Dawning (The Risen Series Book 1)

by Marie F. Crow

  I remember a day not too long ago where Lawless and Rhett both stood staring down Ross with a mutual understanding between them. Ross has been very careful with his presence. I guess some- one is feeling braver now. I guess also he forgot their vests are not black because of their grief. They are black because of the grief they cause others. I think he is about to be reminded of the fact.

  “We can do that,” J.D. agrees with Rhett, patting the man’s shoulder as he slides by in their table’s direction. “We can do that really well.”

  “Not here,” Rhett stops him with the sound of regret in his voice. “We can’t. Not here. Not with what I have planned for him. Not now. I will make it perfect.”

  “We are going to make a lot of things perfect real soon,” J.D. says.

  We watch him walk away, leaving his statement hanging in the air like a cloud of poison. It will choke someone, somewhere, soon. It will not be a quick death. It’s going to be bloody. The casualties will be numerous.

  Chapter 52

  You really going to this thing?” J.D. brushes my dark hair as he watches my reflection in the square bathroom mirror of the restroom.

  It’s longer now than I normally wear it. Something with its new length encourages the men to touch it and play with it in an unconscious fashion. It freaks me out a little. The fact J.D. is standing behind me brushing it, freaks me out a lot.

  I shrug, not having a real answer for him. I do feel a little silly going to this bonfire. I also know how painful it will be to hear, and share, in the memories passed along tonight. The bonfire farewell is not a new event for me. This is how G.R.I.T. says goodbye to their lost brothers.

  A funeral demands a certain level of decorum. It’s a respect being paid not only for their passing, but also for their family’s grief. Depending on the rank of the brother, the trail of motor- cycles can extend for miles to show the family a sign of support and to let the community know the level of respect he held in their world. Aimes and I have often rode surrounded by so many somber men repressing their grief. Men do not handle such emotions well. That’s the purpose of the bonfire.

  It’s a true farewell for them. Hours will be spent swapping stories of the deceased, which can only be shared in their circle. The stories they share would have wives, or girlfriends, livid, ruining their memories of the man.

  Drinks will be passed. Stories will be swapped. Memories will be shared. It is their way of saying goodbye. Not with their tears and sobbing, but with their laughter and the camaraderie of their club.

  “Why aren’t you going?” I ask, watching him become still at my words.

  “I have things to do.”

  I shiver under the intensity of his eyes. I watch their shade melt from blue to the steel, ice coloring of his mood swing.

  “Are you asking for my help?”

  His eyes have never left mine. They don’t know either.

  “Tell me, Hells, why don’t you want pay back? Convince me they don’t need to pay for this,” he says. His voice is neutral, its deadliest tone.

  “It wasn’t their fault.” I say these words out loud, but my heart beats a different pattern with my thoughts.

  A part of me I am not proud of does agree with J.D. It’s our men who have sat in the cold night’s air watching the perimeter while the others slept in warm beds. It’s our men who have helped hunt and supply food while so many just show up for meals. It’s Marxx who might be permanently disabled with the extent of tissue damage done from their testing of us. Now we have lost Lawless. How many more scars do we obtain while the rest remain untouched?

  “Don’t say that. Not you, too,” he growls with his grief.

  J.D. throws the brush he was just using in my hair against a far stall door with his disappointment in me churning into rage. It shatters, filling the room with the loud noise of its destruction.

  I wasn’t really done with it, but I am not sure now is the time to point it out to him.

  “Out of all of them, I thought you would be the one to agree with me. You have always seen things better than the rest. You always know what has to be done. You may not like it, but you and I, we get things done,” he tells me.

  His face is one of pleading to understand him, to help him. J.D. is one minute from falling to his knees asking for my support. It scares me more than any fit of rage, or threat, he has ever said to me. His hands wrap around my shoulders with a strength making me afraid I will hear the cracking of my bones under them.

  “We can do this. You and I, we can right this. We can take over this place, as we should have when we first walked in here. Instead, we take orders from a bunch of sheep. Simon, that man would jump at his own shadow if Dolph wasn’t there to stroke him off. This is what we take orders from? Us? Rhett wanted to kill them all when we first got here. You know that? Slice them right up in their sleep. I should have let him. We might still be whole now if I had let him. We can make them pay for it all. No more games or trying to play nice with them. We can’t get him back. We can never have my boy back. But we can get them back for it.”

  J.D. folds over with the pain of his words, bringing him to the ground beside me.

  “They took my boy. They took my boy, Hells. I watched them take my boy,” J.D. whispers, rocking with his mental destruction from his grief.

  His eyes are seeing something far away. He is somewhere so deep within his pain to a place I cannot go with him. I sit on the cold tiles beside him and do the only thing I can. I hold his hand while he cries. We do not acknowledge it. We just sit in the silence of the room around us, and support one another, until we are strong enough to stand again.

  His body maybe warm, sitting beside me, but his mind has escaped from the room around us and his eyes are cold with wherever he is. The room echoes with the words he keeps repeating in his pain. Each time he says them, my heart sinks a little lower.

  “My boy. They took my boy,” he says over and over again, tearing us each a little more every time he does.

  We sit for hours on the cold floor together. I almost startle when he turns to me with how accustomed I had become to his behavior. He stares at me as if he does not recognize me before kissing my forehead and standing.

  “You’re a good girl, Helena. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Ever.”

  His voice trails behind him as he leaves me sitting there, still confused and startled by his random actions.

  The walk alone to the bonfire refills my numbness. My eyes see what is ahead of me, but my brain does not admit to the images. It blocks the many sad faces around me and the still bare evergreen tree, which mocks my mood.

  My numbness shields the sighs of Leslie sitting in what is our corner with many people surrounding her, giving her comfort. It keeps the view of Ross, who now wears his smile, from my fragile state. If only it could remove the sounds as well. Maybe if I clap loud enough? Nope, they are still there, but Leslie isn’t as weepy anymore as I exit the door. Small bonus.

  The winter wind bites my face with its dark hello as I step into the courtyard. It sucks the air from my lungs with its kiss as I make my way to the little family I have acquired, standing around one of the barrels. The fire casts sparks and shadows into the air around them. Their faces glow with the warmth-giving light. It is beautiful to watch.

  “You’re late,” Aimes tells me with a hug and smile.

  I embrace her back, letting our past finally bury itself. This is what he would have wanted. It’s what I want.

  “J.D. isn’t coming, ”Marxx says.

  Marxx is not asking me. He is accepting the fact by admitting it out loud. I know he sees this as an insult, and as much as I want to explain what happened three floors up, I remain silent. J.D.’s grief is not mine to share.

  A bottle is passed to me and I take a deep drink before I look to see what it is. The fire in the barrel is not the only source of heat as the liquid slips past my tongue. My throat and stomachache as the liquid slides down them, bringing coughs and rapid motions of
my spare hand. Male laughter builds around me as my body burns from their betrayal.

  “I wanted to warn you, but they thought this would be more amusing to watch.” Aimes takes the bottle of dark liquid from me. “Somewhere these clowns found whiskey and scotch. Neither was enough to make a full bottle, so what did Rhett-stein decide to do? Mix them. Clap for, Rhett. He is very proud of himself.”

  Rhett reaches for the bottle, and in a salute to his brilliance, he takes a long drink. He mockingly shudders at me when he finishes.

  His eyes glow with his amusement when he says, “Got to love it when a plan comes together. Want another?”

  He points the bottle at me with a smile. My rejection only adds to their mirth. The fire in my belly only adds to my resolve to never take a bottle from Rhett again.

  “Law would drink it. He could out drink us all.” With that, Marxx has started the bonfire. “He would never admit to the hangover the next day.”

  “Do you remember that one St. Patrick’s? The next day we had a charity ride. The boy kept calling for a break to hide the fact he was losing his guts in the bushes,” Rhett laughs with the memory. “Getting sick on the tot-banger that day though, that was priceless,” Marxx adds to the story and the laughter from the men. “Do I even want to ask?” Aimes caustically voices her concern over Lawless’ past.

  I know the story, so I just smile.

  “No. No you don’t,” I tell her, and with the admittance of knowing the story, the men form a complete uproar of laughter.

  “I miss his music. He always had that beat up black guitar with him.” Aimes shifts the mood with her memory.

  “He made up some twisted songs.” Chapel smiles and we are back on track. “Singing about drunken hookers and addicts with his face all serious. I don’t know how he kept serious with it as the rest of us were losing it all around him.”

  We all laugh with the memory of his antics. The way he would walk around Grit strumming that black guitar of his while strolling from table-to-table, making up lyrics using those he came across as the subjects. Each lyric would become more ridiculous than the last with his twisted sense of humor. There was not a topic he wouldn’t twist into a song for his amusement.

  “I didn’t think he’d survive his mom’s death,” Marxx pulls from a different pool now. “Even when she had him arrested for de- fending her from his old man, he was still there for her. He took a lot of blows that were meant for her. He was always there for her.” “That’s how he was,” Rhett’s sentence pulls a cord too recent in my heart. “If he cared for you, he was there. No questions. No judgments. Just how he was.”

  The turn of the memories requires the men to pass the dark bottle around as each mentally is reliving their own version of it. “He was loyal. Never asking whys or how's. He did what he had to do. Then he buried it.” Rhett stares at the crackling fire, seeing something other than what is before him. “He did shit no one should ever have to do. He did it for the club. He did it for J.D.”

  The men grunt their approval of Rhett’s words. The fire has become a safe beacon for their eyes, and they watch it, trying to not drown with their memories. The bottle makes another round. “That damn bike of his. I wanted to kick his ass when he showed up with that V-Rod.” Rhett brings the mood back around again, with another long draw from the bottle.

  I am not helping them carry this large man up the three flights of stairs when his concoction kicks his ass.

  “…. until he left your ass behind on it,” Chapel taunts Rhett with his smile.

  “No, then I wanted to kick his ass twice,” Rhett’s answer revitalizes their laughter.

  “You would have to catch me first, Old Man.”

  The voice freezes us faster than winter’s deep kiss. My heart climbs into my throat when I hear it. The feel of his arms sliding around me unhinges my knees, making him catch me, pulling me close to him. I feel his lips on my temple, and as if he pushed a button, scalding tears escape.

  “You have to catch me to kick my ass,” Lawless says with a smile at the stunned faces standing around the barrel. “Y’all look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “This is so much better than a Ouija board,” Aimes whispers, before springing into him with ear shattering squeals.

  Laughter fills the courtyard now, his laughter, my tears and Aimes’ squeals of joy vibrate the walls around us. This is not one of my haunting ghosts that demand to walk beside me. This is not a judging memory to shred me with its presence. Lawless stands beside us with his warm eyes watching me, battle worn and tired. Only Aimes is secure enough in her emotions to fully embrace him as the rest stare wide-eyed and slacked faced at someone we had thought forever gone from us.

  Truth howls in the winter winds that whip around us with the disappointment of her failure, and I know she is plotting to make us pay for this victory over her.

  I’ll pay it. I’ll give her my soul. My lighthouse has found me.

  Chapter 53

  “Pass me the bottle, would you?” Lawless asks, holding his hand out to Rhett.

  Lawless still takes all of this calmly as if it is everyday someone walks back from the grave to visit their own memorial. I guess, giving everything, we have seen, it sort of is.

  Aimes is huddled under one of his arms, her tears freezing like crystals on her cheeks with the openness of her emotions. Lawless knows I am not as brave with my emotions and he’s giving me the space I need to collect myself from the shock. A task at which I am failing with my breath still caught in my lungs and my eyes still too large as I stare at him.

  “How the fuck…,” is all Rhett says, as he hands the bottle across the fire.

  The statement is repeated in the men’s faces around us.

  “I told you. You have to catch me to kick my ass.” Lawless drinks deeply from the bottle, keeping his eyes on the man across from him. His eyes shine with laughter at their perplexed looks.

  Chapel steps closer to him, the first of the three, wrapping him in a giant hug mixed with many hard, echoing pats on each other’s back. Aimes has to escape from their bonding before her small frame is broken between them. She switches to my side, holding my hand, as we watch the men rebuild their bonds.

  Marxx walks over next, shaking his head with a smile upon his face and he embraces Lawless for a little longer than their “guy code” would normally allow.

  “You are one tough son of a bitch and just as dumb,” Marxx says with a voice more gravel-filled than moments ago as a new emotion stirs inside him.

  Marxx roughly rubs Lawless’ head, shaking him with his joy of seeing him again. The three men now stand laughing together and patting their backs. Chapel and Marxx are lost in their amusement and pride of the one who they thought they had lost. Rhett stands alone still watching them. His face is locked tight from any escape of emotion. His eyes roam from one man to the

  other watching, but not joining.

  “I saw you. I saw what was left of you. I saw what they did to you. I’ve seen it each time I close my eyes.” Rhett’s voice brings stillness to those around him.

  It is icy, and frost ridden, with his confusion. Anger treads lightly on the tips of his words.

  “It wasn’t me,” Lawless drinks the dark liquid as memories form for him. “It was one of those damn parking lot dogs who always seem to be lurking around. It was huge. The type of dog, that if a bunch of people who eat other people weren’t screaming behind me, I would have been afraid of. Fido wasn’t so scary after the stuff we’ve seen.”

  Lawless pauses. Each word seems to lower his head as he seeks the answers for Rhett’s confusion.

  “The damn thing ran right at me when it saw me,” he says when he speaks again, “being so used to strangers for its survival. I kicked it. Kicked it hard enough to break something. They fell upon it. It never had a chance the way they tore into it. They spread it wide. I just wanted it out of my way. I never meant….”

  He pauses again, taking a deep breath and exhaling it. His breath
floats around him as the temperature drops, anticipating the ending of his tale.

  “I’ve seen it every time I close my eyes, too.” Lawless takes another long drink from the bottle to dull the guilt he is feeling. “That wreck a bit back along the road, I jimmied the trunk of one of those cars. It wasn’t the warmest bed I have ever had, but I figured all the dead from the wreck still in their cars would cover my tracks from those things. It was still another full day’s walk this morning. These boots were made for a lot of things, walking isn’t one of them.” He smiles, encouraging Rhett to relax.

  Rhett and I both have yet to come to terms with him being here now. We are locked tight behind our wall of emotional safety. We had just begun to accept his death, to fully embrace the fact of it and the pain that goes along with that. Now he is here, and our minds do not sync with our hearts. One is screaming how impossible it is, while the other beats in celebration. Our wires are crossing, refusing to connect the two and it’s a recipe for a bomb that could destroy more than the building around us.

  Lawless turns to me slowly, with timid steps, not risking the chance of my spooking with his sudden movements. His cold hands slide along my neck and into my hair, pulling my forehead to his. He stares into my eyes, trying to reach behind the wall he has so declared as a source of his suffering.

  “I told you I would always come for you,” he says, staring into my green eyes.

  With his whisper, my wall is broken. The bricks are tumbling down around us, and he catches me in his embrace with his arms and with his lips.

  I cling to him in our kiss. It deepens with the need to comfort one another. He feeds me the reassurance that he is really here. I feed him the relief of making it home. Winter sends her tears at our reunion as snow begins to drift around us. She blesses us with her cold sprinkling of frozen water, sealing our souls together again.

  Rhett’s sharp catcall of a whistle cuts through her approval as the men around us give their own with clapping and jeering. It makes Lawless kiss me deeper as he fights the forming smile on his lips. Still, all the noise they make, it is not enough to cover the sound of the first shot fired. Nor is it enough to cover the screams following it.