Page 153 of Collect the Pieces

“The biblical plague of crickets everywhere!” I shudder with disgust. “I can still hear the crunchy noise they made when we ran over them. Felt like driving on gravel.”

“There had to be millions of them on the road.” Rooster shakes his head. “Remember the woman at the gas station telling us they used snowplows to get them off the road.”

“No, I remember her warning us that bikers wipe out every year because the road gets slick from all the cricket goo.”

“And the guys thought she was full of shit, and we kept going.”

“Jesus, it was like rolling through a massacre.”

Rooster closes his eyes and runs his hand over his face. “Oh, the smell.”

“Rotting fish and zombie brains.” That’s the only way I’ve ever been able to describe it. “That shit stuck to my tires forever. Fucking disgusting.”

Rooster shakes his head. “I know he was a good friend to Boone, but Monkeybutt was theworstroad captain. That’s not the only time he made a bad call.”

My mouth turns down at the memory. “Yeah, he fucked around one too many times and found out the hard way.”

After a moment of silence, I ask Rooster, “We’re not riding out if we go out for the fight, right? Wrath can’t take that kind of time from Furious.” AndIcan’t get Margot on the back of my bike for a ride down the block. She’s definitely not riding cross-country with me.

“Doubt it.” He raises his eyebrows. “Maybe we can borrow Dawson’s private jet.”

“In your dreams,” I scoff.

Behind us, the war room door opens.

“Jiggy, fuck I’m glad you’re still here,” Wrath says, his scowl deeper than usual.

I turn toward him. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to head out to Margot’s. Now.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Margot

Well,now I understand why my father wanted me to sit in on this consultation.

The woman here to bury her father is about my age but that’s where our similarities stop.

“For fuck’s sake. Can we please bury my dad without all your biker bullshit?” Abby explodes, pounding her palms against the arms of the chair in front of my dad’s desk. “Why are you even here?” she screeches at the burly man in denim and black leather.

“‘Cause the club’s paying for the funeral, darlin’,” the man who’s only ever been introduced to me asUlfricanswers smoothly, ignoring her outburst. “Whisper was clear, he wanted to be buried here.”

“Whisper! Jesus Christ, enough already. Can we please use his real name now?”

Ulfric casts a sideways look at her. The first sign his patience with her outbursts has a limit. “No one will know who we’re talking about, then, Abigail.”

Ouch. Full-naming her. That’s harsh.

“We can, of course, craft his obituary to include any other names Mr. Hall was known by,” I say. “We do it all the time.”

“See? This is why your father wanted Mr. Cedarwood to handle the arrangements.” He nods to my dad.

Pretty sure any funeral home would do the same.

Wait. Is that his subtle hint he’d like me to get lost?

“Well, I hope you’re prepared for a parking lot full of Harleys, loud men, and a shoot-out or two,” Abby says, her gaze shifting between Dad and me.

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