Page 131 of Riding the Edge

Chapter Forty

In the end, only three things matter; how much you loved, how hard you lived and how gracefully you let go of the things you couldn’t control. As a mentally deranged man, the only thing I craved more than sanity was leaving behind a legacy. I never got a handle on my mind and the jury is still out on the latter.

In the last few months, I’ve asked myself one question over and over.

What makes a man a legend?

For the greater part of my life I thought the answer was simple and would’ve sworn on every bible—both testaments, the Torah, and any other holy fucking scripture—that a man’s club made him a legend.

It took losing my mind for me to realize it all means nothing.

The years served.

The crimes committed.

All the bloodshed.

It’s fucking nothing and certainly not what makes a legend.

Honor, respect, and loyalty are the fundamentals of every great legacy. Without the three of those things, a man leaves nothing behind. He goes forth into the darkness and fades into a memory. His body decays and his bones eventually disintegrate to ash. He leaves the world with no mark.

Fuck that shit.

The world is going to know Jack Parrish was here.

They’re going to know the legend I was.

And they’re going to honor the legacy I left behind.

Like I won’t let the world forget my son, I won’t let them forget what I fought so hard to teach.

A man’s legacy isn’t his club.

It’s his family.

It’s the little boy whose memory never died.

It’s the mentally ill girl who fights with herself every day but never bows to the stigma of manic depression.

It’s the other boy who will walk in his father’s shadows and one day will become the man his father never could be.

It’s sunshine.

It’s a band of brothers who followed a sick man into the depths of Hell.

It’s the shit that makes you and me property of Parrish.

If that ain’t a fucking legacy, nothing on this godforsaken Earth is.

Holding my wife’s hand, I lead her up the steps and towards the entrance of the bar.

“Is this really going to act as their clubhouse?” Reina questions as we reach the door. “It’s a bar.”

“It’s a clean slate, a new beginning, a fresh start for a new club,” I tell her as we enter the building. I may not have liked the idea of Riggs taking the initiative but with how everything turned out, I’m grateful. It’s one less loose end to tie before I take my final ride.

“I guess,” Reina says, crossing her arms against her chest as she eyes the room. “Where are they?”

“In the back,” I tell her. Reaching behind her, I cup her neck and drag her mouth to mine.

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