Page 43 of Beautifully Shattered
Did he want me to ask him for help?
Maybe.
But I just can’t.
Not right now.
Not yet.
Leaning in, he presses a kiss to my forehead, his beard brushing my skin, and my eyes flutter closed, soaking in the feel of him. His scent wraps around me, and for a moment, I’m cocooned in the safety of his presence.
“Come on, Angel.” He eases back, his dark eyes locking with mine the second they blink open. “Let’s go.”
I frown but let him lace our fingers together and lead me to a line forming by the boulder where Vender is now sitting. The familiar buzzing sound instantly takes me back to our wedding day, when Ringo got my name tattooed on his finger, and I got his forever etched into mine.
It’s a tattoo machine.
“What’s happening?” I whisper, rising on my toes to get a better look past the wall of the bikers already in line.
“Vender has mixed the ashes with ink,” Ringo says quietly. “And now, each club brother will get our fallen brothers’ names inked on them.”
My brows shoot up in surprise.
Yet another truly honourable thing to do.
God, all we do at funerals is pray to a made-up deity, and talk about the dead like they were saints, even if they weren’t. We drop flowers into their graves, then eat and drink, and move on.
Okay, so maybe that’s a slightly jaded summary, because obviously it’s more meaningful to those that are closest to whoever died, but still. We don’t do stuff like this.
As we move up the line, I get a better view just as Mex takes his turn. He shrugs out of his vest and pulls off his shirt, revealing a torso of art already inked into his skin, but on his side, there’s a blank patch, and I realise it’s under what looks to be a list.
“All of my club brothers have a list inked on them somewhere. A list of fallen men they called their brother at some point over the years.” Ringo’s voice is rough, laced with emotion as he speaks quietly beside me. “Some lists are longer than others, depending on how long they’ve been patched in… but today, that list grows. Substantially.”
I glance up at my husband, his eyes trained on Mex, his expression filled with sorrow.
“Eight names. Eight lives lost in one night. Eight brothers we’ll never ride beside again.”
Hot tears sting my eyes, and guilt nearly has me collapsing. But I force myself to keep it together, because this isn’t about me. This is about Ringo. About his club. And the men he loved like brothers.
I turn back, watching Mex’s face as Vender tattoos the names into his bronze skin. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look like he’s breathing. But when it’s done, he and Vender clap hands and pull into a rough hug, before Mex steps aside, making room for the next man to take his place.
When it’s Ringo’s turn, he takes me with him, passing me his vest and shirt before linking our fingers again and tugging me close on one side. On the other, Vender gets to work on the list.
Ringo doesn’t flinch as the needle scrapes ink into his skin. He just stands there, silent and patient, soaking in the pain, like he deserves it.
In a matter of minutes, Vender is finished, and Ringo releases me, clapping his palm with Vender and pulling him in for the same bro-hug Mex gave.
When they pull apart, Ringo takes my hand again, leading us off to the side. His eyes fall to his ribs, scanning the list I hadn’t realised was a list until now.
But now it’s longer.
Forever etched into his skin. Eight new names added to it.
Stoner
Tucker
Mule
