“All you fucks worship is that motherfucking reaper, think it makes you a man, gives you a fucking purpose. It ain’t shit, boy. It’ll destroy you, take everything good in your life, rob your soul and fuck your conscience six ways to Sunday.”
Drawing in a deep breath, I let go of him. I lick my lips to keep from foaming at the mouth and divert my eyes between the two poor unsuspecting fools that signed their own death certificates by joining this charter.
“You fellas made the biggest mistake of your lives taking that patch on your back,” I grunt. “Don’t let Parrish fool you fucks into thinking this is a brotherhood, that this your family, because it’s not. It ain’t nothing more than an excuse to call yourself an outlaw. I gave my life to this fucking club and what did I get in return?”
Pausing, I shake my head as I rise to my feet. I stumble as I smooth down the leather covering my chest and brush away Deuce’s outstretched hand. Then I bend and pick up all I’ve got left. I pick up the shoes.
“A dead wife, that’s what I got,” I rasp. “A wife who my brothers picked apart any chance they got. You all thought my marriage was a fucking joke, took your jabs whenever you could and now you want to offer me your condolences,” I bellow as I turn back to Cobra. “You want to offer me some drugs thinking I’ll forget the sight of my wife’s head hanging off her neck?”
“That’s not what I meant,” he protests.
“Fuck you,” I roar. “Did I say you could talk?”
I watch as he silently bites the inside of his cheek and takes the brunt of my guilt. Guilt I’ve masked with grief.
“The man upstairs gives us one fucking life and what do we do? We piss it away for the sake of a patch and take an oath to be one percent of the motherfuckers who no one gives a shit about if they live or die. Today you cheated death, and tomorrow you’ll piss on that gift by throwing on that cut, thinking a piece of fucking leather defines you. You want to worship something, give your life some kind of fucking meaning then you find yourself a good woman. Parrish will think you found your heart, and maybe you will. I guarantee you, if you ever think for one second you can have both, you’ll lose your heart because Satan doesn’t let any of his soldiers keep theirs. If you got any smarts left in you, then do yourself a favor and run the fuck away from this hell.”
I wish I had.
I wish I had learned to value life and respect the heart and soul of a good woman. I wish I never believed leather was one of life’s treasures or trusted the sanction of brotherhood.
With the shoes clutched tightly in my hand, I glance between Cobra and Deuce one last time before shoving them out of my way and walking away.
To where?
To the lonely hell I was never meant to escape.
A place where the devil doesn’t let you sleep.
Where there is no peace and only pain.
Chapter Four
After my mother passed, the social worker assigned to my case introduced me to the five stages of grief; denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. She claimed each emotion was a response to the death of a loved one. Back then, I would have sworn on my mother’s grave she was full of shit, but the morning after Oksana died, I woke up thinking it wasn’t true, that my mind had played a cruel and sadistic joke on me. I turned over in bed like it was any other morning and reached for her just as I always did but her warm body didn’t curl into mine. The rich scent of her perfume teased me and naively I climbed out of bed and hurried down the stairs. Denial grabbed me by the balls and I foolishly expected to find her in the kitchen with her headphones plugged in as she listened to one of her Rosetta Stone tutorials. Instead, I found an empty bottle of whiskey on the table and shards of glass decorating the linoleum floor. That’s all it took for the truth to smack me in the face. Then the memories resurfaced.
Her smile.
Her hand in mine.
Linc’s song.
Jack and Reina.
Ronan.
The bomb.
Finding her with her neck slit.
All that blood.
The sound of the zipper cinching on the body bag.
Her fucking shoes.
I drank myself into a stupor and tore our house apart trying to erase her from everything she put her touch on. I figured if I broke the coffee pot and tore her clothes from the hangers that I would somehow forget, but destroying physical possessions didn’t mend anything. The memory of her blood on my hands was as vivid as it was when it happened and I still ached for her.
I pleaded with my maker to make it all go away, to make me wake up and see those blue eyes one more time. Knowing that it would never happen, that she was truly gone, I stared at the destruction I caused and felt a little more broken than I already was. I realized then I could tear everything to shreds, break every fucking thing in sight, hell, I could light a match to my fucking house but in the end she’d still be dead. I’d still be left here with nothing but my memories and guilt to keep me company.
With that in mind, I called on Riggs and made him drive me up to my cabin, to the one place where I had never taken Oksana. I figured since she hadn’t been there in life then the ghost of her couldn’t haunt me in the aftermath of her death.
I was wrong.
After a three day bender of drugs and alcohol, she was still everywhere and no amount of man-made poison or solitude was going to tarnish her imprint on my life. She may never have been to my cabin, may have never slept in that bed or put her stamp on any of the furnishings but she left her mark. She left her mark on me and wherever I go she’ll be right there with me.
Like right now, as I straddle the old chopper I keep up at the cabin and ride my ass back to Brooklyn to lay her body to rest, she’s with me. Cobra may have wiped her blood from my hands but it’ll always be there dripping from my fingertips.
Deciding I’m not ready to meet with the mortician just yet, I ride long and hard until I end up at the scene of the crime. The soles of my boots touch the ground as I stare at the yellow caution tape that’s roped around what’s left of the Satan’s Knights compound. After a moment, I drop the kickstand and kill the engine but I don’t dismount. Instead, I stare at the mangled pieces of concrete and reach for the flask tucked inside the inner pocket of my cut. Taking a gulp of poison, I welcome the burn as it slides down my throat and settles in my empty stomach. A few more swigs and I finally find the courage to throw my leg over the bike and step toward the offensive tape. Then I shove the flask back where it belongs and grab my pocket knife. Cutting through the tape, I watch as it flaps in the wind. Too enthralled by the stench of death and grim realization of what transpired here, I don’t hear the car pull up behind me but I hear the motherfucker’s voice call me.
“What do you think you’re doing? This is a crime scene.”
“Go fuck your mother,” I reply, keeping in stride.
It shouldn’t surprise me that Brantley is the detective in charge of this mess. I bet he sucked a lot of cock to get his ass appointed to the case. The motherfucker has a hard-on for the Satan’s Knights. It all started years ago when he tried to get Blackie’s wife to turn rat. It was back before Jack took the gavel when drugs were our bread and butter—a time when we were making money hand over fist and Blackie was a junkie. Brantley knew drugs were Blackie’s weakness and used it against him to nail his fucking wife, Christine. The stupid fucker went and grew an attachment to another man’s wife. Then he went and turned that poor bitch against her husband. When the fucking pressure to go against the man she loved became too much, she overdosed on his product.
Brantley won’t admit to his part in Christine’s death and so he spends all his days looking to crucify the club for the injustice he created. He thinks locking us up will cleanse his conscience.
“After I’m done fucking yours maybe I will,” he retorts, causing me to pause. Turning on my heel, I narrow my eyes at the cocksucker and watch as he smugly crosses his arms against his chest.
“My mother died
before yours shitted you out,” I growl as I take a step closer to him. “But you ain’t above that. I reckon you got a thing for dead chicks, ain’t that right? I bet if you could find your dick you’d still wrap your hand around it and jerk it to the memory of Blackie’s wife lying there dead on the floor of his bathroom.”
“You know,” he drawls, inching closer to me. I watch as he uncrosses his arms and brushes a piece of lint off his cheap suit. Lifting his gaze back to mine, he straightens his tie and pierces me with a glare. “I made a stop at the morgue.”
Paralyzed by his words, I stare at him numbly and let him keep talking when deep down I know I should lay him out before he gets the chance to say what he’s about to say.
“Got myself a new image to jerk my shit to,” he taunts, cocking his head to the side. “I believe she belongs to you…well, she did.”
“You motherfucker,” I roar as I lunge for him. I don’t know if I’m inebriated or if I’ve lost my touch but the son of a bitch is quick to escape my hands and instead of choking the life out of him, I stumble forward.
“Truth hurts, don’t it Pipe?”
“Keep talking, Brantley. Keep fucking talking, boy,” I encourage, straightening my stature. “Every word gives me another reason to bury you.”
“You threatening an officer?”
“Nope, I don’t do threats. I’m not Blackie, motherfucker. There ain’t a shred of decency left here,” I say, bringing my fist to my chest. “One more word about my wife and I’ll show you how different we are.”
“I don’t know,” he concedes, jutting his chin toward the debris behind me. “Seems like there are an awful lot of similarities. The club you both worship has gotten both your wives killed,” he points out before returning his gaze back to mine. “The bodies are stacking, Pipe. People on the streets are already taking bets on who will drop next. Some predict it’ll be Parrish’s wife who gets whacked while others are saying the next victim will be someone’s kid. The sad part is it’ll probably be both. We both know what happens now. Jack will give you his condolences and promise to make it right. He’ll tell you what he thinks you need to hear and you and the club will take to the streets. You’ll paint them red with the blood of whoever you think is responsible for this attack but it won’t stop there. Another enemy will come knocking on Satan’s door and you people will keep fighting a losing battle.”
If I had any sense, I’d put a bullet in the cocksucker’s head and stop him from continuing but something stops me. It’s like seeing the oncoming car and slamming on your brakes only to learn they’ve been cut. The collision that comes after is inevitable and you either walk away unscathed or broken beyond measure.
“Tell me, Pipe, how do you get revenge? How do you lay your head down after seeing your wife like that, with her neck slit wide open? Do you consciously put your faith in Jack, a man who is mentally deranged and now deaf from what I gather? Or do you bank on the rest of your brothers to deliver your penance? Maybe Wolf? You two are tight, right? But how’s he going to help you repent your sins when he’s in ICU after having suffered a heart attack? Maybe you’ll call on Anthony Bianci and pray Pastore’s organization still holds some weight. I’m going to tell you right now, it doesn’t. I’m also going to tell you your club is as dead as your wife. There is no escaping what happened here. You can go buck wild and turn these streets upside down but at the end of the day your wife will still be dead and that will be on you. Just like Blackie wakes up every morning and sees Christine dead on the floor, you’ll wake up and see Oksana.”
He points to my patch and shakes his head.
“Is that thing really worth all the carnage it brings?”
“Another word and I’ll introduce you to Satan,” I say finally. Smoothing a hand over the worn leather that covers my chest, I lift my beady eyes to his.
“I’m pretty sure I’m looking right at him,” he says before taking a retreating step backward. With a shake of his head, he holds my gaze for another moment and then steps around me. I don’t move, I don’t even breathe. I wait for his car door to slam and then I fill my lungs with air and grab my flask.
I make my way toward the ruins, to the mound of debris that was once the bar and I sit in the same spot I sat in when I found Oksana. There is no body to cradle and the emptiness of my hands is too much to bear. Needing a distraction, I clutch the flask like it’s my salvation and wait. I wait for a sign, for clarity, for the fucking courage I need to make the final arrangements to lay her to rest. It never comes and before I know it I’m a drunk staring up at Blackie.
Pushing his long hair away from his face, I notice he looks as worn as I feel. Ignoring that and him, I turn my head and lift the flask to my lips once more.
“Found her body right there,” I slur, using the tip of the flask to point to the end of the bar. “Her head hanging on by a thread.”
“Pipe, I’ve been where you’re at,” he starts. I want to believe he knows how I feel but his wife was whole when he found her. He didn’t have to worry about ripping her head off when he touched her that final time.
“Felt everything you’re feeling, brother, and I ain’t going to give you my apologies because it won’t bring her back. It won’t fix you.”
I lift the flask to take another greedy sip but wind up dangling it over my mouth to catch the last drops before tossing the empty thing into the rubble.
“Finally, a piece of truth,” I mutter after a moment. Then I think about his words and I try to latch onto the sincerity of them, but I can’t help remember everyone poked fun at my marriage. “You people all thought my marriage was a joke.”
Saying it out loud makes me realize they’re not to blame for the comradery. I allowed that shit. Hell, I condoned it at times.
“That ain’t true,” he argues. “We busted your balls but only a man who knows love could see how much you loved Oksana. I saw it.”
Did she?
Did she know I loved her?
“The men who did this will pay,” he promises. “We will torture them with our bare fucking hands, Pipe.”
And there it is.
The vow of retribution.
An empty promise.
One Brantley predicted.
“The Bulldog ain’t got his ears, and it’s my understanding he won’t be riding,” I say, groaning as I struggle to my feet. Once my boots are planted firmly on the ground, I lift my head and level him with a stare. “You got Wolf in ICU, Linc in a goddamn full body cast and two dead prospects. No fucking clubhouse and the only one who still has a bike is Riggs. Don’t be making promises, Black. This shit is over. The Satan’s Knights are done.”
So let it be written, so let it be done.
“So, that’s it?” he asks, as I make a move to step around him. “We throw in our cuts and call it a day? Let the Bastards get away with murdering your wife? You disappoint me, Pipe.”
Blame.
We all need it to survive.
He needs to blame the Corrupt Bastards and me. I realize as his words slice through me that I need to point a finger toward him.
“Fuck you,” I sneer, turning back to him, Instantly, I reach for the ends of his leather vest and set him straight. He may be the vice president of this club but this goes beyond his jurisdiction. Fuck his title and fuck the club. This shit is personal.
“Don’t need the club to take care of what’s mine, Black.”
I may not have my next move figured out, but when I do, I’ll seek revenge on my wife’s death. I was left here by myself for a reason and I need to believe that reason is to bring justice to those responsible for her short life.
“You’re not doing anything without the club,” he warns.
Guilt.
We all got it.
I don’t need an army behind me and I sure as hell don’t need a pack of brothers who could give a fuck.
“And who the fuck is going to stop me?” I dare him, tightening my hold on his vest. Tuning out his reply, I release my ho
ld on him and stumble backward. Nothing he says will make a difference anyway.
“You’re done, Black, accept that shit and move the fuck on. Be happy you got your life and your woman has hers,” I tell him and then I turn around. Leaving Blackie in the dust, my boots crunch over the debris and I make my way back toward my bike.
I start my engine and put in a call to the mortician. I tell him to hold off another day that I’m not ready to finalize the arrangements yet and I kiss the streets of Brooklyn goodbye. I escape to the woods where Satan doesn’t exist and brotherhood is a memory.
To a place where a pair of red shoes waits for me.
Chapter Five
The idea of burying Oksana alone in a single plot didn’t sit right with me. A plot in Green-Wood is untouchable these days. Located on Fort Hamilton Parkway, the sprawling park-like cemetery is home to over six hundred thousand graves, and unless you’ve got a lung you can sell, or in my case, a family tomb, you won’t get in. We may have been piss poor and my mother may have borrowed from Peter to pay Paul my entire childhood, but she still managed to leave me a prime piece of real estate. If anyone deserves to rot by themselves it’s the lone man left standing. The decision to give her the last drawer in the family tomb seemed simple.
Aside from choosing her final place of rest, there wasn’t much for me to do as far as funeral arrangements went. She didn’t have any family here and by now mine had already welcomed her into the pearly gates of heaven.
After a private mass at Regina Pacis Church, I straddled my bike and followed the hearse to the sprawling cemetery.
There was no funeral procession of cars.
There was just me, her and our final ride.
She wore satin, and I wore denim.
There wasn’t a stitch of leather in sight.
Once we arrived at the cemetery, the gravediggers assisted the pallbearers in removing her coffin from the hearse and positioned it in front of the mausoleum. Preparing for her entombment, the iron doors to the crypt were open, and the priest stood at the entryway holding a bible. He offered me his condolences one final time and prayed over her coffin, asking God to welcome her into his kingdom. He made the sign of the cross and stepped off to the side and gave me a moment alone with my wife.
From the Ruins Page 4
