Taking the lead, I step forward and stand before the grave. From inside my cut pocket, I pull out Pope’s gun and drop it in, listening as it lands with a thud. He never left his room without it. He deserves to spend eternity with it now.
One by one, brother’s drop in whatever they shared with the man, and I turn to the twins.
“Our word to wait is deteriorating. We’ve said our goodbyes, and now we have nothing but vengeance to think about. We need names, Cas,” Mason demands.
“We all do. Today, we drink to your granddad. Tomorrow, we find answers.”
We’ll give him the respect he deserves, and then we’ll send those four assholes who shot him down to him to torture for all eternity.
* * *
“If you could shut the fuck up, we have something we’d like to say,” Myles calls out, the bar falling silent.
“You’re all here today to pay your respects to a Lost Soul, an original. There isn’t a brother here our grandfather hasn’t stood beside and fought for. If he could see us now, he would say your respect can wait. He wouldn’t want us to stop until we had the men responsible for his death. He’d want their blood staining our hands as we sliced them to shreds, fucking them up so bad, they’d beg for death.”
Mason speaks up. “It’s expected that you’ll find his killers, but what me and my brother want to know is, are prepared to hunt them down and kill them in true Pope fashion?”
Brothers cheer and holler, banging their fists on the tabletops, the sound rivalling a thunderstorm.
Mason and Myles seek the satisfaction they were chasing, but the tears staining their cheeks is far from joyous.
“Well, ain’t I proud as fuck!”
Spinning up and off my chair, I look to where the voice came from, only to fall back on my ass.
I don’t fucking believe it. Alive and fucking kicking, Pope stands by the bottom of the stairs, his cut as polished as ever, air in his lungs, and a cocksure grin on his face.
“I have to say, it was damn humiliating seeing so many grown ass men crying over me this afternoon. And I want my gun back. Prospect’s going to need a shovel.”
A laugh erupts from my throat, and I’m out of my chair, flying toward him and throwing my arms around him.
“You son of a bitch. You think you can go out like that and we wouldn’t grieve you?”
Pulling away, his grin softens as he nods once, accepting that he’s loved by me and everyone else.
“Fuck that. What are… How are you here?” Mason demands, Myles adding, “You let us believe you were fucking dead!”
“You wanna fix your tone talking to me like that, boys. There’s an explanation, and—”
“And for now, all you need to know is this was necessary,” Jamie Boy says, stepping out from the back with his three brothers.
The way they stand in a line behind Pope has it all clicking into place.
“It was you in the video.”
Ritchie laughs. “We haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”
“Let’s get this over with so you can celebrate having your brother home.”
The brothers take turns greeting Pope. The guy’s never been hugged so much, and by the grouchy look on his face, it won’t ever happen again.
The brothers part, revealing Kyla and Victoria in the doorway, shocked, their pain clear for all to see.
Ricky nudges Kyla, and then they’re both moving. Pope cracks at having his girls in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry you hurt for me.”
Kissing them both on the tops of their heads, he steps back so he can sign to her.
Crashing against him, she hugs him so tight, I witness his eyes pool with regretful tears.
“We deserve an explanation,” Mason declares.
Sitting back at the table, I kick out a chair for Pope, who keeps Victoria under his arm as he joins me, pulling up another chair for his granddaughter.
Ricky consoles Kyla, and the twins jump on the bar, making themselves comfortable. The Kings take up their seats around the table while the rest of the brothers settle in.
“As far as the authorities are concerned, Pope is dead, and he needs to stay that way. That means no one outside of the club can know he still breathes,” Ritchie begins. “When we give our word that we’re here to help in any capacity, we mean it. We staged the entire fucking thing, and for it to be believed, your club’s reactions and grief had to be real.”
Cody chimes in next. “As you can see, Pope wasn’t shot multiple times. We used blanks, blood packs, and gave Pope a crash course in acting.”
“Okay, but whose ashes did we bury today?” Sparky asks.
“We have no clue. We sent for ashes, and that’s what we got.”
“Next question. Why was Rathbone used in your little show?”
“Because Rathbone was our competitor who was waging a war against us. We got to him a few weeks ago, and his body was pulled from the river last week. By using him, we made it look like his family killed Pope, giving the feds a bonafide victim Pope supposedly killed.”
“So this family, are we now going to be fighting a war on your behalf?” I question Jamie Boy.
“If it comes down to it. We have your backs, and you have ours.”
“And the feds just believe your little homemade video?” Slade questions warily.
Cody lights a cigarette and blows the smoke away from everyone at the table before saying, “Money talks back home. But here in your country, it screams, and knowing and paying the right people doesn’t make people believe, it makes files disappear and a death certificate appear.”
Producing an envelope from his jacket pocket, he slides it across the table. Opening it, I find Pope’s death certificate inside and smile. It’s genuine.
“So this is over?”
“Oh, Cas.” Ritchie grins, setting me on edge. “It’s only just beginning.”
Epilogue
Willow’s Peak. The town I grew up in and hated every second of. It’s a place where people know who you are, where you live—all your dark secrets, and not so secret secrets, but never openly spoke of. I spent my childhood covered in bruises, suffering broken bones, and wearing dirty clothes and beat-up kicks, but not one person asked why. No one asked what they could do to help. No one cared.
That’s not exactly true. One person cared. A boy with startling green eyes, and a fist that could rival my father’s. He was the one person who touched me with love and affection, and he’s the one person I fight on a daily basis not to think about.
There’s only one motorcycle parked up out front of the Jackson home, and I will the feeling in my legs to return as I climb out of my car. I’d recognise the bike anywhere. It belongs to Mr. Jackson, the only man I want to see.
Get in and get out.
Needing to hold onto the railing up the porch steps, I take in the potted plants and the bench swing as I rap my knuckles against the front door.
Heavy footsteps pound on the other side, my heartbeat matching each thud. Twisting my hands together, I’m five seconds away from letting my nerves get the better of me. If it weren’t for the door opening, I’d be back in my car and hightailing it out of here.
Mr. Jackson cocks his brow, waiting for me to introduce myself, but I’m tongue tied.
“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”
Unable to speak a single word, I pull out the envelope from my purse and shove it at him. He swipes it from my hand, clearly not remembering who I am. But if I lived for a hundred years, I’d never forget him. Because of Luca, this man came into my life, beat the crap out of my father, and took me to a safe place.
“I’m Sara Lancaster. I knew your son a few years ago. This money,”—I point to the envelope— “is the twenty thousand dollars I took from Luca, knowing full well he stole it from you. I also took this.” Digging out the gun I also know Luca took from his father, I hold it out for him. Slowly, he takes it from my hand.
“You’ve had this,
and this cash, all this time?”
“I spent the cash to see me through school. I’ve been saving the last couple of years. I’m not a thief, and I promised myself I’d pay back every cent when I could.” Pointing to the envelope, I add, “This is me paying you back.”
Weighing the gun in his hand, he asks, “Have you had to use this?”
I shake my head.
“I remember who you are. Why pay me back now? Why at all?”
“You were the only adult who ever helped me. I wasn’t going to thank you by never repaying you. Also, I’m in town for my father’s funeral.”
The bastard finally burned himself to death in a drunken stupor, passing out with a lit cigarette.
“I’d offer my condolences, but I assume you wouldn’t care for them. Plus, I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
He’s right. I feel nothing but relief that he’s dead. I’m here for closure, and to make sure he’s really fucking gone from this world.
“Anyway, I’ve righted my wrong, and I’m sorry I took it in the first place. I really am.”
Turning for my car, I make it to the bottom of the steps when he calls out, “You fucked my boy up, twisted him up and shit, running like you did.”
His words slice through my heart, and I squeeze the image of Luca out of my head.
“Is he included in your quest for a clear conscience?” he asks.
Not everything can be made right. The sooner my deadbeat dad is in the ground, the sooner I can leave this town behind me forever.
Or rather, that’s the plan.
The Club Betrayal: #8 Sons of Lost Souls MC series Page 19
