Page 49 of Dash

Standing outside the sprawling, white, one-story funeral home, Dash wrapped his arms around Mittens and clapped him on the back. Odin’s Fury members were trickling in from several states to pay their respects to Bowie. The fact they’d only shared a patch with the man for a short time didn’t matter. The men of Odin’s Fury viewed Bowie as a brother. Fury forever. Forever fury.

Besides, it wasn’t like Bowie was a stranger to them. He’d been a biker for a long time. He’d been a president of an outlaw club for decades. A lot of these men had dealings with Bowie while he wore the Roughneck Rider patch. Bikers may not be the classiest bunch of assholes around, but they knew respect.

Seeing his brothers from Montana was a double-edged sword. The comfort level he had with the men he’d ridden alongside was without comparison. However, they reminded him that Whiskey wasn’t there. Dash’s brother was behind enemy lines without back-up, and he got there on Dash’s watch. While he doubted his brothers would ever blame him for Whiskey’s current position, he would.

After exchanging pleasantries, Dash led Mittens toward the room designated for Bowie. They wouldn’t talk business here. The space tonight was meant for grieving the loss of their fallen brother. Entering the room, he surveyed those in attendance.

A motorcycle club had the potential to monopolize a man. However, he existed before it, and in every case, had people close to him who are not involved. Bowie was no different. Odin’s Fury cuts were proudly displayed and dominated the room.

Men dressed in their best jeans, button-down shirts, or maybe just black Harley Davidson t-shirts, stood around and shared their fondest memories of Bowie in hushed tones. Their women, and the club’s women, were dressed far more conservative than they ever were in the clubhouse. Not a damn titty in sight. Respect.

Amid the bikers and their hang arounds were the citizens, the other people Bowie knew who were not connected to the club. Perhaps some were family, others friends. He also noted a few off duty local police officers who paid their respects. Bowie had been a connected man. Dash wasn’t exactly known for being approachable with his stocky stature, shiny bald head, and resting mean mug.

When the scent of lilies and other funeral flowers got to him, Dash headed down the hall for fresh air. He’d been to his share of funerals as a veteran and a biker. He understood the idea of a viewing and the need to say goodbye. He just hated how long they took. He wanted it to be over. Bowie was gone. He wasn’t taking attendance, and his wife and kids were far too numb to truly grasp all those around them. Sparrow and her mother had been running interference the whole time, diverting people who lingered too long.

Standing with his back against the vinyl siding of the building, Dash stared out at the parking lot, at all the bikes, and the cars behind them as he tapped his finger against his pack of smokes. Disrespectful as all fuck to smoke at the funeral for a man who died of lung cancer. No respect.

“Sparrow will rip your balls off if she sees you smoking,” Romeo echoed his thoughts.

Smirking, Dash tucked the pack away into the inside pocket of his cut. “You know, she’s your Ol’ Lady. Not mine.”

Taking a position beside him against the wall, his younger club brother pulled a flask from his back pocket. After he took a swig, he offered it to Dash. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Waving the drink off, Dash leaned his bald head back and looked up into the cloudy night sky. The passing clouds obscured any chance of seeing stars, not that the light pollution would’ve made it possible. “I’m telling you to tell her. I don’t think either of you will appreciate it if I tell her,” he warned in the deep baritone he used for when he played with submissives or had to take on club business. Turning his head ever so slightly, he met Romeo’s gaze.

The twitch of the younger biker’s lower right eye was not lost on Dash. Neither was the hard set of his best friend’s jaw. He’d said it as nicely as he could. While he understood Sparrow was going through some shit about losing Bowie, she needed to remember that Dash was not her man and thus not her responsibility. If she wanted to nag someone, she could nag Romeo. He signed up for that shit.

Turning back to the inky sky, Dash took a deep breath. He needed some space, and to smoke. He wouldn’t do it there. “I need coffee. Want me to bring you and Sparrow back anything?” There. He offered an olive branch. See? He could play nice. He pushed off the wall to face his club brother.

“Nah.” Romeo took another drink from his flask and held it up. “Got all I need.”

Nodding, Dash went in for a hug. “I love you, brother. Never forget that.”

Snorting, the younger man broke the embrace. Running his hand through his thick hair, Romeo looked around, as though checking for anyone to have overheard them. “I know.”

“Go back to your woman.” With a nod, Dash gave the order to his protégé with a smile.

Taking an audible deep breath, the man he sponsored glanced toward the door as though considering it. “I should.”

When Romeo made no move to go inside, the older biker couldn’t help but shake his head. He could make a thousand assumptions why the young man didn’t want to go back inside, the emotional toll, facing mortality, being ill-equipped to support his woman. It could be anything. It wasn’t his business.

With a last wave, Dash headed for his bike. A quick burst of wind in his face and a cigarette or two would definitely help him lose some of the tension. Tomorrow was the big day. Tomorrow was Bowie’s last ride. It’d be done, and they’d move on from that. Monty, if he wasn’t already in town, would be there. They’d have a strategy to take out Tut, Jackal, and their baby MC.

Revving his bike a few times, he took a deep breath before he shot forward and out of the lot. Ride. Cigarettes. Coffee. Sleep. Say goodbye. Club business. In order of necessity, Dash had his list of things to do.

The ride helped. Snuffing the butt out on the top of the garbage can, checking to make sure the cherry was gone, he tossed the remnants into the trash. He only needed one smoke. Now, coffee. Strolling into the little, locally owned coffee shop, the sound of an acoustic cover of Greenday’s Good Riddance greeted him.

Out of habit, he scanned the room, taking in the customers seated at the small tables around the corner stage while he walked toward the counter. He lifted his brows when he spotted her, seated with her rigger friend and a younger man. Darting his gaze away before they made eye contact, he focused on the menu.

Sure, he’d told her about the bike. He hadn’t told her about the club. Most citizens didn’t understand clubs. The place wasn’t huge, and the longer it took for the hipster in front of him to give his order to the hipster behind the counter really tempted his odds of getting in and out without being noticed.

Explaining his cut wasn’t something he wanted to do right now. Fielding questions about Jax Teller was not his idea of a good time. Ever since that show came out, everyone thought they knew bikers, and took what they saw on screen as reality.

After giving his order, he turned. The entertainer had switched from Greenday to covering Jimmy Eat World. At least the music wasn’t terrible. Doing his best to appear as though he were merely panning the room and not staring at her, his gaze trailed around, until it landed on the three pairs of eyes openly gawking at him.

Well shit.

“PRK.”

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