “You got that from him?” I said in surprise.

  “I’m friends with him,” Cole said. Wow. I guess being friendly really does pay off. “Make sure you tip the bartender well, though. We’re trying to keep relationships in this town, not ruin them. OK?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Let’s roll.”

  As we walked over, Cole hung back with me. At first, neither of us said a word. I just didn’t have anything to say; I was too exhausted to think. I’d said my bit in the eulogy, and I’d said the last few words I had to my father. Everything else that followed was just blabbering, not careful thought.

  “You seemed to handle that well,” Cole said.

  I snorted.

  “I would hope so, seeing as how it’s my father—”

  “Oh, that’s not what I meant. I meant the appearance of the Black Reapers.”

  My fists clenched just at the very name.

  “I didn’t mind Father Marcellus,” I growled. “But for Lane, Axle, Butch… for them to show their faces... after the fucking shit they pulled...”

  I nearly punched the nearest vehicle in frustration. The fucking audacity to show your face at the funeral of the man you murdered...

  “It was bullshit, I agree,” Cole said. “If I wanted to be generous, I would say that they were trying to apologize. But—”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it, Cole.”

  “I know, I know, I’m in agreement. I’m just saying if they were. But they weren’t.”

  When I got to my bike, this time, I slammed my fist on the seat, the one act of violence I felt I could get away at a funeral.

  “They will pay for that arrogant display of whatever the fuck they thought it was,” I said. “I’ll fucking have Butch’s head hanging on my wall before I forgive him.”

  Cole didn’t say anything, leaving me by my bike to fume. No, murdering Butch wouldn’t do any good. It wouldn’t bring my father back.

  But yes, it was what I kept coming back to over and over and over again.

  Cole started the slow rollout from the burial grounds. I hopped on my bike and followed him, completing my duty as Sergeant-at-Arms to guard the club President. But unlike most bike rides, where I could just zone out and go with the flow, I was now in a different world mentally, more focused on revenge than anything else.

  But for now, the bike ride took me to Tom’s Billiards, not tracking Butch. I hadn’t been to this bar before, even though Cole said that he and the rest of the Gray Reapers had spent much of their time there. I guess I just hadn’t been in much of a going out and drinking mood, shockingly enough.

  By the time we got there, multiple bikes were already set up and only one car was present, suggesting that we, indeed, had the place to ourselves. The one car looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t so familiar that I could place it to anyone.

  “You can stay as long as you want,” Cole said as he reached for the door handle and let me in. “Please don’t feel any pressure to stay any longer than you want to.”

  “I won’t.”

  I saw about three pool tables used by the Gray Reapers already. Everyone who saw me nodded at me or raised their glass—a nice change from how things went at Black Reaper events.

  “Well, seeing everyone else with a drink makes me want one,” I said. “You want anything?”

  “Just get me a Blue Moon,” Cole said.

  I nodded and sat by the bar. The bartender, with her long, dirty-blonde hair, had her back to me for the moment. I patiently waited for her to finish counting something.

  And then she turned around. And though her hair had changed, I recognized her by her beautiful face and body instantly.

  Jess.

  Jess?

  The bartender from Brewskis?

  Looking hot?

  And now... smiling at me?

  Sometimes, life is too strange for words.

  Jess

  When I turned around and saw none other than Pink Raven, I couldn’t help but smile.

  I’d always had a soft spot for him, in part because I knew he had
to deal with his father’s shadow over him. I’d felt the same way about Lane and... the other Carter when their father was alive, but Lane had been a bit of an arrogant oaf during that time, and the other one was always just a little too much of a people pleaser. Pink Raven struck me as someone who was a great guy just trying to make an identity for himself.

  Unfortunately, I knew all too well about the struggles with trying to emerge from your father’s influence.

  “Hey,” I said. “How’s it going?”

  “Oh, it’s going,” Pink Raven said with a very long sigh. “But I’m here, and I’m alive. So I can’t complain about that. Cole’s wanting a beer, so here I am.”

  Cole! That’s it.

  Somehow, those words didn’t sound nearly as trite as they might have in any other context. There was meaning behind them I couldn’t quite place, but as a bartender, I had long ago learned that the worst thing I could do was press people to reveal information they weren’t comfortable telling. Better to just let people speak first—bar patrons had a way of revealing information as if they were in a therapist’s office.

  “Amen,” I said. “What can I get you?”

  “Two Blue Moons, please.”

  I nodded, reached under the bar for our beer fridge, grabbed two, popped the caps off, and placed them in front.

  “Glass or no?”

  “No glass,” he said with a nod before slamming a five-dollar bill on the table. “Thanks.”

  He hesitated for just a second, as if there was something more that he wanted to share. There was certainly a level of odd tension that I could possibly describe as curious... but I didn’t want to be presumptive and make that claim. Just as customers often thought bartenders were flirting when we really weren’t, we could be just as guilty of assuming people were making moves on us when they just wanted a sounding board for conversation.

  And just like that, Pink Raven turned around and sat at a table with some of his friends. I leaned on the bar back, comfortable watching the early evening unfold before me.

  I didn’t know what the occasion was, but there was a weary happiness to the group that suggested they had come from a funeral or a wake. In conjunction with the ties that some of them wore and Pink Raven’s words, I figured that one of their club members had died. I tried my best to be detached, but hey, I was human before I was a bartender. I wanted to know what had happened.